BORN IN EXILE ?.'
a movci
BY
GEOEGE GISSING
AUTHOR OF
NEW CiUUB STREET," ' DENZIL yUARRIER.' ETC.
LONDON AND EDlNlilRdll
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1893
MORUISON AND OlUB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
PAET THE FIRST
878818
BORN IN EXILE
PART THE FIRST
I
The summer day in 1874 wbich closed the annual
session of AVhitelaw College was marked by a special
ceremony, preceding the wonted distribution of academic
rewards. At eleven in the morning (just as a heavy
shower fell from the smoke -canopy above the roaring
streets) the municipal authorities, educational dignitaries,
and prominent burgesses of Kingsmill assembled on
an open space before the college to unveil a statue
of Sir Job Whitelaw. The honoured baronet had
been six months dead. Living, he opposed tbe desire
of his fellow -citizens to exhibit even on canvas his
gnarled features and bald crown ; but when his modesty
ceased to have a voice in the matter, no time was lust in
raising a memorial of the great manufacturer, the self-
made millionaire, the borough member in three Parlia-
ments, the enlightened and benevolent founder of an
institute which had conferred humane distinction on the
money -making ^lidland town. IJeneath such a sky,
orations were necessarily curtailed ; but Sir Job had
always been impatient of much talk. An interval of two
or three hours dispersed the rain-clouds and bestowed
such grace of sunshine as Kingsmill might at this season
temperately desire ; then, whilst the nuirble figure was
getthig dried, — with soot-stains which already foretold
BORN IN EXILK
Its nigritude of a year Iiei;c(',— a-jvin streamed towards
the college a varied multitude, ohicial, parental, pupillary.
The students liad nothing distinctive in their garb, but here
and there flitted the cap and gown of I^rofessor or lecturer,
signal for doffing of beavers along the line of its progress.
Among the more deliberate of the throng was a slender,
upright, ruddy-cheeked gentleman of middle age, ac-
companied l)y liis wife and a daughter of sixteen. On
ahgliting from a carriage, tliey first of all directed their
steps towards the statue, conversing together with pleasant
animation. The father (Martin Warricombe, Esq. of
Thornhaw, a small estate some five miles from Kingsmill,)
had a countenance suggestive of engaging cpialities— genial
humour, mildness, a turn for meditation, perhaps for
study. His attire was informal, as if he disliked aban-
doning the freedom of the country even when summoned to
urban ceremonies. He wore a grev felt hat, and a light
jacket which displayed the straightness of his shoulders.
i\Irs. AVarricombe and her daughter were more fashional)ly
e<iuipi)ed, with taste which proclaimed their social stand-
ing Save her fresh yet delicate complexion the lady
had no particular personal charm. Of the younrr airl it
could only be said that she exhibited a graceful immat'Jirity,
with perchance a little more earnestness than is common
at her age ; her voice, even wlien she spoke oailv was
seldom audiljle save by the person addressed.
Coming to a pause before Sir Job, Mr. AVarricoml)e put
on a pair of eyeglasses which had dangled a^rainst his
waistcoat, and began to scrutinise carefully the sculptured
lineaments. He was addressing certain critical remarks
to his companions when an interruption appeared in tlie
torm of a young man whose first words announced his
relation to the group.
' I say, you're very late ! There'll be no gettincr a
decent seat, if you don't mind. Leave Sir Job ''till
afterwards.'
'Tlie statue somciliow disappoints me,' observed his
iatlier, placidly.
'Oh it isn't bad, I think,' returned the youth, in a voice
not unlike his father's, save for a note of excessive self-
IJOliN IN KXILK 9
cuiitideiicf. He looked about ei<;liteeii : liis comely
couiitenaiico, with its air of robust health and habitual
exhilaration, told of a boyhood passed amid free and joy-
ous circumstances. It was the face of a younj^' En«^lisli
plutocrat, with more of intellect tlian sucli visai^^es are
wont to betray ; the native vigour of liis temperament
liad probably assimilated somethin«;- of the modern spirit.
Tm glad,' he continued, 'that they haven't stuck him in
a toga, or any humbug of that sort. The old fellow looks
baggy, l)ut so he was. They ought to have kept his
chimney-pot, though. Better than giving him tliose
scraps of hair, when everyone knows he was as bald as
a beetle.'
' Sir Job sliould have been granted Ciesar's privilege,'
said Mr. Warricombe, with a pleasant twinkle in his
eyes.
'What was that?' came from the son, witli abrupt
indiflerence.
' For shame, l>uckland ! '
' What do I care for Ciesar's privileges ? We can't
burden our minds with that antiquated rubbish nowadays.
You would despise it yourself, father, if it hadn't
got packed into your head when you were young.'
The parent raised his eyebrows in a bantering smile.
'I have lived to hear classical learning called anti-
(juated ruljbish. Well, well 1 — Ha ! there is Proiessor CJale.'
The Professor of Geology, a tall man, who strode over
the pavement as if he were among granite hills, caught
sight of the party and approached. His greeting was
that of a familiar friend ; he addressed young Warricombe
and his sister by their Christian names, and inquired after
certain younger members of the household. i\Ir. Warri-
combe, regarding him with a look of repressed eagerness,
laid a hand on his arm, and spoke in the subdued voice
of one who has important news to communicate.
'If I am not much mistaken, I have chanced on a new
species of hamalonotus I'
* Indeed ! — not in your kitchen garden, I presume ? '
'Hardly. Dr. Pollock sent me a box of specimens the
other day '
10 BORN IN EXILE
liucklaiid saw willi annoyance the likelihood of prolonged
discussion.
• I don't know whetlier you care to remain standing all
tlie afternoon,' he said to his mother. 'At this rate we
certainly shan't get seats.'
* We will walk on, ^Martin,' said the lady, glancing at
lier liusband.
' We come ! we come ! ' cried the Professor, with a wave
of his arm.
The palaiontological talk continued as far as the entrance
of the assembly hall. Tlie zest with which Mr. Warri-
combe spoke of his discovery never led him to raise his
voice aljove the suave, mellow note, touched with humour,
which expressed a modest assurance. Mr. Gale was dis-
tinguished by a blunter mode of speech; he discoursed
with open-air vigour, making use now and then of a racy
colloquialism which the other would hardly have per-
mitted liimself.
As young Warricombe had foreseen, the seats obtainable
w^ere none too advantageous ; only on one of the highest
rows of the amphitheatre could they at length establish
themselves.
' Buckland will enjoy the more attention wlien he
marches down to take his prizes,' observed the father.
' He nnist sit at the end here, that he mayn't have a
struggle to get out.'
' Don't, Martin, don't ! ' urged his wife, considerately.
*0h, it doesn't affect me,' said Buckland, with a laugh.
' I feel pretty sure I have got the Logic and the Chemistry,
and those are what I care most about. 1 dare say Peak
has beaten me in Geology.'
Tlic appearance in the lower part of the hall of a dark-
rol)cd i)rocession, headed by tlie tall figure of the
Principal, imposed a moment's silence, broken by out-
Ijursts of welcoming applause. The Professors of Whitelaw
College were highly popular, not alone with the members
of tlieir classes, but witli all the educated inhabitants of
Kingsmill ; and deservedly, for several of them bore
names of wide recognition, and as a l)ody they did honour
to the institution which had won their services. With
BOKN IN EXILE 1 1
bccuiiiing i'oriiuility they seated themselves in laeu ul the
l)ublic. On tables before them were exposed a consider-
able number of well-bound books, shortly to be distributed
among the collegians, who gazed in that direction with
speculative eyes.
Among the general concourse miglit have been discovered
two or three representatives of the wage-earning multitude
which Kingsmill depended upon for its prosperity, but
their presence was due to exceptional circumstances ; the
college provided for proletarian education l)y a system of
evening classes, a curriculum necessarily quite apart from
that followed by the regular students. Kingsmill, to be
sure, was no nurse of Toryism ; the robust employers of
labour who sent their sons to Whitelaw — either to
complete a training deemed sufficient for an active career,
or by way of transition-stage between school and univer-
sity — were for the most part avowed Radicals, in theory
scornful of privilege, practically supporters of that mode
of freedom which regards life as a remorseless conflict.
Not a few of the young men (some of these the hardest
and most successful workers) came from poor, middle-
class homes, whence, but for Sir Job's foundation, they
must have set forth into the world with no better equip-
ment of knowledge than was supplied by some ' academy *
of the old type : a glance distinguished such students
from the well-dressed and well-fed offspring of Kingsmill
plutocracy. The note of the assembly was something
Qt-hpr tlimi rpfiTiP]p p]]t ; rather, its high standard of health, I -
spirits, and comfort — tjie characteristic of Capitalism.
Decent reverence for learning, keen appreciation of
scientific power, warm liberality of thought and sentiment
within appreciable limits, enthusiasm for economic, civic,
national ideals, — such attributes were alnindantly dis-
coverable in each serried row. From the expanse of
countenances beamed a boundless selT^satisfaction. To be
connected in any way wdth Whitelaw formed a subject of
pride, seeing tliat here was the sturdy outcome of the
most modern educational endeavour,_ajK)teworthy instance
of what Englishm en can do for themselves, unaided by
bureaucratic naach inery ! Every student who achieved "'0
12 BORN IN EXILE
distinction in to-day's class lists was felt to l)estow a
share of his honour upon each spectator who applauded
him.
With occasional adjustment of his eye-glasses, and
smiling his smile of modest tolerance, Mr. Warricombc
surveyed the crowded hall. His connection with the
town was not intimate, and he could discover few faces
that were familiar to him. A native and, till of late, an
inhabitant of ])evon, he had come to reside on his
property near Kingsmill because it seemed to him that
the education of his children would be favoured by a
removal thither. Two of his oldest friends held pro-
fessorships at Whitelaw : here, accordingly, his eldest
son was making preparation for Cambridge, whilst his
daughter attended classes at the admirable High School,
of which Kingsmill was only less proud than of its
College.
Seated between his father and his sister, Buckland drew
their attention to such persons or personages as interested
his very selective mind.
' Admire the elegant languor of Wotherspoon,' he
remarked, indicating the Professor of Greek. 'Watch
him for a moment, and you'll see him glance con-
temptuously at old Plummer. He can't help it; they
hate each other.'
' But why ? ' whispered the girl, with timid eagerness.
' Oh, it began, they say, when Plummer once had to
take one of Wotherspoon 's classes ; some foolery about a
second aorist. Thank goodness, I don't understand the
profound dispute. — Oh, do look at that fatuous idiot
Chilvers:'
Tlie young gentleman of whom he spoke, a student
of Puckland's own standing, had just attracted general
notice. Pising from his seat in the lower part of the
amphitheatre, at the moment when all were hushed in
anticipation of the Principal's address, Mr. Chilvers was
beckoning to someone whom his eye had descried at a
great distance, and for whom, as he indicated by gesture,
he had ])reserved a place.
'See how it delights him to make an exhibition of
BOKN IX EXILK 13
himself!' pursued the censurious youtli. 'I'd hcL ;i
sovereign he's arranged it all. Look how he brandishes
his arm to display his cutis and gold links. Now he
touches his hair, to point out how light and exquisite it
is, and how beautifully he parts it ! '
' What a graceful figure ! ' murmured Mrs. Warricombe,
with genuine admiration.
* There, that's just what he hopes everyone is saying,'
replied her son, in a tone of laughing disgust.
' But he certainly is graceful, Buckland,' persisted the
lady.
* And in the meantime,' remarked Mr. Warricombe, drily,
' we are all awaiting the young gentleman's pleasure.'
' Of course ; he enjoys it. Almost all the people on that
row belong to him — father, mother, sisters, brothers,
uncles, aunts, and cousins to the fourth degree. Look at
their eyes fondly fixed upon him ! Now he pretends to
loosen his collar at the throat, just for a change of attitude
— the puppy !'
' My dear ! ' remonstrated his mother, with apprehensive
glance at her neighbours.
' But he is really clever, isn't he, Buckland ? ' asked the
sister, — her name was Sidwell.
' After a fashion. I shouldn't wonder if he takes a dozen
or two prizes. It's all a knack, you know\'
' Where is your friend Peak ? ' Mr. Warricombe made
incj^uiry.
But at this moment Mr. Chilvers abandoned his en-
deavour and became seated, allowing the Principal to rise,
manuscript in hand. Buckland leaned back with an air
of resignation to boredom ; his father bent slightly forward,
with lips close pressed and brows wrinkled ; Mrs. Warri-
combe widened her eyes, as if hearing were performed
with those organs, and assumed the smile she would have
worn had the speaker been addressing her in particular.
Sidwell's blue eyes imitated the movement of her
mother's, with a look of profound gravity which
showed that she had wholly forgotten herself in
reverential listening; only wlien live minutes' strict
attention induced a sense of weariness did she allow a
14 BOKX IX EXILE
glance to stray first along- the professorial rank, then
towards the place wliere the golden head of young
Chilvers was easily distinguishable.
Nothing could be more satisfactory than the annual
report sunnnarised by Principal Nares, whose mellifluous
voice and daintily pedantic utterance fell upon expectant
hearing with the impressiveness of personal compliment.
So deUvered, statistics partook of the grace of culture ;
details of academic organisation acquired something
1 more than secular significance. In this the ninth year
' of its existence, Whitelaw College was flourishing in every
possiljle way. Private beneficence had endowed it witli
new scholarships and exhil)itions ; the scheme of lectures
had been extended ; the number of its students steadily
increased, and their successes in the field of examination
had been noteworthy Ijeyond precedent. Truly, the heart
of their founder, to whom honour had this day been
rendered, must have gladdened if he could but have
listened to the story of dignified progress ! Applause, loud
and long, greeted the close of the address. Buckland
Warricoml)e was probably the only collegian who disdained
to manifest approval in any way.
' Why don't you clap ? ' asked his sister, who, girl-like,
was excited to warmth of cheek and brightness of eye by
the enthusiasm about her.
' That kind of thing is out of date,' replied the young
man, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets.
As Professor of Logic and Moral Philosophy, Dr. Nares
began the distribution of prizes. Ikickland, in spite of his
resolve to exhibit no weakness, waited with unmistakable
tremor for the announcement of the leading name, which
might possibly be his own. A few words of comment
prefaced the declaration : — never had it been the Professor's
lot to review more admirable papers tlian those to which
he liad awarded the first prize. The name of the student
called upon to come forward was — Godwin Peak.
' Beaten ! ' escaped from Buckland's lips.
Mrs. Warricombe glanced at her son with smiling
sympatliy ; Sidwell, whose cheek had paled as her nerves
i^uivered under the stress of expectancy, murmured a
BORN IN KXILE 15
syllable of disappointment ; Mr. Warriconibe set his Ijrows
and did not venture to look aside. A moment, and all
eyes were directed upon the successful student, who rose
from a seat half-way down the liall and descended the
middle passage towards the row of Professors. He was a
young man of spare tigure and unhealthy complexion, his
age not easily conjectured. Embarrassment no doubt
accounted for much of the awkwardness of his demeanour ;
but, under any circumstances, he must have appeared un-
gainly, for his long arms and legs had outgrown their
garments, which were no fashionable specimens of tailor-
ing. The nervous gravity of his countenance had a pecu-
liar sternness ; one might have imagined that he was
fortifying his self-control with scorn of the elegantly
clad people though whom he passed. Amid plaudits,
he received from the hands of the Principal a couple of
solid volumes, probably some standard work of phil-
osophy, and, thus burdened, returned with hurried step
to his place.
' No one expected that,' remarked Buckland to his father.
' He must have crammed furiously for the exam. It's
outside his work for the First B.A.'
' What a shame ! ' Sidwell whispered to her mother ; and
the reply was a look wdiich eloquently expressed Mrs.
Warricombe's lack of sympathy with the victor.
But a second prize had been awarded. As soon as silence
was restored, the Principal's gracious voice delivered a
summons to ' Buckland Martin Warriconibe.' A burst
of acclamation, coming es])ecially from that pait of the
amphitheatre where Whitelaw's nurslings had gathered in
greatest numbers, seemed to declare the second prizeman
distinctly more popular than the first. Preferences of this
kind are always to be remarked on such occasions.
* Second prize be hanged ! ' growled the young man, as,
with a flush of shame on his ruddy countenance, he set
forth to receive the honour, leaving Mr. Warricond)e con-
vulsed with silent laughter.
'He would far rather have had nothing at all,' mur-
mured Sidwell, who shared her l)rother's pique and
humiliation.
1(3 BORN IN EXILE
' Uh, it'll do him good,' was her father's reply. ' Buckland
has got into a way of swaggering.'
Undeniable was the swagger with which the good-looking,
breezy lad went and returned.
' What is the book ? ' inquired Mr. Warricombe.
' I don't know. — Oh, Mill's Logic. Idiotic choice !
They might have known I had it already.'
'They clap him far more than they did Mr. Peak,'
Sidwell whispered to her mother, with satisfaction.
Buckland kept silence for a few minutes, then muttered :
' There's nothing I care about now till Chemistry and
Geology. Here comes old Wotherspoon. Now we shall
know who is strongest in second aorists, I shouldn't
wonder if Peak takes both Senior Greek and Latin. I
heartily hope he'll beat that ass Chilvers.'
But the name so offensive to young Warricombe was
the first that issued from the Professor's lips. Beginning
with the competition for a special classical prize, Professor
Wotherspoon announced that the honours had fallen to
* Ijruno Leathwaite Chilvers.'
' That young man is not badly supplied with brains, say
what you will,' remarked Mr. Warricombe.
Upon Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers keen attention was
directed ; every pair of female eyes studied his graces, and
female hands had a great part in the applause that greeted
his arising. Applause different in kind from that hitherto
bestowed ; less noisy, but implying, one felt, a more delicate
spirit of commendation. With perfect self-command, with
singular facial decorum, with a walk which betokened
elegant athleticism and safely skirted the bounds of foppery,
Mr. Chilvers discharged the duty he was conscious of owing
to a multitude of kinsfolk, friends, admirers. You would
have detected something clerical in the young num's air.
It Ijecame the son of a popular clergyman, and gave promise
of notable aptitude for the sacred career to which Bruno
Leathwaite, as was well understood, already had designed
himself. In matters sartorial he presented a high ideal to
his fellow-students; this seemly attention to externals,
and the delicate glow of health discernible through the
golden down of his cheeks, testified the compatibility of
BURN IN EXILE 17
hard study and social observances. Bruno had been heard
to say that tlie one tiling it behoved Whitehiw to keep
carefully in mind was the preservation of ' tone,' a
quality far less easy to cultivate than mere academic
excellence.
' How clever he must be ! ' purred Mrs. Warricombe.
' If he lives, he will some day be an archbishop.'
Buckland was leaning back with his eyes closed, dis-
gusted at the spectacle. Nor did he move when Professor
Wotherspoon's voice made the next announcement.
' In Senior Greek, the first prize is taken by — Bruno
Leathwaite Chilvers.'
* Then I suppose Beak comes second,' muttered Buck-
land.
So it proved. Summoned to receive the inferior prize,
Godwin Peak, his countenance harsher than Ijefore, his
eyes cast down, moved ungracefully to the estrade. And
during the next half-hour this twofold exhibition was
several times repeated. In Senior Latin, in ^lodern and
Ancient History, in English Language and Literature, in
French, first sounded the name of Chilvers, whilst to the
second award was invariably attached that of Peak. Mrs.
Warricombe's delight expressed itself in every permissible
way : on each occasion she exclaimed, ' How clever he is ! '
Sidwell cast frequent glances at her brother, in whom a
shrewder eye could have divined conflict of feelings —
disgust at the glorification of Chilvers and involuntary
pleasure in the successive defeats of his own conqueror in
Philosophy. Buckland's was by no means an ignoble face ;
venial malice did not ultimately prevail in him.
'It's Peak's own fault,' he declared at length, with
vexation. * Chilvers stuck to the subjects of his course.
Peak has been taking up half-a-dozen extras, and
they've done for him. I shouldn't wonder if he went in
for the Poem and the Essay: I know he was thinking
about both.'
Whether Godwin Peak had or had not endeavoured for
these two prizes remained uncertain. When, presently, the
results of the competition were made known, it was found
that in each case the honour had fallen to a young man
18 BORN IN EXILE
liitlierto undistinguished. His name was John Edward
Earwaker. Externally he bore a sort of generic re-
semblance to Peak, for his face was thin and the fashion
of his clothing indicated narrow means.
' I never heard you mention him,' said Mr. Warricombe,
turning to his son with an air of surprise.
' I scarcely know liini at all ; he's only in one or two of
my classes. Peak is thick with him.'
The subject of the prize poem was ' Alaric ' ; that of
the essay, 'Trades Unionism.' So it was probable that
John Edward Earwaker did not lack versatility of
intellect.
On the rising of the Professor of Chemistry, Buckland
had once more to subdue signs of expectancy. He knew
he had done good ])apers, but his confidence in the result
was now clouded by a dread of the second prize — which
indeed fell to him, the first being taken by a student of no
account save in this very special subject. Keen was his
mortification ; he growled, nmttered, shrugged his shoulders
nervously.
*If I had foreseen this, you'd never have caught me
here,' was his reply, when Sidwell whispered consola-
tion.
There still remained a chance for him, signalled by the
familiar form of Professor Gale. Geology had been a life-
long study with Martin Warricombe, and his son pursued
it with hereditary aptitude. Sidwell and her mother ex-
changed a look of courageous hope; each felt convinced
that the genial Professor could not so far disregard private
feeling as to place Buckland anywhere but at the head of
the class.
' The results of the examination are fairly good ; I'm
afraid I can't say more tlian that,' thus rang out Mr. Gale's
hearty voice. ' As for the first two names on my list, I
haven't felt justified in placing either before the other.
I have bracketed them, and there will be two prizes.
The names are — Godwin Peak and Buckland Martin
Warricombe.'
' He might have mentioned Buckland first,' murmured
Mrs. Warricombe, resentfully.
BUKN IN KXILK 19
' He of course gave them out in ulphabetieal order,'
answered her husband.
' Still, it isn't right that Buckland sliould come second.'
' That's absurd/ was the good-natured reply.
The lady of course remained unconvinced, and for years
she nourished a pique against Professor Gale, not so much
owing to his having bracketed her son as because the letter
V has alphabetical precedence of W.
In what remained of the proceedings the Warricombes
had no personal interest. ¥ov a special reason, however,
their attention was excited by the rising of Professor
Walsh, who represented the science of Physics. Early in
the present year had been published a speculative treatise
which, owing to its supposed incompatibility with Christian
dogmas, provoked much controversy and was largely dis-
cussed in all educated circles. The work was anonymous,
but a rumour which gained general currency attributed it
to Professor Walsh. In the year 1874 an imputation of
religious heresy was not lightly to be incurred by a Pro-
fessor — even Professor of Physics — at an English college.
There were many people in Kingsmill who considered that
Mr. Walsh's delay in repudiating so grave a charge rendered
very doubtful the propriety of his retaining the chair
at Whitelaw. Significant was the dispersed applause
which followed slowly upon his stepping forward to-
day; on the Professor's face was perchance legible
something like a hint of amused defiance. Ladies had
ceased to beam ; they glanced meaningly at one another,
and then from under their eyelids at the supposed
heretic.
*A fine fellow, Walsh ! ' exclaimed Buckland, clapping
vigorously.
His father smiled, but with some uneasiness. Mrs.
Warricombe whispered to Sidwcll :
* What a very disagreeable face ! The only one of the
Professors who doesn't seem a gentleman.'
The girl was aware of dark reports affecting Mr. Walsh's
reputation. She hazarded only a brief examination of his
features, and looked at the applauding Buckland witli
alarm.
20 BORN IN EXILE
*His lectures are splendid,' said her brother, em-
phatically. 'If I were going to be here next session, T
should take them.'
For some minutes after the Professor's return to
his seat a susurration was audible throughout the hall;
bonnets bent together, and beards exchanged curt
connnents.
The ceremony, as is usual with all ceremonies, grew
wearisome before its end. Buckland was deep in one of
the chapters of his geologic prize when the last speaker
closed the last report and left the assembly free to disperse.
Then followed the season of congratulations : Professors,
students, and the friendly public mingled in a conversazione.
A nucleus of vivacious intercourse formed at the spot where
young Mr. Chilvers stood amid trophies of examinational
prowess. When his numerous relatives had all shaken
hands with him, and lau<:^hed, smiled, or smirked their
felicitations, they made way for the press of eager acquaint-
ances. His prize library was reverently surveyed, and many
were the sportive sallies elicited by the victor's obvious
inability to carry away what he had won. Suavely exult-
ant, ready with his reply to every liattering address, Bruno
Chilvers exhibited a social tact in advance of his years : it
was easy to imagine what he would become when Oxford
terms and the seal of ordination had matured his youthful
promise.
At no great distance stood his competitor, Godwin Peak —
embarrassed, he also, with wealth of spoils ; but about this
voun^ man was no concourse of admirinf:( kinsfolk. No
lady offered him her hand or shaped compliments for him
with gracious lips. Half-a-dozen fellow-students, among
them John Earwaker, talked in his vicinity of the day's
results. Peak's part in the gossip was small, and when he
smiled it was in a forced, anxious way, with brief raising
of his eyes. For a moment only was the notice of a wider
circle directed upon him when Dr. Nares, moving past
with a train of colloquial attendants, turned aside to
repeat his praise of the young man's achievements in
Philosophy : he bestowed a kindly shake of the hand,
and moved on.
BORN IN EXILE 21
The Warricombe group descended, in i»urposeless
fashion, towards the spot where Cliilvers held liis court.
Tlieir personal acquaintance with Bruno and Ins family
was slight, and though Mrs. Warricombe would gladly
have pushed forward to claim recognition, natural dilli-
dence restrained her. Sid well kept in the rear, risking
now and then a glance of vivid curiosity on either
hand. Buckland, striving not to look petulant or sullen,
allowed himself to be led on; but when he became
aware of the tendency lU'uno-wards, a protest broke
irom him.
' There's no need to swell that fellow's conceit. Here,
father, come and have a word with Peak ; he looks rather
down in the mouth among his second prizes.'
^Ir. Warricombe having beckoned his companions, tliey
reluctantly followed to the more open part of the
hall.
'It's very generous of Buckland,' fell from the lady's
lips, and she at length resolved to show an equal mag-
nanimity. Peak and Earwaker were conversing together
when Buckland broke in upon them with genial out-
l)urst.
* Confound it. Peak ! what do you mean by getting me
stuck into a bracket ? '
* I had the same question to ask yoii! returned the other,
with a grim smile.
Mr. Warricombe came up with extended hand.
'A species of bracket,' he remarked, smiling benevo-
lently, * which no algebraic process will remove. Let us
hope it signifies that you and Buckland will work through
life shoulder to shoulder in the field of geology. What
did Professor Gale give you ? '
Before he could reply. Peak had to exchange greetings
with Mrs. Warricombe and her daughter. ( hdy once
hitherto had he met them. Six months ago he had gone
out with Buckland to the country-house and passeil an
afternoon there, making at the time no very favouralde
impression on his hostess. He was not of the young men
who easily insinuate themselves into ladies' affections : his
exterior was airainst him, and he seemed too conscious of
22 BORN IN EXILE
his disadvantages in that particular. Mrs. Warricombe
found it ditiicult to shape a few civil phrases for the
acceptance of the saturnine student. Sidwell, repelled and
in a measure alarmed by his bilious countenance, could do
no more than grant him her delicately gloved fingers.
Peak, for his part, liad nothing to say. He did not even
affect an interest in these persons, and turned his eyes to
follow the witlidraw^ing Earwaker. Mr. Warricombe, how-
ever, liad found topic for discourse in the prize volume ; he
began to comment on the excellence of certain sections of
the book.
' Do you go home ? ' interrupted Buckland, addressing
the question to his rival. ' Or do you stay in Kingsmill
until the First B. A.?'
' I shall go home,' replied Peak, moving uneasily.
' Perliaps w^e may have the pleasure of seeing you
at Thornhaw when you are up again for the ex-
amination ? ' said Mrs. Warricombe, with faltering
tongue.
' I'm afraid I shan't be al)le to come, thank you/ was
the awkward response.
Buckland's voice came to the relief.
' I daresay I may look in upon you at your torture.
Good luck, old fellow ! If we don't see each other
again, write to me at Trinity before the end of the
year.'
As soon as she was sufficiently remote, Mrs. Warri-
combe ejaculated in a subdued voice of irritation :
' Sucli a very unprepossessing young man I never met !
He seems to have no breeding whatever.'
' Overweiglited witli brains,' replied her husband ;
adding to himself, ' and l)y no means so with money, I
fear.'
Ojijiortunity at length ottering, Mrs. Warricombe stepped
into the circle irradiated by ]>runo Chilvers ; her husband
and Sidwell pressed after. Buckland, with an exclama-
tion of disgust, went off to criticise the hero among a
group of his particular friends.
Godwin l*eak stood alone. On the bench where he had
sat were heaped the prize volumes (eleven in all, some of
BORN IX KXTLK 23
them massive), and liis wish was to make aiTan;^'emeiits
for their removal Gazing about him, he became aware of
the college librarian, with whom he was on friendly terms.
'Mr. Poppleton, who would pack and send tlicso books
a\vay for me ? '
'An cmharra^ dc richcsse ! ' laughed tlie li])rarian. 'If
you like to tell the porter to take care <»f tliem for tlic
present, I shall be glad to see tliat tliey are sent whcrcvii'
you like.'
Peak answered with a warmth of acknowledgment whicli
seemed to imply that he did not often receive kindnesses.
Before long he was free to leave the College, and at the
exit lie overtook Earwaker, who carried a brown paper
parcel.
* Come and have some tea with me across the way, will
you ? ' said the literary prizeman. ' I have a couple of
hours to wait for my train.'
* All right. I envy you that five-volume Spenser.'
' I wish they had given me five authors I don't possess
instead. I think I shall sell this.'
Earwaker laughed as he said it — a strange chuckle from
deep down in his throat. A comparison of the young men,
as they walked side by side, showed that Peak was of
better physical type than his comrade. Earwaker liad a
slight, unshapely body and an ill-fitting head ; he walked
with excessive strides and swung his thin arm nervcjusly.
Probably he was the elder of the two, and he looked
twenty. For Peak's disadvantages of person, his studious
bashfulness and poverty of attiie were mainly responsible.
With improvement in general health even his features
might have a tolerable comeliness, or at all events Mould
not be disagreeable. Earwaker's visage was homely, and
seemed the more so for his sprouting moustache and bcanl.
'Have you heard any talk about Walsh?' the latter
inquired, as they w\alked on.
Peak shrugged his shoulders, with a laugh.
' No. Have you ? '
'Some women in front of me just now were evidently
discussing him. I heard " How shocking 1 " and " 1 )is-
graceful ! " '
24 BORN IN EXILE
Peak's eyes Hashed, and he exclaimed in a voice of
wratli :
' Besotted idiots ! How I wish I were in Walsh's posi-
tion ! How I should enjoy standing up before the crowd
of fools and seeing their fear of me ! But I couldn't keep
it to myself; I should give in to the temptation to call
them l)lockheads and jackasses.'
Earwaker was amused at liis friend's vehemence. He
sympathised witli it, l)ut liad an unyouthful sobriety in
the expression of his feelings.
' Most likely he despises them far too much to be dis-
turbed by what they think of him. But, I say, isn't it
desperately comical that one human being can hate and
revile another because they think differently about the
origin of tlie universe ? Couldn't you roar with laughter
when you've thought over it for a moment ? " You be
damned for your theory of irregular verlDS ! " is nothing
to it.' And he uttered his croak of mirth, whilst Peak, with
distorted features, laughed in rage and scorn.
They had crossed the open space in front of the College
buildings, and were issuing into the highway, when a voice
very unlike those that were wont to sound within the
academic precincts (or indeed in the streets of Kingsmill)
made sudden demand upon Peak's attention.
' Thet you, Godwin ? Thoughts I, it must be 'im ! 'Ow
goes it, my bo-oy ? You 'ardly reckon ise me, I dessay, and
I couldn't be sure as it was you till I'd 'ed a good squint
at yer. I've jest called round at your lodgin's, and they
towld me as you was at the Collige.'
He who thus accosted the student, with the most offen-
sive purity of Cockney accent, was a man of five-and-forty,
dressed in a new suit of ready-made tweeds, the folding
crease strongly nuirked down the front of the trousers and
the coat sleeves rather too long. His face bore a strong
impress of vulgarity, but at the same time had a certain
ingenuousness, a self-absorbed energy and simplicity,
wliich saved it from being wholly repellent ; the brow was
narrow, the eyes small and bright, and the coarse lips half ^
hid themselves under a struggling reddish growth. In
these lineaments lurked a family resemblance to Godwin
BOKN IN EXILE 25
Peak, sufficient to support a claim of kindred wliieli at tliis
moment might have seemed improljalJe. At the summons
of recognition Godwin stood transfixed ; his arms fell
straight, and his head drew back as if to avoid a blow.
For an instant he was clay colour, then a hot flush broke
upon his cheeks.
' I shan't be able to go witli you,' he said, in a thick,
abrupt voice, addressing Earwaker l)ut not regarding him.
* Good-bye ! '
The other offered his hand and, without speaking, walked
away.
' Trize - dye at the Collige, they tell me,' pursued
Godwin's relative, looking at a cluster of people that
passed. ' What 'ave you took ? '
'One or two class-prizes,' replied tlie student, his eyes
on tlie ground. ' Shall we walk to my lodgings ? '
* I thought you might like to walk me over the sliow.
But pr'aps you're in a 'urry ? '
* No, no. But there's nothing particular to see. I tliink
the lecture-rooms are closed by now.'
' Go's the gent as stands tliere ? — the figger, I mean.'
' Sir Job Whitelaw, founder of the College.'
* Job, eh ? And was you a-goin' 'ome to yer tea, Godwin {'
•' Yes.*
'Well, then, look 'ere, 'spose we go to the little shop
opposyte — nice little plyce it looks. I could do a cup o'
tea myself, and we can 'ev a quiet confab. It's a long time
since we 'ed a talk together. I come over from Twyljridge
this mornin' ; slep' there last night, and saw yer mother
an' Oliver. They couldn't give me a bed, but that didn't
mike no matter ; I put up at the Norfolk Harms — five-an-
six for bed an' breakfast. Come along, my bo-oy ; I stand
treat.'
Godwin glanced about him. From the College was
approaching what seemed to be a formal procession; it
consisted of Bruno Chilvers, supported on either hand by
ladies and followed by an admiring train.
'You had better come to my lodgings with me, uncle,'
said the young man hurriedly, moving Ibrward.
' No, no ; I won't be no expense to you, Godwin, bo-oy.
26 BORN IN EXILE
And I 'ave a reason for wantin' to go to the little shop
opposyte.*
Already several collegians had passed, giving Peak a
nod and scanning his companion ; a moment's delay and
Chilvers would be upon him. Without another word,
Godwin moved across the broad street to the place of
refreshment whicli his uncle had indicated, and whither
Eiirwaker liad preceded tliem. It was a pastry-cook's,
occasionally visited by the alumni of Whitelaw. In the
rear of the shop a little room offered seats and tables,
and here, Godwin knew, Earwaker would be found.
' Let us go up-stairs,' he said, leading to a side entrance.
' There's a quieter room.'
' Right you are ! '
The uncle — his name was Andrew Peak — paused to
make a survey of the premises. When he entered, his
scrutiny of the establishment was close, and he seemed to
reflect witli interest upon all he saw. The upper room
was empty ; a long table exhibited knives and forks, but
tliere were no signs of active business. Andrew pulled a
l)ell-rope; the summons was answered by an asthmatic
woman, who received an order for ten, toast, ' water-
creases,' and sundry other constituents of a modest meal.
* Come 'ere often, Godwin ? ' inquired Andrew, as he
stood by the window and mused.
' Now and then, for a Inin.'
' Much custom from your show over the wye ? '
* Not so much as a better place would have.'
* Young gents don't live at the Collige, they tell me ? '
* No, there's no residence.'
* So naturally they want a plyce where they can 'ev a
nibble, somewheres 'andy ? '
* Yes. We have to go furtlier into the town for a decent
dinner.'
' Jest what I thought ! ' exclaimed Andrew, slapping
his leg. ' With a establishment like that opposyte,
there'd ought to be a medium-sized Spiers & Pond at
this 'ere street corner for any man as knows 'is wye
al)Out. Tliat's 7ni/ idea, Godwin — see ?'
l^eak had as yet given but lialf an ear to his relative's
BORN IN EXILE 27
discourse ; he had answered meclianically, and only now
was constrained to serious attention by a note of nieanin.Lj
in tlie last interrogative. He looked at the speaker ; and
Andrew, in the manner of one accustomed to regard life
as a game of cunning, first winked with each eye, then
extended one cheek with the pressure of liis tongue.
Sickened with disgust, Godwin turned suddenly away, —
a movement entirely lost upon his uncle, who imagineil
the young man to be pondering a fruitful suggestion.
' I don't mind tellin' you, Godwin,' pursued Andrew
presently, in a cautious voice, laying an open hand against
his trousers-pocket, ' as I 've been a-doin' pretty good
business lytely. Been growin' a bit — see ? I'm runniu'
round an' keepin' my lieyes open — understand ? Thoughts
I, now, if I could come acrosst a nicet little openin', some-
think in the rest'rant line, that's what 'ud sewt me jest
about down to the ground. I'm cut out for it — see ^ I've
got the practical experience, and I've got the capital ; and
as soon as I got a squint of this little corner shop — under-
stand what I mean ? '
His eyes gleamed with eagerness which was too candid
for the typically vulgar mind. In his self-satisfaction he
exhibited a gross cordiality which might have made rather
an agreeable impression on a person otherwise disinterested.
At this point the asthmatic woman reappeared, carrying
a laden tray. Andrew at once entered into conversation
with her, framing his remarks and queries so as to learn
all he could concerning the state of the business and the
disposition of its proprietors. His nephew, meanwhile,
stung to the core with shame, kept apart, as if amusing
himself with the prospect from the window, until sum-
moned to partake of the meal. His uncle expressed
contempt of everything laid before them.
' This ain't no wye of caterin' for young gents at Gollige ! '
he exclaimed. * If there ain't a openin' 'ere, then I never
see one. Godwin, bo-oy, 'ow much longer '11 it Ije before
you're out of you're time over there ? '
' It's uncertain — I can't say.'
' But ain't it understood as you stay till you've passed
the top standard, or whatever it's called ? '
28 BORN IN EXILE
' I really haven't made up my mind what to do.'
' But you'll be studyin' 'ere for another twelve months,
I dessay ? '
' Why do you ask ? '
* Why ? cos s'posin' I got 'old o' this 'ere little shop, or
another like it close by, me an' you might come to a
understandin'— see ? It might be worth your while to
give a 'int to the young gents as you're in with — eh ? '
Godwin was endeavouring to masticate a piece of toast,
but it turned to sawdust upon his palate. Of a sudden,
when tlie bilious gloom of his countenance foretold any-
thing but mirth, he burst into hard laughter. Andrew
smote him jovially on the back.
' Tickles you, eh, bo-oy ? " Peak's Eefreshment an'
Dinin' Kooms ! " Everything tip-top, mind ; respectable
business, Godwin ; nothing for nobody to be ashamed
of — that wouldn't do, of course.'
The young man's laughter ended as abruptly as it had
begun, but his visage was no longer clouded with bitter
misery. A strange indifference seemed to have come upon
him, and whilst the speculative uncle talked away with
increasing excitement, he ate and drank heedlessly.
'Mother expects you to-morrow, she tells me,' said
Andrew, when his companion's taciturnity had suggested
a change of topic. ' Shouldn't wonder if you see me over
at Twy]:)ridge again before long. I was to remember your
awnt and your cousin Jowey to you. You wouldn't know
Jowey ? the sliarpest lad of his age as ever I knowed, is
Jowey. Your father 'ud a' took a delight in 'im, if 'e'd
lived, that 'e would.'
For a quarter of an hour or so the dialogue was con-
cerned with domestic history. Godwin gave brief reply
to many questions, but asked none, not even such as
civility required. The elder man, however, was unaffected
Ijy this reticence, and when at lengtli his nephew pleaded
an en<>a"ement as excuse for leave-takiuGf he shook hands
witli much warmth. The two parted close by the shop,
and Godwin, casting a glance at the now silent College,
walked hastily towards his lodgings.
II
In the prosperous year of 1856, i ncomes of between a
hundred and a hundred and fifty pounds were chargeable
with a tax of elevenpence halfpenny in the pound : persons
who enjoyed a revenue of a hundred and fifty or more had
the honour of paying one and fourpence. Abatements
there were none, and families supporting life on two
pounds a week might in some cases, perchance, ])e re-
conciled to the mulct by considering how equitably its
incidence was graduated.
Some, on the other hand, were less philosophical ; for
instance, the household consisting of Nicholas Peak, his
wife, their three-year-old daughter, their newly-born son,
and a blind sister of Nicholas, dependent upon him for
sustenance. Mr. Peak, aged thirty and now four years
wedded, had a small cottage on the outskirts of Greenwich.
He was employed as dispenser, at a salary of thirty-five
shillings a week, by a medical man with a large practice.
His income, therefore, fell considerably within the hundred
pound limit ; and, all things considered, it was not un-
reasonable that he should be allowed to expend the whule
of this sum on domestic necessities. But it came to pass
that Nicholas, in his greed of wealth, obtained supplemen-
tary employment, which benefited him to the extent of a
yearly ten pounds. Called upon to render his statement
to the surveyor of income-tax, he declared himself in
possession of a hundred and one pounds per annum ; con-
sequently, he stood indebted to the Exche([uer in the sum
of four pounds, sixteen shillings, and ninepence. His
countenance darkened, as also did that of ^Irs. Peak.
29
30 BORN IN EXILE
' This is wrong and cruel — dreadfully cruel ! ' cried the
latter, with tears in her eyes.
' It is ; but that's no new thing,' was the bitter reply.
*I think it's wrong of ijou, Nicholas. What need is
there to say anything about that ten pounds ? It's taking
the food out of our mouths.'
Knowing only the letter of the law, ^Ir. I'eak answered
sternly :
* My income is a hundred and one pounds. I can't sign
my name to a lie.'
Picture the man. Tall, gaunt, with sharp intellectual
features, and eyes of singular beauty, the face of au
enthusiast — under given circumstances, of a hero. Poorly
clad, of course, but with rigorous self-respect ; his boots
polished, propria maim, to the point of perfection ; his
linen washed and ironed by the indefatigable wdfe. Of
simplest tastes, of most frugal habits, a few books the only
luxury which he deemed indispensable; yet a most difficult
man to live with, for to him applied precisely the descrip-
tion which Ptobert Burns gave of his own father ; he was
' of stubborn, ungainly integrity and headlong irascibility.'
Ungainly, for his strong impulses towards culture w^ere
powerless to obliterate the traces of his rude origin. Born
in a London alley, the son of a labourer burdened with a
large family, he had made his way by sheer force of
character to a position which w^ould have seemed proud
success but for the difficulty with which he kept himself
alive. His parents were dead. Of his brothers, two had
disa])peared in the abyss, and one, Andrew, earned a hard
livelihood as a journeyman baker ; the elder of his sisters
had married poorly, and tlie younger was his blind pen-
sioner. Nicholas had found a wife of better birth than
his own, a young woman with country kindred in decent
circumstances, though she herself served as nursemaid in
i\w, house of tlic medical man who employed her future
husband. He had tauglit himself the English language, so
far as grannnar went, but could not cast off the London
accent; Mrs. Peak was fortunate enough to speak with
nothing worse than the note of the Midlands.
His bent led him to the study of history, politics,
BURN IN EX ILK 31
ecouomics, aud iu that time of military outlneak lie
was frenzied by the oonllict of his ideals with the state of
things al)out him. A book frequently in his liands was
Godwin's Folitical Justice, and when a son had been born
to him he decided to name the child after that favourite
author. In this way, at all events, he could tind some
expression for his hot defiance of iniquity.
He paid his income-tax, and felt a savage joy in the
privation thus imposed upon his family. Mrs. Teak could
not forgive her husband, and in this case, though she had
i but dim appreciation of the point of honour involved, her
j censures doubtless fell on Nicholas's vulnerable spot ; it
was the perversity of arrogance, at least as nmch as
honesty, that impelled him to incur taxation. His
wife's perseverance in complaint drove him to stern
impatience, and for a long time the peace of the house-
hold suftered.
"When the boy Godwin was five years old, the dc^ath of
bis blind aunt came as a relief to means whicli were in
every sense overtaxed. Twelve months later, a piece of
unprecedented good fortune seemed to place the Peaks
i beyond fear of want, and at the same time to supply
Nicholas with a fulfilment of hopeless desires. By the
death of Mrs. Teak's brother, they came into possession
of a freehold house and about nine hundred pounds. The
property was situated some twelve miles from the Midland
town of Twybridge, and thither they at once removed. At
Twybridge lived Mrs. Peak's elder sister, ]\Iiss Cadman ;
but between this lady and her nearest kinsfolk there had
been Ijut slight correspondence — the deceased (,'adman
left her only a couple of hundred pounds. With capital
at command, Xicliolas l*eak took a lease of certain
fields near his house, aud turned farmer. The study of
chemistry had given a special bent to his economic
speculations ; he fancied himself endowed with excep-
tional aptitude for agriculture, and the scent of the furrow
brought all his energies into feverish activity — activity
which soon impoverished him : tliat was in the order of
I things. 'Ungainly integrity' and * headlong irascibility'
j >vrought the same results for the ex-dispenser as for the
32 BORN IN EXILE
Ayrshire Imabandman. His farming came to a chaotic
end ; and when the struggling man died, worn out at forty-
three, his wife and children (there was now a younger
boy, Oliver, named after the Protector) had no very bright
prospects.
Things went better with them than might have been
anticipated. To Mrs. Peak her husband's death was not
an occasion of unmingled mourning. For the last few
years slie had suffered severely from domestic discord, and
when left at peace by bereavement she turned with a
sense of liberation to the task of caring for her children's
future. Godwin was just thirteen, Oliver w^as eleven ;
both had been well schooled, and with the help of friends
they might soon be put in the way of self-support. The
daughter, Charlotte, sixteen years of age, had accomplish-
ments which would perhaps be profitable. The widow
decided to make a home in Twybridge, where Miss
Cadman kept a millinery shop. By means of this connec-
tion, Charlotte presently found employment for her skill
in fine needlework. Mrs. Peak was incapable of earning
money, but the experiences of her early married life
enabled her to make more than the most of the pittance
at her disposal.
_^ Miss Cadman was a woman of active mind, something
of a busy-body— dogmatic, punctilious in her claims to
respect, proud of the acknowledgment by her acquaintances
that she was not as other tradespeople ; her chief weak-
ness was a fanatical ecclesiasticism, the common blight of
Englisli womanhood. Circumstances had allowed her a
better education than generally falls to women of that
standing, and in spite of her shop she succeeded in
retaining the friendship of certain ladies long ago her
sclioolfellows. Among these were the ]\Iisses Lumb —
middle-aged sisters, who lived at Twybridge on a small
independence, their time chiefly devoted to the support of
tlie Anglican Church. An eldest ^liss Lumb had been
fortunate enough to marry that growing potentate of the
Midlands, Mr. Job Whitelaw. Now Lady Whitelaw, she
dwelt at Kingsmill, but her sisters frequently enjoyed the
honour of entertaining her, and even Miss Cadman the
BORN TX EXILE 33
milliner occasionally held converse with the haronet's
wife. In this w^ay it came to pass that the Widow Teak
and her children were bronght nnder the notice of persons
who sooner or later might be of assistance to them.
Abounding in emphatic advice, Miss Cadman easily
persuaded her sister that Godwin must go to school for at
least two years longer. The boys had been at a l)oarding-
school twenty miles away from their country home ; it
would be better for them now to be put under the care of
some Twybridge teacher — such an one as Miss Cadman's
acquaintances could recommend. For her own credit, the
milliner was anxious that these nephews of hers should
not be running about the town as errand-boys or the like,
and with prudence there was no necessity for such degrada-
tion. An uncommon lad like Godwin (she imaginecl him
named after the historic earl) must not be robbed of his
fair chance in life ; she would gladly spare a little money
for his benefit ; he was a boy to repay such expenditure.
Indeed it seemed probable. Godwin devoured books,
and had a remarkable faculty for gaining solid information
on any subject that took his fancy. What might be the
special bent of his mind one could not yet discover. lie
read poetry with precocious gusto, but at the same time
his aptitude for scientific pursuits was strongly marked.
In botany, chemistry, physics, he made progress which the
people about him, including his schoolmaster, were incap-
able of appreciating; and already the collection of books
left l)y his father, most of them out of date, failed to satisfy
his curiosity. It might be feaVed that tastes so discursive
would be disadvantageous to a lad who must needs pursue
some definite bread-study, and the strain of self-conscious-
ness which grew strong in him was again a matter for
concern. He cared nothing for boyish games and com-
panionship ; in the society of strangers — especially of
females — he behaved with an excessive shyness which was
easily mistaken for a surly temper. lieproof, correction,
he could not endure, and it was fortunate that the decorum
of his habits made remonstrance seldom needful.
Ludicrous as the project would have appeared to any
unbiassed observer of character, ]\Iiss Cadman conceived
3
34 BORN IN EXILE
a hope that Godwin might become a clergyman. From
her point of view it was natural to assume tliat uncommon
talents must be devoted to the service of the Church,
and she would have gladly done her utmost for the
practical furthering of such an end. Mrs. Peak, though
well aware that her son had imbibed the paternal pre-
judices, was disposed to entertain the same hope, despite
solid obstacles. For several years she had nourished a
secret antagonism to her husband's spirit of political,
social, and religious rebellion, and in her w^idowhood she
speedily became a pattern of the conservative female.
It would have gratified her to discern any possibility
of Godwin's assuming the priestly garb. And not alone
on the ground of conscience. Long ago she had repented
the marriage which connected her with such a family as
that of the Peaks, and she ardently desired tliat the
children, now exclusively her own, might enter life on
a plane superior to their father's.
'Godwin, how would you like to go to College and
be a clergyman?' she asked one Sunday afternoon,
when an hour or two of congenial reading seemed to
liave put the boy into a gentle liumour.
' To go to College ' was all very well (diplomacy had
prompted this preface), but the words that followed fell
so alarmingly on Godwin's ear that he looked up with a
resentful expression, unable to reply otherwise.
* You never thought of it, I suppose ? ' his mother
faltered ; for she often stood in awe of her son, who,
though yet but iourteen, had much of his father's com-
manding severity.
* I don't want to be a parson,' came at length, bluntly.
' Don't use that word, Godwin.'
' Why not ? It's quite a proper word. It comes from
the Latin 2^<'Tsona.'
The motlier had enough discretion to keep silence, and
Godwin, after in vain trying to settle to his book again,
left the room with disturbed countenance.
He had now been attending the day-school for about a
year, and was distinctly ahead of his coevals. A Christmas
examination was on the point of being held, and it hap-
I
BORX IX EXILE 35
peiied that a singular test of tlic lad's moral character
coinckled with the proof of his intellectual i)r()gress. In
a neighhourin^^ house lived an old man named liawmarsli,
kindly hut rather eccentric; he had once done a good
business as a printer, and now supported himself l)y sucli
chance typographic work of a small kind as friends might
put in his way. He conceived an affection for ( Jodwin :
often had the boy to talk with him of an evening. < )n
one such occasion, ^Ir. liawmarsh opened a desk, took
forth a packet of newly printed leaves, and with a mysteri-
ous air silently spread them before the hoy's eyes. In an
instant Godwin became aware that he was looking at the
examination papers which a day or two hence would be
set before him at school ; he saw and recognised a passage
from the book of Virgil which his class had Ijeen reading.
'That is sub rosa, you know,' whispered the old pi inter,
with half averted face.
Godwin slirank away, and could not resume the conver-
sation thus interrupted. On the following day he went
about with a feeling of guilt. He avoided tlie siglit of Mr.
Rawmarsh, for whom he had suddenly lost all respect,
and suffered torments in the thouglit that he enjoyed an
unfair advantage over his class-mates. The Latin passage
happened to be one which he knew thoroughly well ; there
was no need, even had he desired, to ' look it up ' ; but in
sitting down to the examination, he experienced a sense
of shame and self-rebuke. So strong were the effects of
this, that he voluntarily omitted the answer to a certain
important cpiestion which he could have 'done' belter
than any of the other boys, thus endeavouring to adjust
in his conscience the therms of competition, thougli in fact
no such sacrifice was called for. He came out at the head
of the class, but the triumph had no savour for him, and
for many a year he was subject to a flush of mortification
whenever this incident came back to his mind.
Mr. liawmarsh was not the only intelligent man who
took an interest in Godwin. Tu a house whicli the boy
sometimes visited with a school-fellow, lodged a notable
couple named G-unnery — the husband about seventy, the
wife five years older; they lived on a pension from a
36 BORN IX EXILE
railway company. ^Ir. Gunnery was a dabbler in many
sciences, bnt had a special enthusiasm for geology. Two
cabinets of stones and fossils gave evidence of his zealous
travels about the British isles ; he had even written a
little hand-book of petrology which was for sale at certain
booksellers' in Twybridge, and probaljly nowhere else. To
him, about this time, Godwin began to resort, always sure
of a welcome ; and in the little uncarpeted room wdiere Mr.
Gunnery pursued his investigations many a fateful lesson
was given and received. The teacher understood the in-
telligence he had to deal with, and was delighted to convey,
by the mode of suggested inference, sundry results of
knowledge which it perliaps would not have been prudent
to declare in plain, popular words.
Their intercourse was not invariably placid. The
geologist had an irritable temper, and in certain states of
the atmosphere his rheumatic twinges made it advisable
to shun argument with him. Godwin, moreover, was
distinguished by an instability of mood peculiarly trying
to an old man's testy humour. Of a sudden, to Mr.
Gunnery's surprise and annoyance, he would lose all
interest in this or that science. Thus, one day the lad de-
clared liimself unable to name two stones set before him,
felspar and quartz, and when his instructor broke into
angry impatience he turned sullenly away, exclaiming
that he was tired of geology.
'Tired of geology?' cried Mr. Gunnery, with flaming
eyes. * Then / am tired of you, Master Peak ! Be off,
and don't come again till I send for you ! '
Godwin retired without a word. On the second day
he was summoned back again, but his resentment of the
dismissal rankled in him for a long time ; injury to his
l)ride was the wrong he found it hardest to forgive.
His schoolmaster, aware of the unusual pursuits which
he added to the routine of lessons, gave him as a prize the
English translation of a book by Figuier — The World
hcforc the Ddiujc. Strongly interested by the illustra-
tions of the volume (fanciful scenes from the successive
geologic periods), Godwin at once carried it to liis scientific
friend. 'Ueluge?' growled Mr. Gunnery. ' JFArt^ deluge?
BORN IN EXILE 37
Which deluge?' But lie restrained liiinself, liaiidcd tlie
book coldly back, and began to talk of something else.
All this was highly significant to Godwin, who of course
began the perusal of his prize in a suspicious mood. Nor
was he long before he sympathised with Mr. Gunnery's
distaste. Though too young to grasp the arguments at
! issue, liis prejudices were strongly excited by tlie conven-
tional Theism which pervades Figuier's work. Already it
was the habit of liis mind to associate popular dogma with
intellectual shallowness; herein, as at every other point
which fell within his scope, he had begun to scorn average
people, and to pride himself intensely on views which he
found generally condemned. Day by day he grew into a
clearer understanding of the memories be(|ueathed to him
by his father; he began to interpret remarks, details of
behaviour, instances of wTath, which, though they had
stamped themselves on his recollection, conveyed at the
time no precise significance. The issue was that he
hardened himself against the influence of his motlier and
his aunt, regarding them as in league against the free
progress of his education.
As women, again, he despised the.se relatives. It is
almost impossible for a bright-witted lad born in tlie
lower middle class to escape this stage of development.
The brutally healthy boy contemns the female sex be-
cause he sees it incapable of his own athletic sports, but
Godwin was one of those upon whose awaking intellect
is forced a perception of the brain-defect so general in
women when they are taught few of life's graces and
none of its serious concerns, — their paltry preposses-
sions, their vulgar sequaciousness, their invincible ignor-
ance, their absorption in a petty self. And especially is
llns_p hase of th ought to be expected in a boy whose
heart blindly nourlilTITs the seeds of poetical passion. It
was Godwin's sincere belief that he held girls, as girls, in
abhorrence. This meant that he dreaded their personal
criticism, and that the spectacle of female beauty some-
times overcame him with a despair which he could not
analyse. ^latrons and elderly unmarried women were
truly the objects of his disdain ; in them lit- saw nothing
38 BORN IN EXILE
but their shortcomings. Towards his mother he was con-
scious of no tenderness ; of as little towards his sister, who
often censured him with trenchant tongue ; as for his
aunt, whose admiration of him was modified by reticences,
he could never be at ease in her company, so strong a
dislike had he for her look, her voice, her ways of speech.
He would soon be fifteen years old. Mrs. Peak was
growing anxious, for she could no longer consent to draw
upon her sister for a portion of the school fees, and no
pertinent suggestion for the lad's future was made by any
of the people who admired his cleverness. Miss Cadman
still clung in a fitful way to the idea of making her
nephew a cleric ; she had often talked it over with the
Misses Lumb, who of course held that ' any sacrifice ' was
justifiable with such a motive, and who suggested a hope
that, by the instrumentality of Lady Whitelaw, a curacy
might easily be obtained as soon as (Jodwin was old
enougli. But several years must pass before that Levitical
stage could be reached; and then, after all, perhaps the
younger boy, Oliver, placid of temper and notably pliant
in mind, was better suited for the dignity of Orders.
Tt was lamentable that Godwin should liave become so
intimate with that earth-burrowing Mr. Gunnery, who
certainly never attended eitlier church or chapel, and wlio
seemed to have imbued his pupil with immoral theories
concerninG: the date of creation. Godwin held more
decidedly aloof from his aunt, and had been heard by
Charlotte to speak very disrespectfully of the Misses Lumb.
In sliort, there was no choice but to discover an opening for
liim in some secular pursuit. Could he, perhaps, become
an assistant teacher ? Or must he ' go into an office ' ?
No common lad. A youth whose brain glowed like a
furnace, whose heart throbbed with tumult of liigh am-
bitions, of inclioate desires ; endowed with knowledge
altogetlier exceptional for his years ; a nature essentially
militant, (lis})laying itself in innumerable forms of callow,
intcjlcrancc — apt, assuredly, for some vigorous part in life,
Ijut as likely as not to rush headlong on traverse roads if
no judicious mind assumed control of him. What is to
be done with the boy ?
BORN IN EXILE 30
All very well, if the question signifii'd, in wliat wayJ
to provide for the healthy development of lii.s man-
hood. Of course it meant nothing of the sort, but merely :j
What work can he found for him whereby he may earn
his daily bread ? We — his kinsfolk even, not to think of
the world at large — can have no concern with liis grout li
as an intellectual being; we are liard ])re8sed to supj)ly
our own mouths with food; and now that we have d<»ne
our recognised duty by him, it is higli time that he learnt
to tight for his own share of provender. Happily, he is
of the robust sex ; he can hit out right and left, and m;d<e
standing-room. We have armed him with serviceable
weapons, and now he must use them against tlie enemy
^— that is to say, against all mankind, who will quickly
eiiougli deprive him of sustenance if lie fail in the coulhct.
We neither know, nor in great measure care, for what
employment he is naturally marked. Obviously he cannot
heave coals or sell dogs' meat, but with negative certainty
not much else can be resolved, seeing how desperate is the
competition for minimum salaries. He has been born,
andluTmusl eat. By what licensed channel may he pro-
cure the necessary viands ?
Paternal relatives Godwin had as good as none. In
quitting London, Nicholas Peak had ceased to hold com-
munication with any of his own stock save the younger
brother Andrew. With him he occasionally exchanged a
letter, but Andrew's share in the correspondence was
limited to ungrammatical and often unintelligible hints
of numerous projects for money-making. Just after the
removal of the bereaved family to Twybridge, they were
surprised by a visit from Andrew, in answer to one of
whose letters Mrs. Teak had sent news of her hus])and's
death. Though her dislike of the man amounted to loath-
ing, the widow could not refuse him hospitality ; she did
her best, however, to prevent his coming in contact with
anyone she knew. Andrew declared tliat he was at length
prospering ; he had started a coflec-sliop at Dalston, in
north-east London, and ])ositively urgeil a proposal (well-
meant, beyond doubt) that Ciodwin sbould l>e allowed to
come to him and learn the business. Since then the
40 BORN IN EXILE
Londoner liad once again visited Twybridge, towards the
end of Godwin's last school-year. Tliis time he spoke of
himself less hopefully, and declared a wish to transfer his
business to some provincial town, where he thought his
metropolitan experience might be of great value, in the
I absence of serious competition. It was not di&icult to
■ discover a family likeness l)etween Andrew's instability
and the idealism wdiich had proved the ruin of Nicholas.
On this second occasion Godwin tried to escape a meet-
ing with his uncle. Unable to do so, he sat mute, replying
to questions monosyllabically. Mrs. Peak's shame and
annoyance, in face of tliis London-branded vulgariaii^were
but feeble emotions com])ared with those of her son.
Godwin hated the man, and was in dread lest any school-
' fellow should come to know of such a connection. Yet
delicacy prevented his uttering a word on the subject
to his mother. ]\Irs. Peak's silence after Andrew's de-
parture made it uncertain how she regarded the obligation
of kindred, and in any such matter as this the boy was
far too sensitive to risk giving pain. But to his brother
Oliver he spoke.
'What is the brute to us ? Wlien I'm a man, let him
venture to come near me, and see what sort of a reception
i he'll get ! I hate low, uneducated people ! I hate them
! worse than the filthiest vermin ! — don't you ?'
Oliver, aged but thirteen, assented, as he habitually did
to any question which seemed to await an afhrmative.
* They ought to be swept off the face of the earth ! '
pursued Godwin, sittiug up in bed — for the dialogue took
place about eleven o'clock at night. 'All the grown-up
creatures, who can't speak proper English and don't know
how to behave themselves, I'd transpoit them to the
Falkland Islands,' — this geographic precision was a note
of the boy's mind, — ' and let them die ofi' as soon as
possible. The children should be sent to school and
purified, if possible ; if not, they too sliould be got rid of
'You're an aristocrat, Godwin,' remarked Oliver, simply ;
for the elder brother had of late been telling him fearlul
stories from the French Ptevolution, with something of_an^
anti-popular bins.
BORN IN EXILE 41
' I hope I am. 1 nieau to be, lliat's ci'itaiii. TlR.'n''.s
Ui2JLluii^' 1 luiLc like vuluarity. That's why I can't stand
Kuper. When he beat nie in mathematics hist miil-
surnmer, I felt so ashamed I could liardly bear myself.
I'm working like a nigger at algebra and Euclid this half,
just because 1 think it would almost kill me to be beaten
again by a low cad.'
This was perhaps the first time that (lodwin found
expression for the prejudice which afl'ected all his thoughts
and feelings. It relieved him to have spoken thus ; hence-
forth he had become clear as to his point of view. By
dubbing him aristocrat, Oliver had flattered him in the
subtlest way. If indeed the title were justly his, as he
instantly felt it was, the inference was plain that he nnist
be an aristocrat of nature's own making — one of the few
highly favoured beings who, in despite of circumstance,
are pinnacled above mankind. I n his ign orance of life,
t])p. b uy visioned a triumphant career ; an aristocrat <lc
jure miglit possibly become one even in the common sense
did he but pursue that end witli sufficient zeal. And in
his power of persistent endeavour he had no lack of faith.
The next day he walked with exalted head. En-
countering the objectionable Eoper, he smiled upon him
contemptuously tolerant.
There being no hope of effective assistance from rela-
tives, Mrs. Peak turned for counsel to a man of business,
with whom her husband had made acquaintance in his
farming days, and who held a position of inihience at
Twy bridge. This was Mr. Moxey, manufacturing chemist,
famous in the Midlands for his ' sheep and cattle
dressings,' and sundry other products of agricultural
enterprise. His ill -scented, Ijut lucrative, works were
situated a mile out of the town ; and within siglit of the
reeking chimneys stood a large, plain house, uncomfort-
ably like an ' institution ' of some kind, in which he dwelt
with his five daughters. Thither, one evening, Mrs. Teak
betook herself, having learnt that Mr. Moxey dined at
five o'clock, and tliat he was generally to l)e found digging
iu his garden until sunset. Her rece])tion was civil. Tlie
manufacturer — sparing of words, but with no unkin«lly
42 BORN IN EXILE
face — requested that Godwin should be sent to see him,
and promised to do his best to be of use. A talk with
the boy strengthened liis interest. He was surprised at
Godw^in's knowledge of chemistry, pleased with his general
intelligence, and in the end offered to make a place for
him at the works, where, though for a year or two his
earnings must be small, he would gain experience likely
to be of substantial use to him. Godwin did not find
the proposal distasteful; it brought a change into his life,
and the excitement of novelty ; it flattered him with the
show of release from pupilage. To Mr. Moxey's he went.
The hours were not long, and it was understood that
his theoretical studies should continue in the evening.
Godwin's home was a very small house in a monotonous
little street ; a garret served as bedroom for the two boys,
also as tlie elder one's laboratory. Servant Mrs. Peak
had none. She managed everything herself, as in the old
Greenwich days, leaving Charlotte free to work at her
embroidery. Godwin took turns with Oliver at blacking
the shoes.
As a matter of course the boys accompanied their mother
each Sunday morning to the parish church, and this cere-
mony was becoming an insufferable tax on Godwin's pa-
tience. It was not only that he hated the name of religion,
and scorned with much fierceness all who came in sympa-
thetic contact therewith ; the loss of time seemed to him
an oppressive injury, especially now that lie began to suffer
from restricted leisure. He w^ould not refuse to obey his
mother's wish, but the sullenness of his Sabbatic demeanour
made the whole family uncomfortable. As often as
possible he feigned illness. He tried the effect of dolorous
sighs and groans ; but Mrs. Peak could not dream of con-
ceding a point which would have seemed to her the
condonation of deadly sin. ' When T am a man ! ' muttered
Godwin. * Ah ! when I am a man !'
A year liad gone by, and the routine to which he was
bound began to have a servile flavour. His mind chafed
at subjugation to commercial interests. Sick of ' sheep and
cattle dressings,' he grew tired of chemistry altogether,
and presently of physical science in general. His evenings
BORN IN EXILE 43
were given to poetry and liistory ; lie took uj) tlic classical
schoolbooks again, and fonnd a cliarni in Latin syntax
hitherto iinperceived. It was plain to him now how he
had been wronged by the necessity of leaving school when
his education had but just l)egun.
Discontent becoming rii)e for utterance, he unbosomed
himself to Mr. Gunnery. It happened that the old man
had just returned from a visit to Kingsmill, where he had
spent a week in the museum, then newly enriched with
geologic specimens. After listening in silence to the
boy's complaints, and pondering for a long time, he began
to talk of Whitelaw College.
'Does it cost much to study there?' Godwin asked,
gloomily.
* No great sum, I think. There are scholarships to be
had.'
Mr. Gunnery threw out the suggestion carelessly.
Knowing the hazards of life, he could not quite justify
himself in encouraging Godwin's restiveness.
' Scholarships ? For free study ? '
*Yes; but that wouldn't mean free living, you know.
Students don't live at the College.'
* How do you go in for a scholarship ? '
The old man replied,, meditatively, * If you were to
pass the Cambridge Local Examination, and to get the
first place in the Kingsmill district, you would have three
years of free study at Whitelaw.'
' Three years ? ' shouted Godwin, springing up from
his chair.
' But how could you live, my boy ? '
Godwin sat down again, and let his head fall forward.
How to keep oneself alive during a few years of intel-
lectual growth ? — a question often asked by men of mature
age, but seldom by a lad of sixteen. No matter. He
resolved that he would study for this Cambridge Local
Examination, and have a try for the scholarshi]). His
attainments were already up to the standard iiMpiired for
average success in such competitions. On obtaining a set
of 'papers,' he found that they looked easy enough.
Could he not come out first in the Kini^smill district ?
44 BORN IN EXILE
He worked vigorously at special subjects ; aid was
needless, but he wished for more leisure. Not a word to
any member of his household. When his mother dis-
covered that he was reading in the bedroom till long past
midnight, she made serious objection on the score of
health and on that of gas bills. Godwin quietly asserted
tliat work he must, and that if necessary he would buy
candles out of his pocket-money. He had unexpectedly
become more grave, more restrained ; he even ceased to
grumble about going to church, having found that service
time could be utilised for committing to memory lists of
dates and the like, jotted down on a slip of paper. When
the time ibr the examination drew near, he at length told
his mother to what end he had been labouring, and asked
her to grant him the assistance necessary for his journey
and the sojourn at Kingsmill ; the small sum he had been
able to save, after purchase of books, would not suffice.
^Irs. Peak knew not whether to approve her son's ambition
or to try to repress it. She would welcome an improval in
his prospects, but, granting success, how was he to live
whilst profiting by a scholarship ? And again, what did
he propose to make of himself when he had spent three
years in study ?
'In any case,' was Godwin's reply, 'I sliould be sure of
a good place as a teacher. But I think I might try for
something in the Civil Service; there are all sorts of
positions to be got.'
It was idle to discuss the future whilst the first step
was still speculative. Mrs. Peak consented to favour the
attempt, and what v/as more, to keep it a secret until the
issue should be known. It was needful to obtain leave of
absence from ]\Ir. Moxey, and Godwin, when making the
request, stated for what purpose he was going to Kings-
mill, though without explaining the hope which had
encouraged his studies. The project seemed laudable,
and his employer made no difficulties.
Godwin just missed the scholarship; of candidates in
the prescribed district, he came out second.
Grievous was the disappointment. To come so
near success exasperated his impatient temper, and for
II
BOKX IN KXILE 45
a few (lays his boiulaj^^e at llie chemical works seeinod
intolerable ; he was ready for almost any venture that
promised release and new scope for his fretting ener<,Mes.
But at the moment when nervous irritation was most
acute, a remarkable act of kindness suddenly restored to
him all the hoi)es he had abandoned. One Saturday
afternoon he was summoned from his surly retreat in the
oarret, to s])eak with a visitor. On entering the sittiu'^-
room, he found his mother in company with ]\Iiss Cadman
and the Misses Lumb, and from the last-mentioned ladies,
who spoke with amiable alternation, he learnt that they
were commissioned by Sir Job Wliitelaw to offer for his
acceptance a three-years' studentship at AMiitelaw Collc«^^'.
Afl'ected by her son's chagrin, Mrs. l*eak liad disclosed
the story to her sister, who had repeated it to tlie blisses
Lumb, who in turn had made it the subject of a letter to
Lady Wliitelaw. It was an annual practice with Sir Job
to discover some promising lad whom he could benefit by
the payment of his fees for a longer or shorter period of
college study. The hint from Twy bridge came to him just
at the suitable time, and, on further inquiry, he decided
to make proller of this advantage to Godwin Peak. Tlie
only condition was that arrangements should be made by
the student's relatives for his support during tJie proposed
period.
This generosity took away Godwin's breath. The ex-
penditure it represented was trilling, but from a stianger
in Sir Job's position it had sometliing which recalled to
so fervent a mind the poetry of Medicean patronage. For
the moment no faintest doubt gave warning to his self-
respect ; he was eager to accept nol)ly a benefaction
nobly intended.
Miss Cadman, flattered by Sir Job's attention to her
nephew, now came forward with an offer to contribute
towards Godwin's livelihood. Her supplement would eke
into adequacy such slender allowance as the widow's
purse could afford. Details were privately discussed,
resolves were taken. Mr. IMoxey, when it was made
known to him, without explanation, that Godwin was to
be sent to Wliitelaw College, behaved witli kindness; he
46 BORN IN EXILE
at once released tlie lad, and added a present to the salary
that was due. Proper acknowledgment of the Baronet's
kindness was made by the beneticiary himself, who wrote
a letter giving truer testimony of his mental calibre than
would have been offered had he expressed himself by
word of mouth. A genial reply summoned him to an
interview as soon as he should have found an abode in
Kingsmill. The lodging he had occupied during the
examination was permanently secured, and a new period
of Godwin's life began.
For two years, that is to say until his age drew towards
nineteen, Peak pursued the Arts curriculum at Whitelaw.
His mood on entering decided his choice, which was left
free to liim. Experience of utilitarian chemistry had for
the present made his liberal tastes predominant, and
neither the splendid laboratories of Whitelaw nor the
repute of its scientific Professors tempted him to what
had once seemed his natural direction. In the second
year, however, he enlarged his course by the addition of
one or two classes not included in Sir Jolo's design ; these
were paid for out of a present made to him by Mr.
Gunnery.
It being customary for the regular students of White-
law to graduate at London University, Peak passed Ins
matriculation, and worked on for the preliminary test
then known as First B.A. In the meanwhile he rose
steadily, achieving distinction in the College. The more
observant of his teachers remarked him even where he
fell short of academic triumph, and among his fellow-
students he had the name of a stern 'sweater/ one not
easily beaten where he had set his mind on excelling.
He was not generally liked, for his mood appeared
unsocial, and a repelling arrogance was sometimes felt in
his talk. No doubt — said the more fortunate young
men — he came from a very poor home, and suffered from
the narrowness of his means. They noticed that he did •■
not suljscribe to the College Union, and that he could i
never join in talk regarding the diversions of tlie town.
His two or three intimates were cliosen from among those '
contemporaries who read hard and dressed poorly.
BORN TX KXILK 47
The details of Godwin's private life were noteworthy.
Accustomed hitherto to a domestic circle, at Kin«;smill he
found himself isolated, and it was not easy for liini to
I surrender all at once the comforts of home. For a timu
he felt as thou«;h his ambition were a delin(iuency whicli
entailed the punisliment of loneliness. Nor did his
relations with Sir Job Whitelaw tend to mitigate tins
feelin*,'. In his first interview with the IJaronet, (Jodwin
showed to little advantage. A deadly bashfulness forbade
him to be natural either in attitude or speech. lie felt his
dependence in a way he had not foreseen ; the very clothes
he wore, then fresh from the tailor's, seemed to be the
gift of cliarity, and their stiffness shamed him. A man
of the world, Sir Job could make allowance for these
defects. He understood that the truest kindness would
be to leave a youth such as this to the forming inlluences
[ of the College. So Godwin barely had a glimpse of Lady
I Whitelaw in her husband's study, and thereafter for
I many months he saw nothing of his benefactors. Subse-
quently he was twice invited to interviews with Sir Job,
j who talked with kindness and commendation. Then
I came the Baronet's death. Godwin received an assurance
I that this event would be no check upon his career,
I but he neither saw nor heard directly from Lady
I Whitelaw.
! Not a house in Kingsmill opened hospitable doors to the
I lonely student ; nor was anyone to blame for this. With
' no family had he friendly acquaintance. When, towards
i the end of his second year, he grew sulliciently intimate
! with Buckland Warricombe to walk out with him to
I Thornhaw, it could be nothincf more than a scarcely
I welcome exception to the rule of solitude. Impossible for
him to cultivate the friendship of such people as the
Warricombes, with their large and joyous sehenie of life.
j Only at a hearth where homeliness and cordiality uniti'd
I to unthaw his proud reserve could Godwin perchance
i have found the companionship he needed. Many such
I homes existed in Kingsmill, but no kindly fortune led the;
I young man within the sphere of their warmth.
His lodgings were in a very .ugly street in the ugliest
48 BORN IN EXILE
outskirts of the town ; lie had to take a long walk through
desolate districts (brick-yard, sordid pasture, degenerate
village) before he could refresh liis eyes with the rural
scenery which was so great a joy to him as almost to be
a necessity. The immediate vicinage offered nothing but
monotone of grimy, lower middle-class dwellings, occasion-
ally relieved by a public-house. He occupied two rooms,
not unreasonably clean, and was seldom disturbed by the
attentions of his landlady.
An impartial observer might have wondered at the
neo'liwnce which left him to arrange his life as best he
could, notwithstanding youth and utter niexpenence. IL
looked indeed as if there were no one in the wnrhl who
cared what became of him. Yet this was merely the result
of his mother's circumstances, and of his own character.
Mrs. Peak could do no more than make her small remit-
tances, and therewith send an occasional admonition re-
garding his health. She did not, in fact, conceive the state
of things, imagining that the authority and supervisal of
the College extended over her son's daily existence, whereas
it was possible for Godwin to frequent lectures or not,
to study or to waste his time, pretty much as he chose,
subject only to official inquiry if his attendance became
frequently irregular. His independent temper, and the
seeming maturity of his mind, supplied another excuse for
the imprudent confidence which left him to his own re-
sources. Yet the perils of the situation were great indeed.
A youth of less concentrated purpose, more at the mercy
of casual allurement, would proljably have gone to wreck
amid trials so exceptional.
Trials not only of his moral nature. The sums of money
with which he was furnished fell short of a reasonable
total for bare necessities. In the calculation made by
Mrs. Peak and her sister, outlay on books had practically
been lost sight of ; it was presumed that ten shillings a
term would cover this item. But Godwin could not con-
sent to be at a disadvantage in his armoury for academic
contest. The first month saw him compelled to contract
his diet, that he might purchase books ; thenceforth he.
rarely liad enough to eat. His landlady supplied him;
BORN IN EXILE 49
I with breakfast, tea, and supper — each repast of tlie vi-ry
t simplest kind ; for dinner it was understood that lie re-
! paired to some public table, where meat and ve.i^'etables,
I with perchance a supplementary sweet wlien nature
demanded it, might be had for about a shilling. That
shilling was not often at his disposal. Dinner as it is
understood by the comfortably clad, the ' regular meal '
which is a part of English respectal»ility, came to be repre-
j sented by a small pork-pie, or even a couple of buns,
I eaten at the little shop over against the College. After a
I long morning of mental application this was poor refresh-
1 ment ; the long afternoon which followed, again spent in
, rigorous study, could not but reduce a growing frame to
[ ravenous hunger. Tea and buttered bread were the means
I of appeasing it, until another four hours' work called for
I reward in the shape of bread and cheese. Even yet the
day's toil was not ended. Godwin sometimes read long
after midnight, with the result that, when at length he
tried to sleep, exhaustion of mind and body kept him for
a long time feverishly wakeful.
These hardships he concealed from tlie people at Twy-
bridge. Complaint, it seemed to him, would be ungrateful,
for sacrifices were already made on his behalf. His father,
as he well remembered, was wont to relate, with a kind of
I angry satisfaction, the miseries through which he had
fought his way to education and the income-tax. (Jld
enough now to reflect with compassionate understanding
upon that life of conflict, Godwin resolved that he too
would bear the burdens inseparable from poverty, and in
some moods was even glad to suffer as his father had done.
Fortunately he had a sound basis of health, and hunger
and vigils would not easily affect his constitution. If, thus
hampered, he could outstrip competitors who had every
advantage of circumstance, the more glorious his triumj)h.
Sunday was an interval of leisure, liejoicing in de-
liverance from Sabbatarianism, he generally spent the
morning in a long walk, and the rest of the day was
i devoted to non-collegiate reading. He had subscribed to
a circulating library, and thus obtained new ])ul)licatiuns
recommended to him in the literary paper whicli again
4 '
50 BORN IN EXILE
taxed his stoniacli. ]\Icre class-work did not satisfy him.
He was possessed with tliroes of spiritual desire, impelling
him towards tliat world of unfettered speculation which
he had long indistinctly imagined. It was a great thing
to learn wliat the past could teach, to set himself on the
common level of intellectual men ; but he understood that
college learning could not be an end in itself, that the
Professors to wliom he listened either did not speak out
all that was in their minds, or, if they did, were far from
representing the advanced guard of modern thought.
AYith eagerness he at length betook himself to the teachers
of philosophy and of geology. Having paid for these
lectures out of his own pocket, he felt as if he had won
a privilege beyond tlie conventional course of study, an
initiation to a higher sphere of intellect. The result was
disillusion. Not even in these class-rooms could he heai
the word for which he waited, the bold annunciation of
newly discovered law, the science which had completely
broken with tradition. He came away unsatisfied, and
brooded upon the possibilities wliich would open for him
when he was no longer dependent.
His evening work at home was subject to a disturbance
which would have led him to seek other lodgings, could he
have hoped to find any so cheap as these. The landlady's
son, a lank youth of the clerk species, was wont to amuse
himself from eight to ten with practice on a piano. B)"
dint of perseverance he had learned to strum two or three
hymnal melodies popularised by American evangelists
occasionally he even added the charm of his voice, which,
had a pietistic nasality not easily endured by an ear of an}
refinement. Not only was Godwin harassed by the recur-
rence of these performances ; the tunes worked themselvc!^
into his brain, and sometimes throughout a whole da}
their burden clanged and squalled incessantly on hij,
mental hearing. He longed to entreat forbearance from
the musician, but an excess of delicacy — which always
ruled his behaviour — kept him silent. Certain passages
in the classics, and many an elaborate mathematica'
formula, long retained for him an association with the,
cadences of revivali.^t hymnoJy.
BORN IN EXILE 51
iLike all proud natures coiidenincMl to solitude, he tried
to convince hiniselt" that he had no need of society, that
I he despised its attractions, and could be selt-su^icin<^^ So
I far was this from the truth that he often rei^Mrded witli
' bitter envy those of his fellow-students who had the social
air, who conversed freely among their equals, and showed
'that the pursuits of the College were only a i)art of their
existence. These young men were either preparing for
ithe University, or would pass from Whitelaw to business,
: i)rofession, otlicial training ; in any case, a track was
I marked out for them by the zealous care of relatives and
' friends, and their efforts would always be aided, applauded,
iby a kindly circle. - ,^onie of them Godwin could not but
'admire, so healthful were they, so bright of intellect, and
i courteous in manner, — a type distinct from any he had
I formerly observed. Others were antipathetic to him.|
I Their aggressive gentility conflicted with the wariness of
his self-esteem ; such a one, for instance, as Bruno Chilvers,
the sound of whose mincing voice, as he read in the class,
so irritated him that at times he had to cover his ears.
Yet, did it chance that one of these offensive youths ad-
dressed a civil word to him, on the instant his prejudice
was disarmed, and his emotions flowed forth in a response
I to which he would gladly have given free expression.
I When he was invited to meet the relatives of Buckland
' Warricombe, sliyness prepossessed him against them ; but
'the frank kindness of his rece[>tion moved him, and on
i going away he was ashamed to have replied so boorishly
I to attentions so amiably meant. The same note of char-
iacter sounded in what personal intercourse he had with
' tlicJ?rofes.sors, Though his spirit of criticism was at times
' busy with these gentlemen, he had for most of them a
1 profound regard ; and to be elected by one or other for a
I word of commendation, a little private assistance, a well-
I phrased inquiry as to his progress, always made his heart
i beat high with gratitude. They were his first exemplars
j o f fin ished courtesy, of delicate culture ; and he could
never sulTiciently regret that no one of 'them was aware
I how thaid^fully lie recognised his debt.
I In longing for the intimacy of rufineil i)e()pli', he l)(.'gan
52 BORN IN EXILE
1
to modify his sentiments witli regard to the female sex.
His first prize-day at Whitelaw was the first occasion on
which he sat in an assembly where ladies (as he under-
stood the title) could be seen and heard. The impression
he received was deep and lasting. On the seat behind
him were two girls whose intermittent talk held him with
; irresistible charm throughout the whole ceremony. He
j had not imagined that girls could display such intelligence,
I and the sweet clearness of their intonation, the purity of
their accent, the grace of their habitual phrases, were
1 things altogether beyond his experience. This w^as not
\the English he had been wont to hear on female lips.
Mis mother and his aunt spoke with propriety ; their
associates were soft-tongued ; but here was something
quite different from inoffensiveness of tone and diction.
Godwin appreciated the differentiating cause. These
young ladies behind him had been trained from the cradle,
to speak for the delight of fastidious ears ; that they should
be grammatical was not enough — they must excel in the
art of conversational music. Of course there existed a
world where only such speech was interchanged, and how
inestimably happy those men to whom the sphere was
native !
AYhen the proceedings w^re over, he drew aside and
watched the two girls as they mingled with acquaintances;
he kept them in view until they left the College. An
emotion such as this he had never known ; for the first
time in his life he was humiliated without embitterment.
The bitterness came when he had returned to his home ■■
in the back street of Twybridge, and was endeavouring to
spend the holidays in a hard ' grind.' He loathed the ;
penurious simplicity to which his life was condemned ; all \
familiar circumstances were become petty, coarse, vulgar, i
in his eyes; the contrast with the idealised world of hiS'
ambition plunged him into despair. Even Mr. Gunnery;
seemed an ignoble figure when compared with the Pro-;
fessors of Whitelaw, and his authority in the sciences was,
now subjected to doubt. However much or little might'
result from the three years at college, it was clear to'
Godwin that his former existence had passed into infinite
II
BORX IX EXILE 53
remotenesss ; lie was no longer fit for Twyl nidge, no longer
a coni])anion for his kindred. Oliver, whose dulness as a
schoolboy gave no promise of future uchievenients, was
now learning the business of a seedsman ; his brother
felt ashamed when he saw him at work in the sho]>, and
had small patience with the comrades to whom (Jlivur
dedicated his leisure. Charlotte was estranged by re-
ligious differences. Only for his mother did the young
man show increased consideration. To his aunt he en-
deavoured to be grateful, but his behaviour in her presence
was elaT)orate hypocrisy. Hating the necessity for this, lie
laid the blame on fortune, which had decreed his biitli in
a social sphere where he must ever be an alien.
Ill
With the growth of his \inilitant egoism, there hai
developed in Godwin Peak an excess of nervous sensibilit}
which threatened to deprive his character of the initiative
rightly belonging to it. Self-assertion is the practica
complement of self-esteem. To be largely endowed witl
the latter quality, yet constrained by a coward delicacy t(
repress it, is to suffer martyrdom at the pleasure of ever
roljust assailant, and in the end be driven to the refuge o
a moody solitude. That encounter with his objectionabl
uncle alter the prize distribution at AVhitelaw showed ho\
much Godwin had lost of the natural vigour which declare
itself at Andrew Peak's second visit to Twybridge, whe:
the boy certainly would not have endured his uncle'
presence but for hospitable considerations and the respec
due to his mother. The decision with which he then un
bosomed himself to Oliver, still characterised his thought
but lie had not courage to elude the dialogue forced upo
him, still less to make known his resentment of the man
offensive vulgarity. He endured in silence, his heart afii
with scornful wrath.
The affliction could not have befallen him at a tim
when he was less capable of supporting it resignedl;
Notwithstanding his noteworthy success in two classes,
seemed to him that he liad lost everything — that the da
was one of signal and disgraceful defeat. In any case thi
sequence of second prizes must have filled him wit
chagrin, but to be beaten thus repeatedly by such a fello
as J>runo Chilvers was humiliation intolerable. A foplin'
a mincer of effeminate English, a rote-repeater of academ
54
BORN IX KXII.I-: 55
catcli-wonls — l)ali ! The ]>y-(^x;iiniiiati<ni,s of the year ha«l
whispered presage, but Peak always felt that he was not
putting forth his strength ; when tlie serious trial came he
woulil sliow wliat was really in him. Too late he recog-
nised liis error, though lie tried n(jt to admit it. Tlie extra
subjects had exacted too nuich of him; there was a limit
to his powers. AVithin the College this would be widl
enougli understood, but to explain a disagreeable fact is
not to change it; his name was written in pitiful sub-
ordination. And as for tlie public assembly — he would
have sacrificed some years of his life to liave stepped
forward in facile supremacy, beueatli the eyes of th(jse
I clustered ladies. Instead of that, they had looked upon
I his shame ; they had interchanged glances of amusement at
I each repetition of his defeat ; had murmured comments in
I their melodious speech ; had ended by losing all interest in
him — as intuition apprised him was the wont of women.
As soon as lie had escaped from his uncle, he relai)sed
into musing upon the position to which he was condemned
when the new session came round. Again Chilvers would
be in the same classes with him, and, as likely as not, with
the same result. In the meantime, they were both 'going
in ' f(n' the First B. A. ; he had no fear of failure, but it
might easily happen that Chilvers would achieve higher
I distinction. With an eye to awards that might be won —
I substantial cash-annuities — he was reading for Honours ;
but it seemed doubtful whether he could present himself,
I as the second examination was held only in London.
I Chilvers would of course be an Honours candidate. He
( would smile — confound him ! — at an objection on the score
I of the necessary journey to London. Better to refrain
altogether than again to see Chilvers come out ahead.
General surprise would naturally be exciteil, ([uestions
asked on all hands. How would it sound: 'I simply
couldn't aftbrd to go u]) ' ?
At this point of tlie meditation he had reached his
lodgings; he admitted himself with a latch-key, turned
into his murky sitting-room, and sat down.
The table was laid tor tea, as usual. Though he might
have gone to Twybridge this evening, he had preferred to
56 BORN IN EXILE
stxay overnight, for an odd reason. At a theatre in Khigs-
niill a London company, headed by an actress of some
distinction, was to perform ' Romeo and Juliet,' and he
purposed granting himself this indulgence before leaving
tlie town. The plan was made when his eye fell upon the
advertisement, a few days ago. He then believed it probable
that an evening at the theatre would appropriately follow
upon a day of victory. His interest in the performance
had collapsed, but he did not care to alter his arrangements.
The landlady came in bearing the tea-pot. He wanted
nothing, yet could not exert himself to say so.
But he was losing sight of a menace more formidable
than defeat by Chilvers. What was it his blackguard
uncle had said ? Had the fellow really threatened to
start an eating-house opposite the College, and flare his
name upon a placard ? ' Peak's Dining and Eefreshment
Eooms ' — merciful heavens !
Again the mood of laughter came upon him. Why,
here was a solution of all difficulties, as simple as unantici-
pated. If indeed that awful thing came to pass, farewell
to Whitelaw ! What possibility of pursuing his studies
when every class-companion, every Professor, — nay, the
very porters, — had become aware that he was nephew to
the man who supplied meals over the way ? Moral philo-
sophy had no prophylactic against an ordeal such as tins,
Could the most insignificant lad attending lectures afford
to disregard such an occasion of ridicule and contempt ?
But the scheme would not be realised ; it sounded toe
unlikely. Andrew Peak was merely a loose-minded vaga-
bond, who might talk of this and that project for making
money, but would certainly never quit his dirty haunts in
London. Godwin asked himself angrily why he had sub-
mitted to the fellow's companionship. This absurd delicac}'
must be corrected before it became his tyrant. The ide?
of scrupling to hurt the sensibilities of Andrew Peak
The man was coarse-hided enough to undergo kicking, anc
then take sixpence in compensation, — not a doubt of it
This detestable tie of kindred must no longer be recog-
nised. He would speak gravely to his mother about it. I'
Andrew again presented himself at the house he shoulCj
BORN IN EXILE 57
be given plainly to nnderstand tliat his visits were sonie-
tliing less than welcome, — if necessary, a downiif^ht blnnt
word must eflect their liberation. Godwin felt stronj^
enou«,di for that, musing here alone. And, student-like, he
passed on to debate tlie theory of the proldem. Andrew
1 was his father's brother, but what is a mere tie of blood if
! nature has alienated two persons by a subtler distinction ?
I By the dead man, Andrew had never been loved or
I esteemed; memory supplied proof of this. The widow
'; shrank from him. No obligation of any kind lay upon
: them to tolerate the London rnffian. — Enough ; he should
be got rid of !
Alternating his causes of misery, which — he could not
quite forget: — might blend for the sudden transformation
of his life, Godwin let the tea grow cold upon the table,
until it was time, if he still meant to visit the theatre, for
setting forth. He had no mind to go, but as little to sit
here and indulge harassing reflection. With an effort, he
made ready and left the house.
Tlie cost of his seat at the theatre was two shillings.
So nicely had he adjusted the expenses of these last days
that, after paying the landlady's bill to-morrow morning,
there would remain to him but a few pence more than the
money needed for his journey home. Walking into the
town, he debated wdth himself whether it were not better
to save this florin. But as he approached the pit door,
the spirit of pleasure revived in him ; he had seen but one
of Shakespeare's plays, and he believed (naturally at his
age) that to see a drama acted was necessary for its full
appreciation. Sidling with affected indifference, he added
himself to the crowd.
To stand thus, expectant of the opening doors, troubled
him with a sense of shame. To be sure, he was in the
spiritual company of Charles Lamb, and of many another
man of brains who has waited under the lamp. But contact
with the pittites of Kingsmill offended his instincts; he
resented tliis appearance r)f inferiority to people who came
at tlieir leisure, and took seats in the better parts of the
house. When a neighbour addressed him with a meaning-
less joke which defied grammar, he tried to grin a friendly
58 BORX IX EXILE
answer, but inwardly shrank. The events of the day had
increased his sensibility to such impressions. Had he
triumplied over Bruno Chilvers, he could have l)ehaved
this evenhig with a larger Imnianity.
The fight for entrance — honest British stupidity, crush-
ing ribs and rending garments in preference to seemly
order of progress — enlivened him somewhat, and sent him
laughing to his conquered place ; but before the curtain
rose he was again depressed by the sight of a familiar
figure in the stalls, a fellow-student wlio sat there with
mother and sister, black-uniformed, looking very much a
gentleman. ' I, of course, am not a gentleman,' he said to
himself, gloomily. Was there any chance that he might
some day take his ease in that orthodox fashion ? Inas-
much as it was conventionality, he scorned it ; but the
privileges which it represented had strong control of his
imagination. That lady and her daughter would follow
the play with intelligence. To exchange comments with
them would be a keen delight. As for him — he had a
shop-boy on one liand and a grocer's wife on the other.
By the end he had fallen into fatigue. Amid clamour
of easily-won applause he made his way into the street,
to find himself in a heavy downpour of rain. Having no
umbrella, he looked about for a sheltered station, and the
glare of a neighbouring public-house caught his eye ; he
was thirsty, and might as well refresh body and spirit with
a glass of beer, an unwonted indulgence which had the
pleasant semblance of dissipation. Arrived at the bar he
came upon two acquaintances, who, to judge by their,
flushed cheeks and excited voices, had been celebrating
jovially the close of their academic labours. They hailed
him.
' Hollo, Peak ! Come and help us to get sober before
bedtime ! '
They were not exactly studious youths, but neither die
they belong to the class that Godwin despised, and he hac
a comrade-like feeling for them. In a few minutes hif
demeanour was wdiolly changed. A glass of hot whisk}
acted promptly upon his nervous system, enabled him t('
forget vexations, and attuned him to kindred sprightliness
BORN IX EXILE HO
He entered merrily into the talk of a time of lite which is
intiej)endent of morality — talk distinct from tliat of the
Idaek^'uard, hut C(|ually so from that of the retlectivc man.
His first glass had several successors. Tlie trio ramhled
arm in arm from one ]dace of refreshment to anothei", and
])resenlly sat down in Iiearty fellowshi}) to a snjjper of sueli
viands as recommend themselves at bihulous midniL,dit.
Teak was drawing recklessly upon the few coins that
remained to him ; he must leave his landlady's claim
undischarged, and send the money from home. Prudence
he hanged ! If one cannot taste amusement once in a
twelvemonth, why live at all ?
He reached his lodgings, at something after one o'clock,
drenched with rain, gloriously indifferent to that and all
other chances of life. Pooh ! his system had been radically
wrong. He should have allowed himself recreation once a
week or so ; he would have been all the better for it, body
and mind. Books and tliat kind of thing are all very
well in their way, but one must live ; he had wasted too
much of his youth in solitude. mild prccteritos rcfcrat
si Jupiter amws ! Next session he would arrange things
better. Success in examinations — what trivial fuss when
one looked at it from the riglit point of view ! And he
had fretted himself into misery, because Chilvers had got
more ' marks,' — ha, ha, ha !
The morrow's wakingj was lufjubrious enough. Headache
and nausea weighed upon him. Worse still, a scrutiny of
his pockets showed that he had only the shamefaced change
of half-a-crown wherewith to transport himself and his
belongings to Twybridge. Now, the railway fare alone was
three shillings ; the needful cab demanded eighteenpence.
idiot !
And he hated the thought of leaving his bill unpaid ; the
more so because it was a trifling sum, a week's settlement.
To put himself under however brief an obligation to a
woman such as the landlady gnawed at his ])ride. Not
that only. He had no Ijusiness to make a demand upon his
mother for this additional sum. But there was no way
of raising the money ; no one of whom he could Ijorrow
it ; nothing he could afford to sell — even if courage had
60 BORN IN EXILE
supported liim through such a trausaction. Triple
idiot !
Bread turned to bran upon his hot palate ; lie could only
swallow cups of coffee. With trembling hands he finished
the packing of his box and portmanteau, then braced
himself to the dreaded interview. Of course, it involved
no difficulty, the words once uttered ; but, when he was
left alone again, he paced the room for a few minutes in
flush of mortification. It had made his headache worse.
The mode of his homeward journey he had easily
arranged. His baggage having been labelled for Twy-
bridge, he himself would book as far as his money allowed,
then proceed on foot for the remaining distance. With
the elevenpence now in his pocket he could purchase a
ticket to a little town called Dent, and by a calculation
from the railway tariff he concluded that from Dent to
Twybridge was some five-and-t^venty miles. Well and good.
At the rate of four miles an hour it w^ould take him from
half-past eleven to about six o'clock. He could certainly
reach home in time for supper.
At Dent station, ashamed to ask (like a tramp) the way
to so remote a place as Twybridge, he jotted down a list
of intervening railway stoppages, and thus was enabled to
support the semblance of one who strolls on for his pleasure.
A small hand-bag he was obliged to carry, and the clouded
sky made his umbrella a requisite. On he trudged steadily,
for the most part by muddy ways, now through a pleasant
village, now in rural solitude. He had had the precaution,
at breakfast time, to store some pieces of bread in his
pocket, and after two or three hours this resource was
welcome. Happily the air and exercise helped him to get
rid of his headache. A burst of sunshine in the afternoon
would have made him reasonably cheerful, but for the
wretched meditations surviving from yesterday.
He pondered frequently on his spasmodic debauch,
repeating, as well as memory permitted, nil his absurdities
of speech and action. Defiant self-justification was now
far to seek. On the other hand, he perceived very
clearly how easy it w^ould be for him to lapse by degrees
of weakened will into a ruinous dissoluteness. Anything
HORN IX KXII.K 01
of thai kind would mean, of course, tlie al)andonniL'UL ul"
his ambitions. All he kad lu ^igli47 Ute woi-kl with was his
braiu; and only by incessant strenuousness in its exercise
"Eadlie achieved the moderate prominence declared in
yesterday's ceremony. By birth, by station, he was of no
account; if he chose to sink, no influential voice W(»uld
deplore his falling off or remind him of what he owed to
himself. Chilvers, now — what a wide-spreading outcry,
what calling upon gods and men, would be excited by any
defection of that brilliant youth ! Godwin Peak must
make his ow'n career, and that he would hardly do save l)y
efforts greater than the ordinary man can put foith. The
ordinary man ? — Was he in any respect extraordinary ?
were his powers notew^orthy ? It was the first time that
he had deliberately posed this question to himself, and for
answer came a rush of confident blood, pulsing through all
the mechanism of his being.
*~'Tlie train of thought which occu])ied him during this
long trudge was to remain fixed in his memory ; in any
survey of the years of pupilage this recollection would
stand prominently forth, associated, moreover, with one
slight incident which at the time seemed a mere inter-
ruption of his musing. From a point on the high-road he
observed a small quarry, so excavated as to present an
interesting section ; though weary, he could not but turn
aside to examine these strata. He knew enough of the
geology of the county to recognise the rocks and retlect
with understanding upon their position ; a fragment in his
hand, he sat down to rest for a moment. Then a strange
fit of brooding came over him. Escaping from the inlluencer
of personality, his imagination wrought back through eras
of geologic time, held him in a vision of the infinitely
remote, shrivelled into insignificance all but the one fact
of inconceivable duration. Often as he had lost himself in
such reveries, never yet had he passed so wholly under the
dominion of that awe which attends a sudden triumph of
the pure intellect. When at length he rose, it was with
wide, l)lank eyes, and liml)S partly lunnbed. These needed
half-an-hour's walking before he could recover his mood of
practical self-search.
62 BOEN IN EXILE
Until tlie last iiioinent he could not decide whether to
let his mother know how he had reached Twybridge. His
arrival corresponded pretty well with that of a train by
which he might have come. But when the door opened
to him, and the familiar faces smiled their welcome, he
felt that he must have nothing to do with paltry deceit ;
he told of liis walk, ex])laining it by the siuiple fact that
this morning he had found himself siiort of money. How
that came to pass, no one inquired. Mrs. Peak, shocked
at such martyrdom, tended him witli all motherly care ;
for once, Godwin felt that it was good to have a home,
however simple.
This amial)le frame of muid was not likely to last
beyond the lirst day. Matter of irritation soon enough
offered itself, as was invariably the case at Twybridge.
It was pleasant enough to be feted as the hero of the
family, to pull out a Kingsmill newspaper and exhibit the
full report of prize-day at Whitelaw, with his own name,
in very small type, demanding the world's attention, and
finally to exhibit the volumes in tree-calf which his Iriend
the librarian had forwarded to him. But domestic circum-
stances soon made assault upon his nerves, and trial of
his brief patience.
First of all, there came an unex})ected disclosure. His
sister Charlotte liad affianced herself to a young man of
Twybridge, one Mr. Cusse, whose prospects were as slender
as his present means. Mrs. Peak spoke of the affair in
hushed privacy, with shaking of tlie head and frequent
sighs, for to her mind Mr. Cusse had few even personal
recommendations. He was a draper's assistant. Charlotte
liad made his acquaintance on occasions of church festivity,
and urged the fact of his zeal in .Sunday-school tuition as
sutHcient rei)]y to all doubts. As he listened, Godwin bit
his lips.
' Does he come here, then ? ' was his in(iuiry.
* Once or twice a week. I haven't felt able to say any-
thing against it, Godwin. I suppose it will be a very long
engagement.'
Charlotte was just twenty-two, and it seemed probable
that she knew her own mind ; in any case, she was of a
BORN IX KXTLK 63
character whicli would only l)c driven to obstiiiacv l»y
adverse criticism. Godwin learnt that liis aunt Kniily
(Miss Cadnian) regarded this connection with serious
disapproval. Herself a shopkeeper, she might have heen
expected to show indulgence to a draper's assistant, hut, so
far from this, her view of My. Cusse was severely scornful.
Slie had nourished far other hopes for Charlotte, who
surely at her age'(i^Iiss Cadman looked from the eminence
of five-and-forty) should have been less precipitate. No
undue harshness had been exhibited by her relatives, but
Charlotte took a stand which sufhciently declared her
kindred -with Godwin. She held her head higher than
formerly, spoke with habitual decision which bordered on
snappishness, and at times displayed the absent-mindedness
of one who in silence suffers wrong.
There passed but a day or two before Godwin was
brouglit face to face with Mt. Cusse, who answered too
well to the idea Charlotte's brother had formed of him.
He had a very smooth and shiny forehead, crowned by
sleek chestnut hair ; his chin w\as deferential ; the bend
of his body signified a modest hope that he did his duty
in the station to which Providence had summoned him.
Godwin he sought to flatter with looks of admiring interest ;
also, by entering upon a conversation which was meant to
prove that he did not altogether lack worldly knowledge,
of however little moment that might be in comparison
with spiritual concerns. Examining, volume by volume
and with painful minuteness, the prizes Godwin had
carried off, he remarked fervently, in each instance, ' I
can see how very interesting that is 1 So thorough, so
thorough !' Even Charlotte was at length annoyed, when
Mr. Cusse liad exclaimed upon the 'thoroughness' of Wmi
Jouson's works ; she asked an abrupt question about some
town affair, and so gave her brother an opportunity of
taking the books away. There was no flagrant ollence in
the man. lie spoke, with passable_ accent, and manifested
a high degite ol amialiility ; but one could not dissociate
him from the counter. At the thought that his sister
might become Mrs. Cusse, Godwin ground his teeth. Now
that he came to reflect on the subject, he found in himself
64 BORN IN EXILE
a sort of unreasoned supposition that Charlotte would
always remain single; it seemed so unlikely that she
would be sought by a man of liberal standing, and at the
same time so impossible for her to accept any one less
than a gentleman. Yet he remembered that to outsiders
such fastidiousness must show in a ridiculous light. What
claim to gentility had they, the Peaks ? . Was it not all a
figment of his own self-conceit ? Even in education
Cliarlotte could barely assert a superiority to Mr. Cnsse,
for her formal schooling had ended when she was twelve,
and she had never cared to read Ijeyond the strait track of
clerical inspiration.
There were other circumstances which helped to depress
his estimate of the family dignity. His brother Oliver,
now seventeen, was developing into a type of young man
as objectionable as it is easily recognised. The slow, com-
pliant boy had grown more llesh and muscle than once
seemed likely, and his wits had begun to display that kind
of vivaciousness which is only compatible with a nature
moulded in common clay. He saw much company, and all
of low intellectual order ; he had purchased a bicycle, and
regarded it as a source of distinction, a means of displaying
himself before shopkeepers' daughters ; he believed him-
self a modest tenor, and sang verses of sentimental
imbecility ; he took in several weekly papers of un-
promising title, for the chief purpose of deciphering crypto-
grams, in which pursuit he had singular success. Add to
these characteristics a penchant for cheap jewellery, and
Oliver Peak stands confessed.
It appeared to Godwin that his brother had leapt in a
few months to these heights of yulgar accomplishment ;
each separate revelation struck unexpectedly upon his
nerves and severely tried his temper. When at length
Oliver, waiting for supper, began to dance grotesquely to
an air which local talent had somehow caught from the
London music-halls, Godwin's self-control gave way.
' Is it your ambition,' he asked, with fiery sarcasm, ' to
join a troupe of nigger iniiistrels ?'
Oliver was startled into the military posture of attention.
He answered, with some embarrassment :
BOJiN IN KXILH 65
' 1 can't say it is.'
'Yet anyone would suppose so,' went on ( Jodwin, liotly.
♦Though you are employed in a shop, 1 should liave
thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.'
Indisposed to quarrel, and possessed of small skill in
verbal fence, (Oliver drew aside witli shadowed l)row. As
the l)rothers slill had to share one bedroom, they were
presently alone together, and their muteness, as they lay
down to sleep, showed the estrangement that had at lengtli
come between them. When all had been dark and still
for half-an-hour, (lodwin spoke.
' Are you awake ? '
' Yes.'
♦There was something about Uncle Andrew I didn't
mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just
opposite Whitelaw.'
'Oh.'
The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity.
' Vou don't see any reason why he shouldn't ? '
Oliver delayed a little before replying.
' I sui)pose it wouldn't be very nice for you.'
' That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean
that I should have to leave the College, and give up all
my hopes.'
' I see,' returned the other, with slow apprehension.
There followed several minutes of silence. Then
Godwin sat up in bed, as had always l)een his wont when
he talked with earnestness at night.
' If you think I lost my temper without cause at supper-
time, just remember that I had that blackguard before my
mind, and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking
after that branch of our family.'
* Do you mean to say I am like uncle ? '
' T mean to say that, if you are not careful, you won't be
the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know
what is meant by inherited tendencies? Scientific men
are givnig a great deal of attention to such things nowa-
days. Children don't always take after their parents ;
very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grand-
father, or an uncle, or even more distant relatives. Just
5
60 BORX IX KXILK
think over this, and make up your mind to resist any
danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you
are getting into, and the people you make friends of, are
detestable. For heaven's sake, spend more of your time
in a rational way, and learn to despise the things that
shopkeepers admire. Read ! Force yourself to stick
Tiai'd at solid books for two or three hours every day. If
you don't, it's all up with you. I am speaking for your
own good. Read, read, read ! '
Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily
. in his bed, and at length his protest became audible.
' I can't see what harm I do.'
' Xo ! ' burst from his brother's lips, scornfully. * And
that's just your danger. Do you suppose / could sing
nigger songs, and run about the town with shopboys, and
waste hours over idiotic puzzles ? '
' We're not all alike, and it wouldn't do for us to be.'
' It would do ^'ery well for us all to have brains and to
use them. The life you lead is a brainless life, brainless
and vulgar.'
' Well, if I liaven't got brains, I can't help it,' replied
Oliver, with sullen resignation.
' You have enough to teach you to live respectably, if
only you look to the right kind of example.'
There followed a vehement exhortation, now angry, now
in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only
a few brief and muttered replies ; when it was all over, he
fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours.
The next morning he attempted to work for his
approaching examination, but with small result. It had
begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go
up ' at all, and tliis uncertainty involved so great a change
in all his prospects that he could not connnand the mental
calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with
unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with
j\Ir. Gunnery, but the old people were just now on a stay
with relatives in Bedfordshire, and their return might be
delayed for anotlier week. Perhaps it behoved him to go
and see Mr. Moxey, but he was indisposed to visit the
works, and if he went to tlic house tliis evening he would
Bor.N IN KXILK OT
encuiintLT the live d;iiigliLeis, who, like all wuiiu-ji who diil
not inspire him with adiniratiun, excited his bashful dislike.
At len^L,4h he struck off into the country and indul<4ed rest-
less thou,L,dits in places where no one could observe him.
A result of the family's removal first from London to
the farm, and then into T\vyl)rid<^e, was that Godwin had
no friends of old standing. At Greenwich, Nicholas Peak
formed no intimacies, nor did a single associate remain to
him from the years of his growth and struggle ; his wife,
until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at
Twybridge, had no society whatever beyond her home. A
boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of
men and women who have watched his growth from
infancy; in general it affects him as a steadying influence,
keeping before his mind the social Ijonds to which his
behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom
Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was ]\Ir.
Gunnery, but the geologist found no favour witb Mrs.
Teak, and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap
between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the
intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friend-
ships for the years to come ; his Twybridge class-fellows
no longer interested him, nor did they care to continue
his acipiaintance. One was articled to a solicitor; one
was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop ; another
liad begun to deal in corn ; the rest were scattered about
England, as students or salary-earners. The dominion of-
the comnioii^ilacc liad alisorbed them, all and sundry;
fliey were the stulf which destiny uses for its every-day
purposes, to keep the world a-rolling.
So that G(jdwin had no ties whicli bound him strongly to
any district. He could not call himself a Londoner ; for,
though born in Westminster, he had grown to consciousness
on the outskirts of Greenwich, and remembered but dimly
some of the London streets, and a few ])laces of public
interest to which his father had taken him. Yet, as a matter
of course, it was to London that his andjition pointed,
when he forecast the future. Wliere else could he hope foi-
opportunity of notable advancement ? At Twybridge ?
Impossible to find more than means of subsistence ; his soul
68 BORN IN EXILE
loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill ? There was a
slender hope that he might establish a connection with
Whitelaw College, if he devoted himself to laboratory
work ; but wliat could come of that — at all events for
many years ? L(jndon, then ? The only acceptable plan
for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil
Service competition. That, indeed, seemed the most
hopeful direction for his efforts ; a government office might
afford liim scope, and, he had heard, would allow him
abundant leisure.
Or to go abroad ? To enter for the Indian clerkships,
and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in
England ? There was allurement in the suggestion ;
travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he
would be safely severed from the liumble origin which in
his native country might long be an annoyance, or even an
obstacle ; no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient
moments in the middle of his path. Yes ; this indeed
might be best of all. He must send for papers, and give
attention to the matter.
Musing in this way, he had come within sight of the
familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which
Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner ;
why not interrupt his walk, and liave a word with him ?
That duty would l»e over.
He pushed on, and, as he approached the l)uildings, was
aware of Mr. INIoxey stepping into the road, unaccom-
panied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer,
wlio was growing stout in his mellow years and looking
more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him, beamed
with smiles of approbation.
' Glad to see you ; glad to see you ! I have heard of
your doings at College.'
Nothing to l)oast of, Mr. Moxey.'
* Why, what would satisfy you ? A nephew of mine
was there last Friday, and tells me you carried off half a
hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes, I see.'
There drew near a young man of about four-and- twenty,
well-dressed, sauntering with a cane in his hand. His
name was Christian Moxey.
BOKX IX KXILK GU
'Much pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Teak,' he sai«l, with
a winning smile. ' I was at Whitelaw tlie other day,
when you distinguislied yourself, and if I had known then
that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should
have been tempted to otier a word of congratulation. \'ery
glad indeed to meet you.'
(lodwin, grateful as always for the show of kindness and
iiattered l)y such a reception, at once felt a liking fui
Christian Moxey. ]\Iost people would have admitted the
young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow
face, and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talk-
ing he leant upon his cane, and his movements weie
languid ; none the less, his person was distinguished by an
air of graceful manhood. His features, separately con-
sidered, were ordinary enough ; together they made a
countenance of peculiar charm, vividly illumined, full of
appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capa-
bilities. The interest he excited in l*eak a])peared to
be reciprocal, for his eyes dwelt as often and as long
as possible on Godwin's features.
' Come along, and have something to eat with us,' said
Mr. Moxey, in a tone of genial invitation. ' I daresay you
had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new
appetite.'
Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys
and of a dinner table, such as he was not used to sit at;
he wished to decline, yet knew not how U) do so with
civility.
•Yes, yes; come along!' added his friend, heartily.
' Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any
posers this time ? ]\Iy nephew won't l)e out of it ; he
belongs to the firm of Bates lirothers — the Itotherhithe
people, you know.'
This information was a surprise to (Jodwin. He had
imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large, or
at all events connected with some liberal ])rofession.
Glancing at the attractive face, he met a singular look, a
smile wliicli sufruested va^nie doul>ts. But Christian made
no remark, and IMr. ]\Ioxey renewed his in<|Uiries about
the examination in cliemistrv.
70 BOKN IN EXILK
The five (liiughters — all asseinbled in a homely sitting-
room — were nothing less than formidable. Plain, soft-
spoken, not ill educated, they seemed to live in perfect
harmony, and to derive satisfaction from pursuits inde-
])endent of external society. In the town they were seldom
seen ; few families called upon them ; and only the most
inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their
retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of
them was sought in marriage. Godwin, superfluously
troubled about his attire, met them with grim endeavour
at politeness ; their gravity, a result of shyness, he nus-
interpreted, supposing them to hold aloof from a young
man who had been in their father's employ. But before
he could suffer much from the necessity of ibrmal conver-
sation the door opened to admit yet another young lady,
a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen,
l)ut she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially
connected with that time of life in girls ; her pale and
freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve, intensified as
soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight
but well-proportioned figure, and a mass of auburn hair
carelessly arranged.
' My sister,' said Christian, glancing at Godwin.
' Marcella, you recognise Mr. Peak.'
' 01) yes,' the girl replied, as she came forward, and made
a sudden offer of her hand.
She too had been present the other day at AVhitelaw.
Her ' Oh yes ' sounded offensive to Godwin, yet in shaking,
hands with her he felt a warm pressure, and it flattered
him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him
from time to time with furtive intei'est. Presently he
learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short
visit at the house of their relatives ; their home was in
London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window,
and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than
to the talk which went on, until dinner was announced.
Speculating on all he saw, Godwin noticed that Christian
Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of
his cousins, a girl of eighteen, whose plain features w^ere
frecpiently brightened with a happy and very pleasant
BOKN IX KXILK 71
smile. AVlieii hv adiln'ssrd licr (hy the naiiiu of .laiirt)
his voice had a jdayful kiiidiiL'Ss which must have been
significant to everyone mIio heard it. At dinner, his place
was by her side, and he attended to her with more than
courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it inciedil)le
that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so
far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with tliou^lit of
sexual attachments, he had never imagined anythini; of
the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen
object ; his instincts were, in tact, revolted by the idea of
love for such a person as Janet ^loxey. Christian seemed
to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to
solve the mystery, (Jodwin grew half unconscious of the
otlier peoitle about him.
Such play of the imnginative and speculative faculties
accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young
men in society that is strange to them. Only the culti-
vation of a double consciousness puts them finally at
ease. Impossil;)le to converse with suavity, and to heed
the forms of ordinary good-breeding, when the l)rain is
absorbed in all manner of new problems : one must learn to
act a part, to control the facial mechanisni, to observe and
anticipate, even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere
energv on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man
will always be he who has no strong apprehension either
of his own personality or of that of others, wlio lives on the
surface of things, wlio can l»e interested without emotion,
and surpri.sed without contemplative impulse. Never yet
had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening
to, or made a remark that declared his mental powers, save
in most familiar colloquy. He Avas beginning to uiuler-
stand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness, but
this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to
improvement.
When he found himself ol)liged to take part in conver-
sation about Whitelaw College, Godwin was disturbed by
an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest
during the past two years; — was it, or was it not, generally
known to his Twybridge ac(iuaintan('es that he studied
as the i)ensioner of Sir rlob Whitelaw? To outward
72 BORX IN EXILE
seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of
Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic
session ]\Irs. Peak had privately received a cheque which
represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son
was pursuing ; payment was then made to the registrar
as if from Peak himself. Put Lady AYhitelaw's sisters were
in the secret, and was it likely that they maintained
absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends ?
There seemed, in the first instance, to be a tacit under-
standing that the whole affair should remain strictly private,
and to GJodwin himself, sensible enough of such refinements,
it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been
strictly preserved. He found no difticulty in imagining
that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of wdiat the
left performed, and it might be that the authorities of
Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still, he
was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded
him as a sort of cliarity-boy, and Twyljridge possibly saw
him in tlie same light. The doubt Hashed upon his mind
wdiile he was trying to eat and converse with becoming
self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and
silently cursed the burden of his servitude.
When the meal was over, Mr. Moxey led the way out
into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet;
Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest
Miss Moxey, talking of he knew not what. In a short
half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of
leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had
disappeared, so that the awkwardness of departure was
reduced. Christian, who seemed to be in a very con-
tented mood, accompanied the guest as far as the garden
gate.
' What will be your special line of work when you leave
Whitelaw ?' he inquired. ' Your tastes seem about equally
di\ided l^etween science and literature.'
' I haven't the least idea what I shall do,' was Peak's
reply.
* Yerj much my own state of mind when I came home
from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for
granted tliat T was preparing for business, so into Inisiness
150KX IN KXII.K 7.*'»
1 went.' lie lauL^heil goocl-liuiiKtuiudly. ' iVihajts you
will Ite drawn to Londcjn { '
* Ves — I think it likely,' CJodwin answered, with an
aiisent gkance this way and that.
'In any case,' pursued the other, 'you'll he there
presently for First RA. Honours. Try to look in at my
rooms, will you ? 1 should be delighted to see y«»u. M(jst
of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Kotherhithe,
hut I get home ahout live o'clock, as a ride. Let me give
you a card.'
' Thank you.'
' 1 daresay we shall meet somewhere al)0ut here Itefore
then. Of course you are reading hard, and haven't much
leisure. I'm an idle dog, unfortunately. I should like to
work, but 1 don't quite know what at. 1 suppose this is
a transition time with me.'
Godwin tried to, discover the implication of this
remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey ?
Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence. Christian looked
about with a peculiar smile, and seemed on the point of
indulging in further self-revelation; but Godwin of a
sudden held out his hand for good-bye, and with friendly
smiles tliey parted.
Peak was older than his years, and he saw in Christian
one who might prove a very congenial associate, did but
circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not
very likely to happen, but the meeting at all events
turned his thoughts to London once more.
His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. Lor one
thing, the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw <*xamina-
tions had wearied him ; it was characteristic of the
educational system in which he had become involved
that studious eilbrt should be called for immediately after
that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to
have been ' sweating ' at his London subjects. Instead of
that, he procured works of general literature from a
Twybridge library, and shut himself up with them in the
garret bedroom.
A letter from ]\[r. Gunnery informed him lliat the
writer would be home in a day or two. This return took
74 Burn in exilk
place late one evening, and on the morrow Godwin set
forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house, he learnt
that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident whicli
tlireatened serious results. Walking Ijarefoot in his bed-
room the night before, lie had stepped upon the point of
a large nail, and was now prostrate, enduring much pain.
Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted; he
then found the old man a mere sliadow of his familiar
self — bloodless, hollow-eyed.
' This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to
play upon us ! ' the sufferer growled in a harsh, quaking
voice, his countenance divided between genial welcome
and surly wrath. ' It'll be the end of me. Pooh ! who
doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age ?
Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather
have broken my neck anlong honest lumps of old red
sandstone. A nail ! A damned Brummagem nail ! —
So you collared the first prize in geology, eh ? T take
that as a kindness, Godwin. You've got a bit beyond
Figuier and his Deluge, eh ? His Deluge, bah ! '
And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the
bed sat Mrs. Gunnery, grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken
into the last stage of senility by this alarm, she wiped
tears from her flaccid cheeks, and moaned a few unin-
telligible words.
The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified.
Another day bereft him of consciousness, and when, for a
short while, he had rambled among memories of his youth,
tlie end came. It was found that he had made a will,
Ijequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to
Godwin Peak ; his books were to be sold for the benefit
of the widow, who would enjoy an annuity purchased
out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman, as
it proved, had little need of income; on the thirteenth
day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral, she too was borne forth
from tlie house, and the faithful couple slept together.
To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience
to Godwin. At the present stage of his development,
every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon
the quest of reasons, symbolisms, principles; the 'natural^
BOliX IN KX1J,K 75
siiiJiUiuiluiur hud liuld upon him, and iuRmI liis lh«)U<,'lit
whenever it was free from tlie spur of armi^'ant instinct.
This tendency had been streni:lhened l)y tlie inihience nf
his friend Earwaker, a young man of singuhirly comjth'X
i personality, positive and analytic in a far higher degree
! than Peak, yet with a vein of imaginative vigour
which seemed to befit quite a difl'erent order of mind.
(|od\vin was not distinguished by originality in thinking,
but his strongly featured character converted to uses of
his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught
, from others. Karwaker's habit of reflection had nuich to
i do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when
I he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which
I liad been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty yeais.
Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict nf
metaphysical cpiestionings.
Days went on, and nothing was heard of Uncle .Vndrew.
Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been need-
lessly terrified ; the eating-house project would never be
carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety, he
! brooded over his defeat by Chilvers, and thought with
; extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at
I Whitelaw^ probably a year of humiliation. In the mean-
1 time, should he or should he not present himself for his
j First B.A. ? The five pound fee would be a most serious
j demand upon his mother's resources, and did the profit
I warrant it, was it really of importance to him to take
a degree ?
He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding
the society of his relatives, save at meal times. A
careless remark (not intentionally offensive) with
reference to Mr. Cusse had so affronted Charlotte that
she never spoke to him save in reply to a ([uestion.
Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not
bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion
I would inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning
I the draper's assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven
I his brother's reproaches, but no longer ]>ehaved with
I freedom when (Jodwin was present. For all this, the
1 elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and
76 BOKX IN EXILE
heard; and at length — on a memorable Saturday after-
noon — debate revived between them. Oliver, as his
custom was, had attired himself sprucely for a visit
to acquaintances, and a silk hat of the very newest
fashion lay together with liis gloves upon the table.
' What is this thing ? ' inquired Godwin, with ominous
calm, as he pointed to the piece of head-gear.
* A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother.
' You mean to say you are going to wear that in the
street ? '
' And why not ? '
Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the
table-cloth indignantly.
' Can't you feel,' burst from the other, ' that it's a
disgrace to buy and wear such a thing ? '
' Disgrace ! what's the matter with the hat ? It's the
fashionable sliape.'
Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously
away. But Oliver had l)een touched in a sensitive place ;
he was eager to defend himself.
' 1 can't see what you're finding fault with,' he
exclaimed. ' Everybody wears this shape.'
' And isn't that quite sufficient reason wliy anyone who
respects himself should choose something as different as
possible ? Everybody ! That is to say, all the fools in
the kingdom. It's bad enough to follow when you can't
help it, but to imitate asses gratuitously is the lowest
deptli of degradation. Don't you know that that is the
meaning of vulgarity ? How you can offer such an
excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self^
Are you made, like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred
thousand others ? '
' You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently.
' I am content to be like other people.'
' And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if 1
felt any risk of such contentment ! Like other people ?
Heaven forbid and forfend ! Like other people ? Oh,
what a noble ambition ! '
The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from
an adjacent room.
lioUN IN KXILK 77
'(Jodwinl (Jodwiii!' she reiiioiistrated. ' Wliatever is
it ? Why shniikl you put yourself out so ? '
She was a short and slender wouian, with an air uf
Ijentility, independent of lier hadly nwuki and loni^' worn
widow's dress. Self-possession niarlved her manner, and
the even tones in which she spoke j^^ave indication of a
mild, perhaps an unemotional, temperament.
( )liver hegan to represent his grievance.
' Wliat harm is there, if I choose to wear a liat that's in
fashion ^ I pay for it out of my own '
i>ut he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at tlie
front door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned
with a startled look. Godwin, dreading contact with
friends of the family, strode upstairs. When tlie door
was opened, there appeared the smiling countenance of
Andrew Peak ; he wore the costume of a traveller, and by
his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son.
* Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow
drew back. ' I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seein'
me again l)efore so very long. (Jodwin at 'ome with you,
I s'ptjse i Thet you, Xoll ? 'Ow do, my l)o-oy ? 'Kre's
yer cousin Jow^ey. SI like 'ands, rfowey bo-oy ! Sorry I
couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace ; she
.sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte ? Bloomin*,
I 'ope ? '
He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging
the youngster after him. Having deposited his handl>ag
and undjrella on the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-
chair, and began to blow his nose with vigour.
' Set down, Jowey : set down, bo-oy ! Down't Ite abide
of your awnt.'
' Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which
supported his assertion.
Mrs. Peak trendded with annoyance and indecision.
Andrew evidently meant to stay for some time, and she
could not bring herself to treat him with plain dis-
courtesy ; but she saw that Oliver, after sliaking hands
in a very strained way, had abruptly left the room, and
Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his uncle.
When the name of her elder son was again mentioned
7«S BOKX IN EXILE
she withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and
went np to his room. Godwin had heard the liateful
voice, and was in profound disturbance.
* What does he say, mother ? ' he inquired anxiously.
' Anything about Kingsmill ? '
'Not yet. Oh, I do so wish we could bring this
connection to an end 1 '
It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her
sentiments so unreservedl3^
'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and
simply let him know the truth ? '
* I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very
likely be coarse and violent. I must try to show him by
my manner. Oliver has gone out, and when Charlotte
comes home I'll tell her to keep out of sight. He has
brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at all ?
I might say you are too busy.'
' No, no ; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come
down with you. I must hear what he has to say.'
They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared,
Andrew sprang up, and shouted joyfully :
' Well, Godwin, bo-oy ! It's all settled ! Got ^ the
bloomin' shop from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin'
and Eefreshment Ptooms ! " Jowey an' me was over there
all yisterday — wasn't us, Jowey ? Oh, it's immense ! '
Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot
choking clutch at his throat. He took his stand by the
mantelpiece, and began to turn a little glass ornament
round and round. Pate had spoken. On the instant, all
his College life was far behind him, all his uneasiness
regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no
more connection with Kingsmill.
Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-
law's proposed undertaking. She had spoken of it with
anxiety to Godwin, wlio merely shrugged his shoulders
and avoided the topic, ashamed to dwell on the particulars
of his shame. In hearing Andrew's announcement she
had much ado to repress tears of vexation; silently she
seated herself, and looked wdth pained countenance from
uncle to nephew.
BOKX IN KXILK 70
' Sliiill yuii make any chan^^es in tlic placed (loilwin
i asked, cart4essly.
•Shan't I, jest ! It'll take a month to relit them eaiin'
rooms. I'm agoin' to do it proper — up to Diek! and I
want your 'elp, my bo-oy. You an' me '11 jest write a ])it
i of a circular — see ? to send round to the bij,' pots of the
i Collige, an' all the parents of the young fellers as we can
1 get the addresses of — see ? '
I Even amid his pangs of mortitieation Godwin found
himself pondering an intellectual (juestion. Was his
uncle wholly unconscious of the misery he was causing '.
Had it never occurred to him that the i)ublic proximity
of an uneducated shopkeeping relative must be unwelcome
I to a lad who was distinguishing himself at Whitelaw
\ College ? Were that truly the case, then it would be
unjust to regard Andrew resentfully ; destiny alone was to
blame. And, after all, the man might l)e so absorl)ed in
his own interest, so strictly confined to the views of his
I own class, as never to have dreamt of the sensibilities he
wounded. In fact, the shame excited by this prospect
was artificial. Godwin had already felt that it was
unworthy alike of a philosopher and of a liigh-minded
man of the world. The doubt as to Andrew's state of
mind, and this moral problem, had a restraining effect
; upon the young man's temper. A practical person
I justifies himself in wrath as soon as liis judgment is
I at one with that of the multitude. CJodwin, thougli his
I passions were of exceptional force, must needs refine,
I debate witli hhnself points of abstract justice.
; ' I've been tellin' Jowey, Grace, as I 'ope he may tuin
;out such another as Godwin 'ere. 'E'll go to Collige, will
j Jowey. Godwin, jcist arst the bo-oy a question or two,
j will you ? 'K ain't l)een doin' bad at 'is school. Jest put
I'im through 'is pyces, as yer may sye. Stend uj), Jowey,
j bo-oy.'
I Godwin looked askance at his cousin, who stood with
j pert face, ready for any test.
I 'What's the date of William the Conqueror '. ' he asked,
mechanically,
j *0w;' shouted tlie youth. ' Down't mike me larll':
80 BORN IN EXILE
Zif I didn't know tliet ! Tensixsixteniglitysivn, of
course ! '
Tlie father turned round witli an expression of such
sincere pride that Clodwin, for all his loathing, was obliged
to smile.
* Jowey, jest sye a few verses of poitry ; them as you
learnt larst. 'E's good at poitry, is Jowey.'
The boy broke into fearsome recitation :
'The silly buckits on the deck
That 'ed so loiif^ rem'iued,
I dreamt as they was tilled with jew,
End when I awowk, it r'ined.'
-^ ^ I Half-a-dozen verses were thus massacred, and the
; reciter stopped with the sudden jerk of a machine.
' Goes str'ight on, don't 'e, Grace ? ' cried the father,
exultantly. 'Jowey ain't no fool. Know what he towld
me the other day 1 Somethin' as 1 never knew, and
shouldn't never 'ave thought of s'long as I lived. We was
talkin' about jewellery, an' Jowey, 'e pops up all at wunst.
" It's called jewellery," says 'e, " 'cos it's mostly the Jews as
sell it." Now, oo'd a thought o' that ? But you see it's
right as soon as you're towld, eh ? Now ain't it right,
Godwin ?'
' No doubt,' was the dry answer.
' It never struck me,' murnnired Mrs. I*eak, who took
her son's assent seriously, and felt that it was impossible
to preserve an obstinate silence.
' 'E ain't no fool, ain't Jowey ! ' cried the parent. * Wite
till 'e gits to Collige. Godwin '11 put us up to all the ins
and outs. Plenty o' time for that ; 'e'll often run over an'
'ev a bit o' dinner, and no need to talk about p'yment.'
' Do you stay in Twybridge to-night ? ' inquired Godwin,
who had changed in look and manner, so that he appeared
all but cheerful.
*No, we're on our w'y 'ome, is Jowey an' me. Jest
thought we'd break the journey 'ere. We shall ketch the
six-hfty hup.'
'Then you will have a cup of tea with us,' said Mrs.
Peak, surprised at Godwin's transformation', but seeing
that liospitality was now unavoidable.
noijx IX Kxiij-; 81
Cluulutte prt'seiitly entered the house, and, after a
private conversation with her mother, went tn ^reel
Andrew. If only to signify her e()nteni])t for (Jodwin's
prejudices, Charlotte would have hehaved civilly to the
London uncle. In the end, Andrew took his leave in the
friendliest possible way, repeating often that lie would
soon have the pleasure of entertaining Mrs. Peak and all
her family at his new dining-rooms over against Whitelaw
Colle-e.
IV
Immediately upon his uncle's departure, Godwin dis-
appeared; Mrs. Peak caught only a glimpse of him as
he went by the parlour window. In a short time Oliver
came home, and, having learned what had happened,
joined his mother and sister in a dull, intermittent con-
versation on the subject of Godwin's future dilhculties.
' He won't go back to Whitelaw,' declared the lad. ' He
said he wouldn't.'
' People nmst be above such false shame,' was Charlotte's
opinion. 'I can't see that it will make the slightest
difference in his position or his prospects.'
AVhereupon her mother's patience gave way.
' Don't talk such nonsense, Charlotte ! You under-
stand perfectly well how serious it will be. I never knew
anything so cruel.'
' I was never taught,' persisted the girl, with calm
obstinacy, ' that one ought to be ashamed of one's relatives
just because they are in a humble position.'
Oliver brought the tedious discussion to an end by
clamouring for supper. The table was laid, and all were
about to sit down when Godwin presented himself To the
oeneral astonislnnent, he seemed in excellent spirits, and
ate more heartily than usual. Not a word was spoken of
Uncle Andrew, until Mrs. Peak and her elder son were left
alone together ; then Godwin remarked in a tone of
satisfied decision :
' Of course, this is the end of my work at Whitelaw.
We must make new plans, mother.'
* P>ut how can we, dear ? What will Lady Whitelaw say ? '
BORN IX KXILK .S:)
'1 Imvt! In tliiiik it out yet. In a ilay or two 1 sliall
very likely write a letter to Liidy Whitelaw. There's no
need, you know, to go talking al)0ut this in Twyliridge.
Just leave it to nie, will you ( '
* It's not a subject 1 eare to talk about, you may l)e
sure. But I do hope you won't do anything rash,
Godwin.'
'Not J. To tell you the truth, I'm not at all sorry to
leave. It was a mistake that I went in for tlie Arts
course — Greek, and Latin, and so on, you know ; I ought
to have stuck to science. I shall go back to it now.
Don't be afraid. I'll make a position for myself before
long. I'll repay all you have spent on me.'
»^ To this conclusion had he come. The process of mind
was favoured l»y his defeat in all the Arts subjects; in
that direction he could sec only the triumphant Chilvers,
a figure which disgusted him with (Ireeks, Komans, and
all the ways of literature. As to his future efforts he was
by no means clear, but it eased him greatly to have cast
off a burden of doubt ; his theorising intellect loved the
sensation of life thrown open to new, however vague,
possibilities. At present he was convinced that Andrew
Peak had done him a service. In this there was an
mdicAtion of moral cowardice, such as commonly connects
itself with intense pride of individuality. He desired to
sl)irk_lhe_ combat with Chilvers, and welcomed as an
excuse for doing so the shame which another temjier
would have stubl»ornly defied.
Now he would abandon his B.A. examination, — a clear
saving of money. Presently it might suit him to take
the B.Sc. instead ; time enough to think of that. Had he
but pursued the Science course from the first, who at
Whitelaw could have come out ahead of him ? He had
wasted a couple of years which might Jiave been most
profitably applied : by this time he might have been
ready to obtain a position as demonstrator in some
laboratory, on his way })erhaps to a professorship. How
had he thus been led astray ? Not only had his boyish
instincts moved strongly towards science, l»ut was not
the tendency of the age in the same direction ^ Buckland
84 BOKN IN EXILK
AVarricombc, who habitually declaimed against classical
study, was perfectly right; the world had learned all it
could from those hoary teachers, and must now turn to
Nature. On every hand, the future was with students of
the laws of matter. Often, it was true, he had l)eeir
tempted by the thought of a literary career; he had
written in verse and prose, but with small success. An
attempt to compose the Prize Poem was soon abandoned
in discouragement; the essay he sent in had not been
mentioned. These honours had fallen to Earwaker,
with whom it was not easy to compete on such ground.
No, he was not born a man of letters. But in science,
granted fair opportunity, he might make a name. He
might, and he would !
On the morrow, splendour of sunshine drew him forth
to some distance from the town. He went along the
lanes singing ; now it was holiday with him, and for the
first time be could enjoy the broad golden daylight, the
genial warmth. In a hollow of grassy fields, where he
least expected to encounter an acquaintance, it was his
chance to come upon Clnistian Moxey, stretched at full
length in the company of nibbling sheep. Since the
dinner at Mr. Moxey 's, he had neither seen nor heard of
Christian, who, it seemed prol)able, was back at his work
in Piotherhithe. As their looks met, both laughed.
* I won't get up,' said Christian ; ' the eftbrt would be
too great. Sit down and let us have a talk.'
'I disturb your thoughts,' answered (lodwin.
' A most welcome disturl)ance ; they weren't very pleasant
just tlien. In fact, I have come as far as this in the hope
of escaping them. Pm not much of a walker, are you ? '
' Well, yes, I enjoy a good walk.'
' You are of an energetic type,' said Christian, musingly.
' You will do something in life. When do you go up for
Honours ? '
' I have decided not to go in at all'
* Indeed ; I'm sorry to hear that.'
' I have half made up my mind not to return to
AMiitelaw.'
deserving his hearer's look of surprise, Godwin asked
iiOlJN IN KXILK .S5
hiinself whether it sigiiitied a kiio\vle(]«^'e of liis footing' at
Whitehiw. The possibility of this galh-d him ; but it was
such a great step to liave dechued, as it were in j)ublic, an
intention of freeing himself, that he was able to talk on
with something of aggressive contidence.
'I think I shall go in for some practical work <»f a
scientific kind. It was a mistake lor me to }>ursue thr
Arts course.'
Christian looked at him earnestly.
' Are you sure of that ? '
* Yes, I feel sure of it.'
There was silence. Christian ])eat the ground with his
stick.
* Your state of mind, then,' he said at length, * is more
like my own than T imagined. I, too, have wavered for
a long time between literature and science, and now at
last I have quite decided — (|uite — that scientific study is
the only safe line for me. The fact is, a man must
concentrate himself. Xot only for the sake of practical
success, but — well, for his own sake.'
He spoke lazily, dreamily, propped upon his elbow,
seeming to watch the sheep which panted at a few yards
from him.
* I have no right,' he pursued, with a shadow of kindly
anxiety on his features, * to offer you advice, but — well,
if you will let me insist on what I have learned from my
own experience. There's nothing like having a special
line of work and sticking to it vigorously. I, unfortun-
ately, shall never do anything of any account, — but 1
know so well the conflict between diverging tastes. It
has played the deuce with me, in all sorts of ways. At
Zurich I utterly wasted my time, and I've done no better
since I came laack to England. Don't think me ])re-
sumptuous. I only mean — well, it is so im])ortant to — to
go ahead in one line.'
His air of laughing apology was very pleasant.
Godwin felt his heart open to the kind fellow.
' No one needs the advice more than I,' he replied. ' I
am going back to the line I took naturally when I tirst
began to study at all.'
86 BORN IN EXILE
' But wliy leave AVhitelaw ^ ' asked Christian, gently.
' Because I dislike it — I can't tell you why.'
With ready tact Moxey led away from a subject which
he saw was painful.
' Of course there are many other places where one can
study just as well.'
' Do you know anything of the School of Mines in
London ?' Godwin inquired, abruptly.
' I worked there myself for a short time.'
* Then you could tell me about the — the fees, and
so on ? '
Christian readily gave the desired information, and the
listener mused over it.
' Have you any friends in London ? ' Moxey asked, at
length.
' No. But I don't think that matters. I shall work all
the harder.'
' Perhaps so,' said the other, with some hesitation. And
he added thoughtfully, ' It depends on one's temperament.
Doesn't answer to be too much alone — I speak for myself
at all events. I know very few people in London — very
few that I care anything about. That, in fact, is one
reason why I am staying here longer than T intended.'
He seemed to speak rather to himself than to Godwin ;
the half-smile on his lips expressed a wish to disclose
circumstances and motives which were yet hardly a
suitable topic in a dialogue such as this. ' I like the
atmosphere of a — of a comfortable home. No doul)t I
should get on better — with things in general — if I had a
liome of my own. I live in lodgings, you know ; my
sister lives with friends. Of course one has a sense of
freedom, but then '
His voice murmured off' into silence, and again he beat
tlie ground with liis cane. Godwin was strongly interested
in this broken revelation ; he found it diHicult to under-
stand Moxey's yearning for domesticity, all his own
impulses leading towards quite a contrary ideal. To him,
life in London lodgings made ricli promise ; that indeed
would be freedom, and full of all manner of liigli
possibilities !
nOKX IN KXILK 87
Each cominuiied with liis tlioughts. Ha])i)eiiinLj in
glance at Christian, (Jodwiii was struck witli the j^qaccful
attitude in wliicli the youn«,^ man recline<l : lie himscU"
s<iuattc(l awkwardly on the grass, unable to al)an<lon him-
self in natural repose, even as he found it impossible to
talk with the ease of unconsciousness. The contrast, too,
between his garments, his boots, and those of the Londoner
was painful enough to him. Without being a dandy,
Christian, it was evident, gave a good deal of thought to
costume. That kind of tiling had always excited ( Jod win's
contempt, but now he confessed himself envious ; doubt-
less, to be well dressed was a great step towards the
finished ease of what is called a gentlemanly demeanour,
which he knew he was very far fn^m having attained.
•Well,' exclaimed Christian, unexpectedly, 'if I can
be of ever so little use to you, pray let me. 1 must
get back to town in a few days, but you know my
address. Write to me, 1 beg, if you wish for any more
information.'
The talk turned to less difficult topics. Godwin made
inquiries about Zurich, then about Switzerland in
general.
' Did you see much of the Alps ? '
' Not as a climber sees them. That sort of thing isn't
in my way ; I haven't the energy — more's the pity.
Would you like to see a lot of good photographs 1
brought back ? T have them here : brought them to
show the girls.'
In spite of the five Miss Moxeys and Christian's sister,
Teak accepted the invitation to walk back with his
companion, and presently they began to stroll towards
Twybridge.
' I have an absurd tendency to dream — to lose myself
amid ideals — 1 don't quite know how to express it,'
Christian resumed, when both had been silent for some
minutes. 'That's why I mean to go in earnestly for
science— as a corrective. Fortunately, I have to work for
my living ; otherwise, I should moon my life away —
no doubt, ^fy sister has ten times as much energy —
she knows much more than 1 do already. What a
88 BORN rX P]XILE
splendid thing it is to be of an independent character I
I had ratlier be a self-reliant coal-heaver than a million-
aire of uncertain will. My uncle — tliere's a man who
knows his own mind. I respect those strong practical
natures. Don't be misled by ideals. ]\Iake the most
of your circumstances. Don't aim at — but I beg your
pardon ; I don't know what right T have to lecture you
in this way.' And. he broke off with his pleasant, kind-
hearted laugh, colouring a little.
They reached Mr. Moxey's house. In a garden chair
on the lawn sat IMiss Janet, occupied wdth a book. She
rose to meet them, shook hands with Godwin, and said
to her cousin :
' The postman has just left a letter for you — forwarded
from London.'
' Indeed ? I'm going to show Mr. Peak my Swiss
photographs. You w^ouldn't care to come and help me
in the toil of turning them over ? '
' lazy man ! '
Her laugh was joyous. Any one less prejudiced than
Peak would have recognised the beauty which trans-
formed her homely features as she met Christian's look.
On the hall table lay the letter of which Janet had
spoken. Christian took it up, and Godwin, happening
at that moment to observe him, caught the tremor of
a sudden emotion on lip and eyelid. Instantly, prompted
by he knew not what perception, he turned his gaze
to Janet, and in time to see that she also was aware
of her cousin's strong interest in the letter, whicli was
at once put away in Christian's pocket.
They passed into the sitting-room, where a large
portfolio stood against the back of a chair. The half-
hour whicli ensued was to Godwin a time of uneasiness.
His pleasure in the photographs suffered disturbance
from a subtle stress on liis ner^•es, duo to something
indeterminate in the situation, of wdiich he formed
a part. Janet's merry humour seemed to be subdued.
Clu'istian w^us obviously forcing himself to entertain
the guest whilst his thouglits w^ere elsewhere. As soon
as possible, CJod win rose to depart. He was just saying
KORN IX KXll.K 89
good-bye to Janet, when jMaivella entered the room. Slie
stood still, and C'hristian said, hurriedly :
'It's possible, Mareella, that Mr. Peak will be conijng
to London before long. We may have the pleasure
of seeing him there.'
'You will be glad, I'm sure,' answered his sister.
Then, as if forcing herself to address l*eak directly,
.she faced to him and added, ' It isn't easy to find
.sympathetic companions.'
' I, at all events, haven't found very many,' ( Jodwin
replied, meaning to speak in a tone only half-serious,
but conscious at once that he had made what might
seem an appeal for sympathy. Thereupon his jnidc
revolted, and in a moment drove him from the room.
Christian followed, and at the front door shook hands
with him. Xervous impatience was unmistakid)le in
the young man's look and w^ords. Again (Jodwin
speculated on the meaning of this, and wondered, in
connection therewith, ^vhat were the characteristics
wliich jMarcella Moxey looked for in a * sym])alhetic
companion.'
In the course of the afternoon, Godwin sat down to
pen the rough draft of a letter to Lady Whitelaw.
When the first difficulties wttc surmounted, he wrote
rapidly, and at considerable lengtli. It was not easy,
at his time of life, to compress into the limits of an
ordinary epistle all lie wished to say to the widow of
his benefactor. His purpose w^as, with all possible
respect yet as firmly as might be, to inform Lady
Whitelaw that he could not spend the last of his
])roposed three years at the College in Kingsmill, and
furthermore to request of her that she w^ould permit
his using the promised sum of money as a student at
the Eoyal School of Mines. This had to be done
without confession of the reasons for his change of plan ;
he could not even hint at them. Yet cause must be
assigned, and the best form of words he could excogitate
ran thus : * Family circumstances render it desirable —
almost necessary — that 1 should spend the next twelve
months in London. In spite of sincere reluctance to
leave Whitelaw College, 1 am compelled to take this
step.' The lady must interpret that as best she miglit.
Very hard indeed was the task of begging a continuance
of her bounty under these changed conditions. Could
he but have resigned the money, all had been well :
his tone might then h.ave been dignified without effort.
But such disinterestedness he could not afford. His
mother might grant him money enough barely to live
upon until he discovered means of support — for his
t'ducation she was unable to pay. After more than
an hour's work he had moderately satisfied himself;
90
BOUN IN KXILK 01
indeed, several portions of the letter struck liini as
well composed, and he felt that they must liei^diten tlie
reader's interest in him. AVitli an autlior's pleasure
(though at the same time witli much uneasiness) he
])erused thi' appeal again and again.
Late in tlie evening, when lie was alone with his
mother, he told her what he had done, and read the
; letter for her opinion. Mrs. Teak was gravely troubled.
i 'Lady Whitelaw will ask her sisters for an ex]>lanation/
j she said.
I ' 1 have thought of that,' Godwin replied, with the
j confident, cheerful air he had assumed from the first.
I* If the Miss Lunibs go to aunt, she must be prepared
ito put them off in some way. TUit look here, mother,
when uncle has opened his sliop, it's ])retty certain that
some one or other will hit on the true explanation of
my disappearance. Let them. Then Ixidy AViiitelaw
j will understand and forgive me.'
After much musing, the mother ventured a timid
question, the result of her anxieties rather than of her
judgment on the point at issue.
* Godwin, dear, are you quite sure that his sho]) would
make so much ditference ? '
The young man gave a passionate start.
'What! To have the fellows going there to eat, and
hearing his talk, and ? Not for a day could I bear
it ! Xot for an hour ! '
He was red with anticipated shame, and Ids voice
shook with indignation at the suggested martyiilom.
Mrs. Peak dried a tear.
* Vou would be so alone in London, Godwin.'
'Not a bit of it. Young Mr. Moxey will be a useful
friend, 1 am convinced he will. To tell you the whole
truth, I aim at getting a place at the works in Itother-
hithe, where he no doubt has inlluence. You see, mother,
I might manage it even ])efore the end of the year. ( Jin-
Mr. Moxey will ])e disposed to help me with his
recommendation.'
'J>ut, my dear, wouldn't it come to the same tiling,
then, if vou went back to ^Ir. Moxev's ?'
92 BORN IN EXILE
He made a gesture of impat ieiice.
' No, no, no ! I couldn't live at Twybridge. I have
my way to make, mother, and the place for that is
London. You know I am ambitious. Trust me for a
year or two, and see the result. I depend upon your
help in this whole affair. Don't refuse it me. I have done
with Whitelaw, and I have done witli Twybridge : now
comes London. You can't regard me as a boy, you know.'
' No— but '
' But me no buts ! ' he cried, laughing excitedly. ' The
thing is settled. As soon as possible in the morning I
post this letter. I feel it will be successful. See aunt
to-morrow, and get her support. ]\Iind that Charlotte
and Oliver don't talk to people. If you all use discretion,
there's no need for any curiosity to be excited.'
When GJodwin had taken a resolve, there was no
domestic inthience strong enough to prevent his acting
upon it. Mrs. Peak's ignorance of the world, her mild
})assivity, and the faith she had in her son's intellectual
resources, made her useless as a counsellor, and from no
one else — now tliat Mr. Gunnery was dead — would the
young man liave dreamt of seeking guidance. Whatever
Lady Whitelaw's reply, he had made up his mind to go to
London. Sliould Ids subsidy be refused, then he would live
on what his mother could allow him until — probably with
the aid of Christian Moxey — he might obtain a salaried
position. The letter was despatclied, and with feverish
impatience lie awaited a reply.
Nine days passed, and he heard nothing. Half that
delay sufficed to bring out all the self - tormenting
capacities of a nature such as his. To his mother's con-
jectural explanations he could lend no ear. Doubtless Lady
Whitelaw (against whom, for subtle reasons, he was
already prejudiced) had taken offence ; either she would
not reply at .all, or presently there would come a few lines
of polite displeasure, intimating her disinclination to aid
his project. He silently raged against ' the woman.' Her
neglect was insolence. Had she not delicacy enough to
divine the anxiety natural to one in his dependent posi-
tion ? Did she take him for an every-day writer of
lioKX IX KXllJ'! O:'
ineiidicaiii appeals? llis i)ri(le fed upon tlie (.iiirago
and b'X'aiiie tierce.
I Then arrived a small i^dossy envelope, eontainiiii^ a tiny
I sheet of very thick note-paper, whereon it was written that
! Lady Whitehiw regretted her tardiness in replying to him
< (caused by her absence from home), and hoped he would
be able to call upon her, at ten o'clock next morning, at
the house of her sisters, the Misses Lumb, where slie was
stopping for a day — she remained his sincerely.
I Having duly contorted this note into all manner of
I painful meanings, Godwin occupied an hour in making
! himself presentable (scornful that he should deem such
' trouble necessary), and with furiously beating heart set
I out to walk through Twyhridge. Arrived at the house, he
was le«l by a servant into tlie front room on the ground
I Huor, where Lady Whitelaw, alone, sat reading a news-
! paper. Her features were of a very common order, and
I nothing distinguished her from middle-aged women of
I average refinement ; she had chubby hands, rather broad
i shoulders, and no visible waist. The scrutiny she bestowed
; upon her visitor w^as close. To Godwin's feelings it too
i much resembled that with whicli she would have received
• an applicant for the post of footman. Yet her smile was
I friendly enough, and no lack of civility appeared in the
j repetition of her excuses for having replied so late.
I * Let us talk about this,' she began, when Godwin was
I uneasily seated. (She spoke with an excess of precision,
; as though it had at one time been needful for her to pre-
I meditate polislied phrases.) ' 1 am very sorry you should
I have to think of quitting the (.'ollege; very sorry indeed. You
I are one of the students who do honour to the institution.'
I This was pleasant, and Godwin felt a regret of the con-
i straint that was upon him. In his endeavour not to
j display a purring smile, he looked grim, as if the com])li-
I nient were beneath his notice.
I 'Pray don't think,' she pursued, 'that I wish you to
1 speak more fully about the private circumstances you refer
I to in your letter. But do let me ask you : Is your decision
I final ? Are you sure that when the vacations are over you
1 will see things just as you do now ? '
94 BORN IN EXILE
' 1 am quite sure of it,' he replied.
The emphasis was merely natural to him. He could
not so govern his voice as to convey the respectful regret
which at this moment he felt. A younger lady, one who
liad heightened the charm of her compliment with subtle
liarmony of tones and strongly feminine gaze, would per-
haps have elicited from him a free confession. Gratitude
and admiration would have made him capaljle of such
frankness. But iu the lace of this newspaper - reading
woman (yes, he had unaccountably felt it jar upon him
that a lady should be reading a newspaper), under her
matronly smile, he could do no more than plump out his
' quite sure.' To Lady Whitelaw it sounded altogether too
curt ; she was conscious of her position as patroness, and
had in fact thought it likely that the young man would be
disposed to gratify her curiosity in some measure.
* I can only say that I am sorry to hear it,' fell from her
tightened lips, after a moment's pause.
Instantly Godwin's pride expelled the softer emotion.
He pressed hard with his feet upon the floor, every nerve
in his body tense with that distressing passion peculiar to
the shyly arrogant. Eegard him, and yon had imagined
he was submitting to rebuke for an offence he could not
deny.
Lady Whitelaw waited. A minute, almost, and Teak
gave no sign of opening his mouth.
' It is certainly much to be regretted,' she said at length,
coolly. ' Of course, I don't know what prospects you may
have in London, l)ut, if you had remained at the College,
something ad\'antageous would no dou1)t have offered
before long.'
There went small tact to the wording of this admoni-
tion. Impossible for Lady Whitelaw to understand the
complexities of a character such as Godwin's, even had
she enjoyed opportunities of studying it ; but many a
woman of the world would have directed herself more
cautiously after reading that letter of his. Peak's im-
pulse was to thank her for the past, and declare that
henceforth he would dispense with aid ; only the choking
in his throat obstructed some such utterance. He
Hol'vN IX i:\lLK 95
resented piotuundly her suppusitioii (iiaLiiiul I'liou^h) that
his chief aim was to establish himself in a self-supi)orting
a\reer. What ? Am I to be grateful for a mere chance
of earning my living i Have I not shown tliat I ;im
capable of something more than tlie ordinary lot in life i
From the heights of lier assured independence, does slie
look down upon nie as a young man seeking a * i)lace ' I He
was filled with wrath, and all because a good, commonplace
: woman could not divine that he dreamt of European fame.
; *I am very sorry that 1 can't take that into account,'
he managed to say. ' I wish to give this next year
f exclusively to scientific study, and after that I shall see
I what course is oi)en to me.'
He was not of the men who can benefit by patronage,
; and be simply grateful for it. His position was a false
one : to be begging with awkward show of thankfulness
, for a benefaction which in his heart he detested. He
; knew himself for an undesigning hypocrite, and felt that
[ he might as well have been a rascal complete. Grati-
i tilde ! Xo man capable of it in fuller measure than he ; I
j but not to such persons as Lady Whitelaw. Before old
i Sir Job he could more easily liave bowed liimstdf. lUit'
\ this woman represented tlie superiority of mere brute
I wealth, against wliicli liis soul rebelled.
i There was another disagreeable silence, during which
I^dy AVhitelaw commented on her protege very much as
Mrs. Warricombe had done.
•Will you allow me to ask,' she said at Icngtli, witli cold
politeness, * wliether you liave ac(|uaintances in London ? '
* Yes. I know some one who studied at tlie School of
Mines.'
'Well, Mr. I'eak, 1 see that your mind is made u}>.
And no doubt you are the best judge of your private
circumstances. I must ask you to let me think over
the matter for a day or two. I will write to you.'
'And I to you,' thought Godwin; a resolve whicli
enabled him to rise with something like a conventional
smile, and thus put an end to a very biief and quite
unsatisfactory interview.
He strode homewards in a state <»f feverish excitement.
9G BORX IN EXILK
His own beliaviour liad been wretchedly clownish ; he
was only too well awave of that. He ought to have put
aside all the grosser aspects of liis case, and liave exhibited
the purely intellectual motives which made such a change
as he purposed seem desirable to him. That would have
been to act with dignity ; that would have been the very
best form of gratitude for the kindness he had received.
But no, liis accursed lack of self-possession had ruined all.
' The woman ' was now offended in good earnest ; he saw
it in her face at parting. Tlie fault was admittedly on his
side, but what right had she to talk about ' something
advantageous ' ? She would write to him, to be sure ;
that meant, she could not yet make up her mind whether
to grant the money or not. Pluto take the money 1
Long before sitting down to her glossy note-paper she
should have received a letter from Jiim.
Composed already. Xow he was uj) in the garret bed-
room, scribbling as fast as pen could Hy over paper. He
had l)een guilty of a mistake— so ran the epistle; having
decided to leave Whitelaw^, he ought never to have
requested a continuance of the pension. He begged Lady
Whitelaw would forgive this thoughtless impropriety;
she had made him understand the full extent of his error.
Of course he could not accept anything more from her.
As for the past, it would be idle for him to attempt an
expression of his indebtedness. But for Sir Job's munifi-
cence, he must now have been struggling to complete a
radically imperfect education, — 'instead of going into the
world to make a place for myself among the scientific
investii^ators of our time.'
One's claims to respectful treatment must be put
forward unmistakably, especially in dealing with such
people as Lady Whitelaw. Now^ perhaps, she would
understand wliat his reserve concealed. The satisfaction
of declining further assistance was enormous. He read his
letter several times aloud. This w^as the great style ; he
could imagine this incident forming a landmark in the
biography of a notable man. Now for a fair copy, and in
a hand, mind you, that gave no hint of his care for
caligraphic seemliness : bold, forthright.
HORN I\ KXILK 97
The leUer iii his pocket, he went downstiiirs. J lis iiiolher
had been out all the morning; now she was just returned,
and Godwin saw trouble on her forehead. Anxiously she
inquired concerning the result of his interview.
Now that it was necessary t(j make an inteHi^ihle
report of what had happened, Godwin found Ids toni^ue
falter. How could he convey to another the intangibh*
sense of wounded dignity which had impelled his pen i
Instead of producing tlie letter with a flourish, he answered
with aflected carelessness :
' I am to hear in a day or two.'
* Did she seem to take it — in the right way ?'
' She evidently thinks of me too much as a schoolboy.'
And he began to pace the room. Mrs. Peak sat still,
with an air of anxious brooding.
'You don't think she will refuse, GodwiiW fell from
her presently.
His hand closed on the letter.
* Why ? Well, in that case I should go to London and
find some occupation as soon as possible. You could still
lot me have the same money as before ? '
'Yes.'
It was said absently, and did not satisfy Godwin. In
tlie course of the conversation it appeared that ^Irs. Peak
had that morning been to see the legal friend who looked
after her small concerns, and though she would not admit
that she had any special cause for uneasiness, her son
recalled similar occasions when an interview with ^fr.
Dutch had been followed by several days' gloom. The
truth was that ]\Irs. Peak could not live strictly within
the income at her disposal, and on being from time to
time reminded of this, she was oppressed by passing
worry. If Godwin and Oliver 'got on well,' things would
come all right in the end, but in the meantime she could
not face additional expenditure. Godwin did not like to
be reminded of the razor's edge on which the alVairs of the
hou.sehold were b;danced. At present it brought abuut a
very sudden change in his state of mind ; he went ui)stairs
again, and sat with the letter before him, sunk in miseiy.
The reaction had fjiven him a headache.
98 BORN IN p:xile
A fortnight, and no word from Lady Wliitelaw. Ijiit
neither was Godwin's letter posted.
Was he at liberty to indidge the self-respect which
ur^-ed him to write ^ In a moment of heated confidence
it was all very well to talk of ' getting some occupation '
in London, l)ut he knew that this might prove no easy
matter. A year's work at the School of Mines would
decidedly facilitate his endeavour; and, seeing that his
mother's peace depended upon his being speedily self-
supporting, was it not a form of selfishness to reject help
from one who could well afford it ? From a distance, he
regarded Lady Whitelaw with more charity ; a longer talk
with her might have led to better mutual apprehension.
And, after all, it was not she but her husband to whom
lie would stand indebted. Sir Job was a very kind-
hearted old fellow ; he had meant thoroughly well. Why,
clearly, the bestower of this third year's allowance would
not be Lady Whitelaw at all.
If it were granted. Godwin began to suffer a trouble-
some misgiving ; perchance he had gone too far, and was
now, in fact, abandoned to his own resources.
Three weeks. Then came the expected letter, and, as
he opened it, his heart leaped at the sight of a cheque —
talisman of unrivalled power over the emotions of the
moneyless ! Lady Whitelaw wrote l^riefly and formally.
Having considered Godwin's request, she had no reason
for doubting that he would make a good use of the pro-
posed year at the School of Mines, and accordingly
she sent him the sum which Sir Job had intended
for his final session at Whitelaw College. She wished
him all benefit from his studies, and prosperity hence-
forth.
Rejoicing, though shame-smitten, Godwin exhibited this
remittance to his mother, from whom it drew a deep sigh
of relief. And forthwith he sat down to write quite a
different letter from that which still lay in his private
drawer, — a letter which he strove to make the justification
(to his own mind) of this descent to humility. At con-
siderable length he dwelt upon the change of tastes of
which he had been conscious lately, and did not fail to
BORN IN EXILK 99
make obvious the superiority of liis ambition t(j all
thouglit of material advancement. He olVerud liis tlianks,
and promised to give an account of himself (as in duty
bound) at the close of the twelvemonths' study he was
about to undertake : a letter in which the discerning
would have read much sincerity, and some pathos ; after
all, not a letter to be ashamed of. Lady Whitelaw would
not understand it ; but then, how many people an*
capable of even faintly apprehending the phenomena of
mental growth ?
And now to plan seriously his mode of life in London.
With Christian Moxey he was so slightly acquainted that
it was impossible to seek his advice with regard to lodg-
ings ; besides, the lodgings must be of a character far too
modest to come within Mr. ]\Ioxey's s})here of observation.
Other acquaintance he had none in the capital, so it was
clear that he must enter boldly upon the unknown world,
and find a home for himself as best he might. Mrs. Peak
could offer suggestions as to likely localities, and this was
of course useful help. In the meantime (for it would be
waste of money to go up till near the end of the holiday
season) he made schemes of study and completed his in-
formation concerning the School of Mines. So far from
lamenting the interruption of his promising career at
Whitelaw, he persuaded himself that L^ncle Andrew had
in truth done him a very good turn : now at length he
was fixed in the right course. The only thing he regretted
was losing sight of his two or three student-friends,
especially Earwaker and Buckland Warricombe. They,
to be sure, would soon guess the reason of his disappear-
ance. Would they join in the laughter certain to be
excited by ' Peak's Dining and Pefreshment Pooms ' ?
Probably ; how could they help it ? Earwaker might l)e
superior to a prejudice of that kind ; his own conntictions
were of humble standinc^. lUit Warricombe must wince
o
and shrug his shoulders. Perhaps even some of the
Professors would have their attention directed to the
ludicrous mishap : they were gentlemen, and, even though
they smiled, must certainly sympathise with him.
Wait a little. Whitelaw College should yet remember
100 BORN IN EXILE
the student who seemed to have vanished amid the world's
obscure tumult.
Eesolved that he was about to turn his back on Twy-
bridge for ever, he found the conditions of life there quite
supportable through this last month or two; the family
reaped benefit from his improved temper. Even to Mr.
Cusse he behaved with modified contempt. Oliver was
judicious enough to suppress his nigger minstrelsy and
kindred demonstrations of spirit in his brother's presence,
and Charlotte, though steadily resentful, did her best to
avoid conflict.
Through the Misses Lumb, Godwin's change of purpose
had of course become known to his aunt, who for a time
took it ill that these debates had been concealed from her.
When Mrs. l*eak, in confidence, apprised her of the dis-
turbing cause. Miss Cadman's indignation knew no bounds.
What! That low fellow had been allowed to interfere
with the progress of Godwin Peak's education, and not a
protest uttered ? He should have heen forbidden to estab-
lish himself in Kingsmill ! Why had they not taken her
into council ? She would have faced the man, and have
overawed him ; he should have been made to understand
the gross selfishness of his behaviour. Xever had she
heard of such a monstrous case
Godwin spent much time in quiet examination of tlie
cabinets bequeathed to him by Mr. Gunnery. He used a
pound or two of Lady Whitelaw's money for the purchase
of scientific books, and set to work upon them with
freshened zeal. The early morning and late evening were
f>iven to country walks, from which he always returned
with brain excited by the forecast of great achievements.
When the time of his departure approached, he decided
to pay a farewell visit to Mr. Moxey. He chose an hour
when the family would probably be taking tlieir ease in
the garden. Three of the ladies were, in fact, amusing
themselves with croquet, while their father, pipe in mouth,
bent over a bed of calceolarias.
* What's this that I hear ? ' exclaimed Mr. Moxey, as he
shook hands. ' You are not going back to Whitelaw ? '
liORN IN KXILK 101
The story bad of coiirsL' spread among all Twybridge
people who knew anything of the Pt-aks, audit was gener-
ally felt that some mystery was invoh'ed. Godwin had
reasonably feared that his obligations i'o Sir' J'ob 'vVhifielaw
must become known; impossilde for sacii a niat'cer to l)'e
kept secret ; all who took any interest in tlie young man
had long been privately ac(|uainted with the facts of his
])Osition. Now that discussion was rife, it would have
been prudent in the Misses Lumb to divulge as mucli of
the truth at they knew, but (in accordance with the law
of natural perversity) they maintained a provoking silence.
Hence wliispcrs and suspicious questions, all wide of the
mark. Xo one had as yet lieard of .Vndrew Teak, and it
seemed but too likely that Lady AVhitelaw, for some good
reason, had declined to discharge the expenses of Godwin's
last year at the College.
^Ir. Moxey himself felt that an explanation was desir-
able, l)ut he listened with his usual friendly air to
Godwin's account of the matter — wliicli of course included
no mention of Lady AVhitelaw.
* Have you friends in London ^ ' lie inquired — like every-
one else.
' Xo. Except tliat your nepliew was so kind as
to ask me to call on him, if ever 1 happened to be
tlierc'
Tliere passed over Mr. ^loxey's countenance a cminus
sliadow. (Jodwin noticed it, and at once concluded that
the manufacturer condemned Christian for undue advances
to one below his own station. The result of this surmise
was of course a sudden coldness on CJodwin's part,
increased when he found that Mr. Moxey turned to
another suliject, without a word about liis n('])liew.
In less than ten minutes he offered to take leave, and
no one urged him to stay longer, ^fr. ]\Ioxey made sober
expression of good wishes, and ho])ed he might hear that
the removal to London had proved * advantageous.' This
word sutliced to convert ( Godwin's irritation into wrath ;
he said an abrupt 'good-evening,' raised his hat as
awkwardly as usual, and stalked away.
A few paces from the garden gate, he encountDvil Mi<s
102 BORN IN EXILE
Janet .iMoxey, just coming home from walk or visit.
Anotliei grab, at lii^ hat, and he would have passed
without a word, but the girl stopped him.
. ';W'e hear that. you are going to London, Mr. Peak.'
' Yes, I am, Miss Moxey.'
She examined his face, and seemed to hesitate.
' Perhaps you liave just been to say good-bye to father? '
' Yes.'
Janet paused, looked away, again turned her eyes upon
him.
* You have friends there, I hope ? ' she ventured.
' No, I have none.'
' My cousin — Christian, you remember — would, I am
sure, be very glad to help you in any way.' Her voice
sank, and at the same time she coloured just perceptibly
under Godwin's oaze.
o
' So he assured me,' was the reply. ' But I must learn
to be independent. Miss Moxey.'
AVhereupon Godwin performed a salute, and marched
forward.
His boxes were packed, and now he had but one more
evening in the old home. It was made less pleasant than
it might have been by a piece of information upon which
he by chance alighted in a new\spaper. The result of the
Honours exaun'nation for the Pirst B.A. at London had just
been made known, and in two subjects a high place was
assigned to Ik'uno Leathwaite Chilvers — not the first place
happily, but it was disagreeable enough.
Pooh ! what matter ? What are academic successes ?
Ten years hence, which name w^ould have wider recogni-
tion — Bruno Chilvers or Godwin Peak ? He laughed with
scornful superiority.
No one was to accompany him to the station ; on that
he insisted. He had decided for as early a train as pos-
sible, that the dolours of leave-taking might be abridged.
At a fpiarter to eight the cab drove up to the door. Out
with the trunks labelled ' London ' !
' Take care of the cabinets ! ' were his last words to his
mother. ' I may want to have them sent before long.'
BORN IX KXILK 103
lie iniplieil, wliat liu luid not venturo.il to say plainly,
that lie was leaving Twy bridge for good, and henceforth
would not think of it as home. In these moments of
parting, he resented the natural feeling whicli hrouglit
moisture to his eyes. He hardened liiniself against tlie ties
of l)lood, and kept repeating to liimself a phrase in which
of late lie had summed his miseries : * I was born in exile
— born in exile.-^" Now at length had he set forth on a
voyage of discovery, to end perchance in some unknown
land among his spiritual kith and kin.
PART THE SECOND
PAET THE SECOND
1 1^'-'' ^''
?.... a
In the spring of 1882 Mr. Jarvis liuncorn, editor and co-
proprietor of the London Wcclchj Post, was looking about
for a young man of journalistic promise whom he might
associate with himself in the conduct of that long estab-
lislied liadical paper. The tale of his years warned him
that he could not hope to sup])ort much longer a burden
which necessarily increased with the growing range and
complexity of public aflixirs. Hitherto he had l)een the
autocrat of the oflice, but competing Sunday papers exacted
an alertness, a versatile vigour, such as only youth ciin
supply ; for there was felt to be a danger that the
Weekly Post might lose its prestige in democratic journal-
ism. Thus on the watch, Mr. liuncorn — a wary man of
business, who had gone through many trades before lie
reached that of weekly literature — took counsel one day
with a fellow-cam})aigncr, ^lalkin l)y name, who owned
two or three country newspapers, and had reaped from
tliem a considerate fortune; in consequence, his attention
was directed to one John Earwaker, then editing the
Wattlehorovfjli Courier. ]\lr. ^Malkin's eldest son liad
recently stood as Liberal candidate fur Wattleborough, and
though defeated was loud in his praise of the Courier ;
with its editor he had come to be on terms of intimate
friendship. Earwaker was well acrpiainted with journal-
istic life in the provinces. He sprang fmm a liumlde
J. 08 BORN IN P:XILE
family living at Kiiigsmill, liad studied at Whitelaw
College, and was now but nine-and-twenty : the style of
his ' leaders ' seemed to mark him for a wider sphere of
work. It was decided to invite him to London, and the
young man readily accepted My. lluncorn's proposals. A
few months later lie exclianged temporary lodgings for
chambers in Staple Inn, where he surrounded liimself with
plain furniture and many books.
In personal appearance he had changed a good deal
since that ])rize-day at Whitelaw when his success as
versifier and essayist foretold a literary career. His
figure was no longer ungainl}^ ; the big head seemed to fit
better npon the narrow shoulders. He neither walked
with extravagant paces, nor waved his arms like a wind-
mill. A sufficiency of good food, and the habit of inter-
course with active men, had given him an every-day
aspect; perhaps the sole peculiarity he retained from
student times was his hollow chuckle of mirth, a laugh
which struggled vainly for enlargement. He dressed with
conventional decency, even submitting to the chimney-pot
hat. His features betrayed connection with a physically
coarse stock ; but to converse with him was to discover
the man of original vigour and wide intellectual scope.
AVith ordinary companions, it was a rare thing for him to
speak of his professional interests. But for his position on
The Weeldij Post it would not have been easy to surmise
how he stood with regard to politics, and he appeared to
lean as often towards the conservative as to the revolu-
tionary view of abstract questions.
The newspaper left him time for other literary work,
and it was known to a few people that he wrote with some
regularity for reviews, but all the products of his pen were
anonymous. A fact which remained his own secret was
that he provided for the subsistence of his parents, old
people domiciled in a quiet corner of their native Kingsmill.
The strict sobriety of life which is indispensable to success
in such a career as this cost him no ellbrt. He smoked
moderately, ate and drank as little as might Ijc, could keep
his health on six hours of sleep, and for an occasional
holiday liked to walk Ids twenty or thirty miles. Ear-
liollN IN KXILK lll«)
waker was naturally inarked lor survival ani»»ug the
tit test.
On an evening of .June in the year '84, he was inter-
rupted whilst equipping himself for dinner abroail, by a
thunderous rat-tat-tat.
* You must wait, my friend, wlioever you are,' he
murmured placidly, as he began to struggle with tht' stilV
button-holes of his shirt.
The knock was repeated, and more violently.
*Xow there's only one man of my acquaintance who
knocks like that,' he mused, elaborating the bow of his
white tie. * He, I should imagine, is in lirazil ; but there's
no knowing. Perhaps our ottice is on fire. — Anon, aiion ! '
He made haste to don waistcoat and swallow-tail, then
crossed his sitting-room and tiung open the dour of the
chambers.
' Ha ! Then it is you ! I was reminded of your patient
habits.'
A tall man, in a light overcoat and a straw hat of
spacious brim, had seized l)oth his hands, with shouts (»f
excited greeting.
'Confound you! Why did you keep me waiting^ I
thought I had missed you for the evening. How the
deuce are you ? And why the devil have you left me
without a line from you for more than six months ? '
Earwaker drew aside, and allowed his tumultuous friend
to rush into the nearest room.
* Why haven't you written ? — confound you ! ' was again
vociferated, amid bursts of boyish laughter. ' Why hasn't
anybody written ? '
' If everybody was as well informed of your movements
as I, I don't wonder,' replied the journalist. ' Since you
left lUienos Ay res, I have had two letters, each containing
twenty words, which gave me to understand that no
answer could by possibility reach you.'
'Humbug! You could have written to half-a-dozen
likely places. Did I really say that ? Ha, ha, ha ! —
Shake hands again, confound you! How do you do .^
Do 1 look well ? Ha^'e T a tropical colour ^ I say,
110 BORN IN EXILE
what a blessed thing it was that I got beaten down at
Wattlel)orough ! All this time I should liave been sitting
in the fog at Westminster. What a time I've had !
What a time I've had ! '
It was more than twelve months since Malkin's depar-
ture from Encrland. Though sun and sea had doubtless
contributed to his robustness, he nnist always have been
a fair example of the vigorous Briton. His broad
shoulders, upright bearing, open countenance, and frank
resonant voice, declared a youth passed amid the whole-
some conditions which wealth alone can command. The
hearty extravagance of his friendliness was only possible
in a man who has never been humiliated by circum-
stances, never restricted in his natural needs of body
and mind. Yet he had more than the heartiness of a
contented Englishman. The vivacity which made a whirl-
wind about him probably indicated some ancestial ming-
ling with the l)lood of a more ardent race. Earwaker
examined him with a smile of pleasure.
* It's unfortunate,' he said, ' that I have to go out to
dinner.'
' Dinner ! Pooh ! we can get dinner anywhere.'
' No doubt, but I am en^afijed.'
* The devil you are ! Who is she ? Why didn't you
write to tell me ? '
' The word has a less specific meaning, my dear fellow,'
replied Earwaker, laughing. ' Only you of all men would
have rushed at the wrong one. I mean to say — if your
excitement can take in so common a fact — that I have
promised to dine with some people at Notting Hill, and
mustn't disappoint them.'
Malkin laughed at his mistake, then shouted :
' Notting Hill ! Isn't that somewhere near Fulham ?
We'll take a cal\ and I can drop you on my way.'
' It wouldn't be on the way at all.' •
The journalist's quiet explanation was cut short by a
petulant outcry.
' Oh, very well ! Of course if you want to get rid of
me ! I should have thought after sixteen months '
' Don't be idiotic,' broke in the other. ' There's a strong
BORN IN KXILK 111
feniiniiio element in you, Malkin ; that's exactly the
kind of talk with which wunien drive men to frenzy.'
' Feminine element ! ' shouted the traveller with hot
face. * What do you mean { I propose to take a cab with
you, and you '
Earwaker turned away lau^hin^L,^ ' Time and distance
are nothing to you, and I shall be very glad of your
company. Come by all means.'
" His friend was instantly appeased.
* Don't let me make you late, Earwaker. ^Must we
start this moment ? Gome along, then. Can 1 carry
anything for you ? Eord ! if you could only see a tropical
forest ! How do you get on with old liuncorn ? irritr ?
What the devil was the use of my writing, when words
are powerless to describe ? What a rum old place
this seems, after experiences like mine ; how the deuce
can you live here ? I say, I've brought you a ton of
curiosities; will make your rooms look like a museum.
Confound it ! I've broken my shin against the turn in
the staircase ! Wliew ! Who are you going to dine
with ? — Moxey ? Never heard the name.'
In Holborn a hansom was hailed, and the friends con-
tinued their dialogue as they drove westward. Having
at length effervesced, Malkin began to exchange question
and answer with something of the calm needful for mutual
intelligibility.
'And how do you get on with old liuncorn ?'
'As well as can be expected where there is not a single
subject of agreement,' Earwaker replied. ' I have hopes
of reducing our circulation.'
' What the deuce do you mean ? '
* In other words, of improving the paper, liuncorn is
strong on the side of blackguardism. We had a great
fight the other day over a leader offered by Kenyon, —
a true effusion of the political gutter-snipe. I refused
point-blank to let it go in ; liuncorn swore tliat, if I did
not, / should go mit. I offered to retire that moment.
" We must write for our public," he bellowed. ** True,"
said I, "l)ut not necessarily for the basest among them.
The standard at the best is low enough." "Do you call
112 BORN IN EXILE
yourself a liadical ^ " " Not if this be Eadicalism."
" You ought to be on the Morning instead of the WecJdy
Post." I had my way, and probably shall end by sending
Mr. Kenyon back to his tinker's work shop. If not, I
must look out for cleaner occupation.'
' Go it, my boy ! Go it ! ' cried Malkin, slapping his
companion's knee violently. ' Raise the tone ! To the
devil with mercenary considerations ! Help the proletariat
out of its grovelling position.'
They approached the street where Earwaker had to
alight. The other declared his intention of driving on
to Fulham in the hope of finding a friend who lived
there.
' But I must see you again. When shall you be home
to-night ? '
' About half-past eleven, I dare say.'
' Right ! If I am free I'll come out to Staple Inn, and
we'll talk till three or four.'
The house at which the journalist presented liimself
was such as might be inhabited by a small family of
easy means. As he was taking oft' his overcoat, a door
opened and Christian Moxey came forward to greet him.
They shook hands like men vn^Iio stood on friendly, but
not exactly on intimate, terms.
'■ Will you come up to the laboratory for a moment ? '
said Moxey. ' I sliould like to show you something I
have under the microscope.'
The room he spoke of was at the top of the house ; two
chambers had been made into one, and the fittings were
those required by a student of physical science. Various
odours distressed the air. A stranger to the pursuits
represented might have thought that the general disorder
and encumberment indicated great activity, but the experi-
enced eye perceived at once that no methodical work was
here in progress. INIineralogy, botany, biology, physics,
and probably many otlier sciences, were suggested by the
specimens and apparatus that lay confusedly on tables,
shelves, or floor.
Moxey looked very slim and elegant in his evening
costume. Wlien he touched any object, his long, trans-
BORN IN KXII.K I 1 .".
lucent fingers seemed soft and sensitive as a [girl's. He
stepped with peculiar lightness, and the harmonious notes
of his voice were in keeping with these other character-
istics. Ten years had developed in him that graceful
languor which at four-and-twenty was only beginning to
get mastery over the energies of a well-built frame.
'This stuff here,' he said, pointing to an opun box full
of mud, ' is silt from down the Thames. It's positively
loaded with diatomacca', — you remember our talking
about them when you were last here ? I am working at
the fabric of the valves. Xow, just look ! '
Enrwaker, with attentive smile, followed tlie demonstra-
tion.
'Peak is busy with them as well,' said Christian,
presently. ' Has he told you his theory of their locomo-
tion ? Nobody has found out yet how the little beggars
move about. Peak has a bright idea.'
They spent ten minutes in the laboratory, then went
downstairs. Two otlier guests had meanwhile arrived,
and were conversing with the hostess, Miss ]\Iuxey. Tlie
shy, awkward, hard-featured girl was grown into a woman
wliose face made such declaration of intellect and char-
acter that, after the first moment, one became indifferent
to its lack of feminine beauty. As if with the idea of
compensating for personal disadvantages, she was ornately
dressed; her abundant tawny hair had submitted to
much manipulation, and showed the gleam of jewels;
expense and finished craft were manifest in every detail
of her garb. Though slightly round-shouldered, her form
was well-proportioned and suggested natural vigour.
Like Christian, she had delicate hands.
'1)0 you know a distinguished clergyman, nauiud
Chilvers ? ' she asked of Earwaker, with a laugh, when
lie had taken a ]jlace by her.
' Chilvers ? — Is it Bruno Chilvers, I wonder ^'
'That's the name 1 ' exclaimed one of the guests, a
young married lady of eager face and fidgety manners.
' Then I knew him at College, but I had uo idea he
was become distinguished.'
Miss jNIoxey again laughed.
114 BORN IN EXILE
' Isn't it amusing, the narrowness of a great clerical
reputation ^ Mrs. Morton was astonished that I had
never heard his name.'
' Please don't think,' appealed the lady, looking
anxiously at Earwaker, ' that I consider it shameful not
to know him. I only happened to mention a very
ridiculous sermon of his, that was forced upon me by a
distressingly orthodox friend of mine. They tell me, he
is one of the newest lights of the Church.'
Earwaker listened with amusement, and then related
anecdotes of Bruno Chilvers. Whilst he was talking, the
door opened to admit another arrival, and a servant's voice
announced ' Mr. Teak.' Miss Moxey rose, and moved a
step or two forward ; a change was visible on her counte-
nance, which had softened and lightened.
' I am very sorry to be late,' said the new-comer, in a
dull and rather husky voice, which made strong contrast
witli the humorous tones his entrance had interrupted.
He shook hands in silence with the rest of the
company, giving merely a nod and a smile as reply to
8ome gracious commonplace from Mrs. Morton.
' Has it come to your knowledge,' Earwaker asked of
liim, ' that ]]runo Chilvers is exciting the orthodox
world by his defence of Christianity against neo-
heathenism ? '
' Chilvers ^— No.'
' Mrs. Morton tells u.s that all the Church newspapers
ring with his name.'
'Please don't think,' cried Mrs. Morton, with tlic same
anxious look as before, 'that I I'ead such papers. AVe
never have sucli a thing in our house, Air. Peak. 1 ha\e
only been told about it.'
Peak smiled gravely, but made no other answer. Then
he turned to Earwaker.
' Where is he ? '
' I can't say. Perhaps Mrs. Morton '
' They tell me he is somewhere in Norfolk,' replied the
lady. ' I forget the town.'
A summons to dinner broke off the conversation.
Moxey offered his ai-m to the one lady present as guest.
HORN IN KXILK 1 15
and Earwaker did the same courtesy to the hostess. Mr.
Morton, a meditative young man wlio had been listeninj^
witli a smile of indiilerence, sauntered aU^ng in tlic rear
with Godwin l*eak.
At the dinner-table Peak was taciturn, and seemed to
be musing on a disagreeable subject. To remarks, he
answered brietiy and absently. As Moxey, Earwaker,
and ]\Irs. ]\[orton kept up lively general talk, this
muteness was not much noticed, l)ut when the ladies liad
left the room, and Teak still frowned over his wine- glass,
the journalist rebuked him.
' What's the matter with you ? Don't depress us.'
The otlier laughed impatiently, and emptied his glass.
' Malkin has come back,' pursued Earwaker. ' lie burst
in upon me, just as I was leaving home — as mad as a March
hare. You must come and meet liim some evening.'
* As you please.'
Iveturned to the upper room, Teak seated himself in a
shadowy corner, crossed his legs, thrust his hands into Iiis
pockets, and leaned back to regard a ])icture on the wall
opposite. This attitude gave sullicient ])roof of the change
that had been wrought in him l)y the years between nine-
teen and nine-and-twenty ; even in a drawing-room, he
could take his ease unconcernedly. His face would have
led one to suppose him an older man ; it was set in an
expression of stern, if not morose, tlioughtfulness.
He had small, hard lips, indiflerent teeth (seldom ex-
hibited), a prominent chin, a long neck ; his l)ody was of
firm, not ungi^aceful build. Society's evening uniform
does not allow a man much scope in the matter of adorn-
ments ; it was plain, however, that (Jodwin no longer
scorned the tailor and haberdasher. He wore a suit
which confidently challenged the criticism of experts, and
the silk socks visible above his shoes nn'ght have been
selected by the most fastidious of worldlings.
When he had sat there for some minutes, his eyes
happened to stray towards ]\Iiss Moxey, who was just
then without a companion. Her glance answered to his,
and a smile of invitation left him no choice but to rise
and go to a seat beside her.
116 BORN IN EXILE
' You are meditative this evening,' she said, in a voice
subdued below its ordinary note.
' Not very fit for society, to tell the truth,' Godwin
answered, carelessly. * One has such moods, you know.
But how would you take it if, at the last moment, I
sent a telegram, " Please excuse me. Don't feel able to
talk '■ ? '
* You don't suppose I should be offended ? '
* Certainly you would.'
' Then you know less of me than I thought.'
Her eyes wandered about the room, their smile betoken-
ing an uneasy self-consciousness.
' Christian tells me,' she continued, ' that you are going
to take your holiday in Cornwall.'
' I thouglit of it. But perhaps I shan't leave town at
aU. It wouldn't be worth while, if I go abroad at the
end of the year.'
' Abroad ? ' Marcella glanced at him. ' What scheme is
that ? '
* Haven't I mentioned it ? I want to go to South
America and the Pacific islands. Earwaker has a friend,
who has just come back from travel in the tropics ; the
talk about it has half decided me to leave England. I
have been saving money for years to that end.'
* You- never spoke of it — to me,' Marcella replied,
turning a bracelet on her wrist. ' Should you go alone ? '
' Of course. I couldn't travel in company. You know
how impossible it would be for me to put up with the
moods and idiosyncrasies of other men.'
There was a cpiiet arrogance in his tone. The listener
still smiled, but her fingers worked nervously.
' You are not so unsocial as you pretend,' she remarked,
without looking at him.
* Pretend ! I make no pretences of any kind,' was his
scornful ansv/er.
* You arc uni^racious this eveninc^.'
' Yes — and can't hide it.'
'Don't try to, I beg. l^ut at least tell me what
troubles you.'
' That's impossible,' Peak replied, drily.
BORN IN EXILE 117
' Tlieii friendship goes fur notliing,' suid Marcella, with
a little forced laugh.
* Yes — in all Ijut a very few Imnian concerns. How
often could you tell ntr wliat it is that ]irevents your
taking life clieerfully ? '
He glanced at lier, and IMarceHa's eyes fell ; a moment
after, there was a suspicion of colour in her clieek.
'Wliatareyou reading?' Peak asked abruptly, Init in
a voice of more conventional note.
' Still Hahz.'
' I envy your ])ower of abstraction.'
' Yet I liear that you are deeply concerned al)out the
locomotive powers of the diatomacccr ? '
Tlieir eyes met, and they lauglied — not very mirtlifidly.
' It preserves me from worse follies,' said Teak. ' After
all, there are ways more or less dignified of consuming
time '
As he spoke, his ear caught a familiar name, uttered
by Christian Moxey, and he turned to listen. ]\Ioxey
and Earwaker were again talking of the liev. Bruno
Chilvers. Straightway disregarding Marcella, Peak gave
attention to the men's dialogue, and his forehead wrinkled
into scornful amusement.
' It's very interesting,' he exclaimed, at a moment when
there was silence throughout the company, ' to hear that
Chilvers is really coming to the front. At AVhitelaw it
used to be prophesied that he would be a bisliop, and now
I suppose he's fairly on the way to that. Shall we write
letters of congratulation to him, Earwaker ? '
- ' A joint epistle, if you like.'
Mr. Morton, who had l)rightened since dinner, began to
speak caustically of the form of intellect necessary now-
adays in a popular clergyman.
'He nuist write a good deal,' ])ut in Earwaker, 'and
that in a style which would have scandalised the orthodox
of the last century. Nationalised dogma is vastly in
demand.'
Teak's voice drew attention.
' Two kinds of books dealing with religion are now
greatly popular, and will be for a long time. On the one
118 BORN IN EXILE
hand there is that growing body of people who, for what-
ever reason, tend to agnosticism, but desire to be convinced
that agnosticism is respectable ; they are eager for anti-
dogmatic books, written by men of mark. They couldn't
endure to be classed with Bradlaugh, but they rank them-
selves confidently with Darwin and Huxley. Arguments
matter little or nothing to them. They take their
rationalism as they do a fashion in dress, anxious only that
it shall be " good form." Then there's the other lot of people
— a much larger class — who won't give up dogma, but have
learnt that bishops, priests, and deacons no longer hold it
with the old rigour, and that one must be "l)road"; these
are clamorous for treatises which pretend to reconcile
revelation and science. It's quite pathetic to watch the
enthusiasm with which they hail any man who distin-
guishes himself by this kind of apologetic skill, this pious
jugglery. Never mind how washy the book from a
scientific point of view. Only let it obtain vogue, and
it will be glorified as the new evangel. The day has
gone by for downright assaults on science ; to be market-
able, you must prove that The Origin of Species was
approvingly foreseen in the first chapter of Genesis, and
that the Apostles' Creed conflicts in no single point with
the latest results of biblical criticism. Both classes seek
\ to avoid ridicule, and to adapt themselves to a standard of
'respectability. If Cliilvers goes in for the newest apolo-
getics, he is bound to be enormously successful. The man
has brains, and really there are so few such men who still
care to go into the Church.'
There was a murmur of laughing approval. The
speaker had worked himself into eloquent nervousness ;
he leaned forward with his hands straining together, and
the muscles of his face quivering.
* And isn't it surprising,' said Marcella, * in how sliort a
time this apologetic attitude lias l)ecome necessary ?'
Peak flashed a triumphant look at her.
' I often rejoice to think of it ! ' he cried. ' How
magnificent it is that so many of the solemn jackasses
who brayed against Darwin from ten to twenty years
ago should live to ])e regarded as beneath contempt ! I
BORN IX KXII.K 110
say it earnestly: this tlioii<i;lit is unr (»f Iho tilings that
make life toleraljle to me ! '
'You have need of charity, friend Peak,' interposed
Earwaker. ' This is the spirit of the persecutor.'
'Nothin*;- of the kind! It is the spirit of justified
reason. You may say that those people were honestly
mistaken; — such honesty is the brand of a brainless ob-
structive. Thri/ would have persecuted, but too gladly !
There were, and are, men who would have connnitted
Darwin to penal servitude, if they had had the power.
Men like Lyell, who were able to develop a new con-
volution in their brains, I respect heartily. I only speak
of the squalling mass, the obscene herd of idiot mockers.'
' ^Vho assuredly,' remarked Earwaker, ' feel no shame
whatever in the retrospect of their idiocy. To convert
a mind is a subject for high rejoicing ; to confute a temper
isn't worth the doing.'
* That is philosophy,' said Marcella, ' but I suspect you
of often feeling as Mr. Peak does. T am sure / do.'
Peak, meeting an amused glance from the journalist,
left his seat and took up a volume that lay on one of the
tables. It was easy to see that his hands shook, and
that there was perspiration on his forehead. With
pleasant tact, Moxey struck into a new suljeet, and for
the next quarter of an hour Peak sat apart in the same
attitude as l^efore his outburst of satire and invective.
Then he advanced to ^liss Moxey again, for the purpose
of taking leave. This was the signal for Earwaker's
rising, and in a few minutes both men had left the
house.
' I'll go by train with you,' said Earwaker, as they walked
awav. ' Farringdon Street will suit me well enough.'
Peak vouchsafed no reply, but, when they had ])r<>-
eoeded a little distance, he exclaimed harshly :
' I hate emancipated women ! '
His companion stopped and laughed loudly.
' Ves, 1 hate emancipated women,' the other repeat^*!,
witli deliberation. 'Women ought neitlu^' to be en-
lightened nor dogmatic. They ought to be sexual.'
'That's unusual brutality on your part.'
120 BORN IN EXILE
* Well, you know what I mean.'
'I know what you think you mean,' said Earwaker.
' But the woman who is neither enlightened nor dogmatic
is only too common in society. They are fools, and
troublesome fools.'
Peak again kept silence.
' The emancipated woman,' pursued his friend, ' needn't
be a Miss Moxey, nor yet a Mrs. Morton.'
' ]\Iiss Moxey is intolerable,' said Peak. ' I can't quite
say why I dislike her so, but she grows more antipathetic
to me the better I know her. She has not a single
feminine charm — not one. I often feel very sorry for
her, but dislike her all the same.'
' Sorry for her,' nnised Earwaker. ' Yes, so do I. I
can't like her either. She is certainly an incomplete
woman. But her mind is of no low order. I had rather
talk with her than with one oi the imbecile prettinesses.
I half believe you have a sneaking sympathy with the
men who can't stand education in a w^ife.'
' It's possible. In some moods.'
y ' In no mood can I conceive such a prejudice, I have
no great attraction to women of any kind, but the un-
educated woman I detest.'
' Well, so do I,' nmttered Peak. ' Do you know what ? '
he added, abruptly. ' I shall be oft' to the Pacific. Yes,
I shall go this next w^inter. My mind is made up.'
' I shan't try to dissuade you, old fellow, though I had
rather have you in sight. Come and see Malkin. FU
drop you a note with an appointment.'
'Do.'
They soon reached the station, and exchanged but
few more words l)efore Earwaker's leaving the train at
Farringdon Street. I*eak pursued his journey towards
the south-east of London.
On reaching home, the journalist flung aside his foolish
coat of ceremony, indued a comfortable jacket, lit a pipe
with lono' stem, and l)eL'an to glance over an evening
newspa])er. lie had not long reposed in his arm-chair
when the familiar appeal thundered from without.
Malkin once more shook his hand effusivelv.
BORN IN EXILE 121
'Had my journey to Fulhain for notliin^. J)idn'L
matter; I ran over to Tiitney and lookcMl up my olil
landlady. The rooms are occupied by a married couple,
but I think we shall succeed in persuadini^^ them to make
way for me. I promised to find them lod^'ings every l)it
as good in two days' time.'
' If that is so easy, wliy not take the new rpiarters
yourself ^ '
' Why, to tell you the truth, 1 didn't think of il ! — Uh,
I had rather have the old crib ; I can do as I like there,
you know. Confound it ! Now I shall have to si)end
all to-morrow lodging-hunting for other })eople. Couldn't
I pay a man to do it ? Some confidential agent — private
police — you know what I mean ^ '
'A man of any delicacy,' replied Earwaker, with grave
countenance, ' would feel bound by such a promise to
personal exertion.'
'Eight; quite right! I didn't mean it; of course I
shall hunt conscientiously. Oh, I say ; I have brought
over a couple of armadilloes. Would you like one ? '
'Stulfed, do you mean ?'
* Pooh ! Alive, man, alive ! They only need a little
care. I should think you might keej) the creature in
your kitchen ; they become quite affectionate.'
The offer was unhesitatingly declined, and Malkin
looked hurt. There needed a good deal of genial exi)lana-
tion before Earwaker could restore him to his sja-ightly
mood.
'Where have you been dining?' cried the traveller.
' Moxey's — ah, I rememljcr. lUit wlio is Moxey ? A new
acquaintance, eh ? '
'Yes; I have known him about six months, (lot to
know him through Peak.'
'Peak? Peak? What, the fellow you once told me
about — who disappeared from Whitelaw because of h\<
uncle, tlie cat's-meat man ?'
'The man's-meat man, rather.'
' Yes, yes — the eating-house; I remember. You have
mot him again? Why on earth didn't you t(dl me in
your letters? What became of him ? Tell mo the story.'
122 BORN IN EXILE
* Certainly, if you will cease to shake down plaster
from the ceiling. — We met in a restaurant (appropriate
scene), happening to sit at the same table. Whilst
eating, we stared at each other fitfully. " I'll be hanged
if that isn't Peak," I kept saying to myself And at the
same moment we opened our lips to question each other.'
'Just the same thing happened once to a friend of
mine and a friend of his. But it was on board ship,
and both were devilish sea-sick. Walker — you remember
my friend AValker ? — tells the story in a side-splitting
way. I wonder wliat has Ijecome of Walker ? The last
time I met him he was travelling agent for a menagerie —
a most interesting fellow, Walker. — But I beg your
pardon. Go on, old fellow ! '
' Well, after that we at once saw a good deal of each
other. He has 1)een working for years at a chemical
factory down on the river ; Moxey used to l)e there, and
got him the place.'
' Moxey ? — Oh yes, the man you dined with. You
must remember that these are new names to me. I nnist
know all these new people, I say. You don't mind ? '
' You shall be presented to the whole multitude, as
soon as you like. Peak wants to see you. He thinks
of an excursion like this last of yours.'
' He does ? By Jove, we'll go together ! I have always
wanted a travelling companion. We'll start as soon as
ever he likes! — well, in a month or two. I must just
have time to look round. Oh, 1 haven't done with the
tropics yet ! I must tell him of a rattling good insect-
powder I have invented ; I think of patenting it. I say,
how does one get a patent ? Quite a simple matter, I
suppose ? '
' Oh, always has been. The simplest and least worry-
ing of all business enterprises.'
'What? Eh ? That smile of yours means mischief.'
In a (piarter of an hour they luid got back to the
subject of Peak's history.
'And did he really run away because of the eating-
house ? ' Malkin inquired.
' T sliall never vcntuni to ask, and it's not verv likelv
BORN IX KXILE 123
he will admit it. It was some time l)erure he cared to
talk much of Whitelaw.'
*I>ut what is he doing? You used to think h.' would
come out strong, didn't you ? Has lie written anytliing { '
'A few things in 77ie Lihcrator, five or six years ago.'
' What, the atheistic paper ? '
' Yes. But he's ashamed of it now. That helongs to
a hygone stage of development.'
' Turned orthodox ? '
Earwaker laughed. I
' I only mean that he is asliamed of the connection with /
street-corner rationalism.'
'Quite right. Devilish low, that kind of tiling. l*>ut
I went in for it myself once. ])id I ever tell you that
I debated with a parson on Mile-end Waste ? Fact !
That was in my hot-headed days. A crowd of coster-
mongers applauded me in tlie most flattering way. — I
say, Earwaker, you haven't any whisky ? '
' Forgive me : your conversation makes me forget
hospitality. Shall I make hot water ? I have a spirit-
kettle.'
'Cold for me. I get in such a deuced perspiration
when I begin to talk. — Try this tobacco; the last of
half a hundred-weight I took in at Bahia.'
The traveller refreslied himself with a full tumlilcr,
and resumed the conversation cheerily.
'Has he just been wasting his time, then, all these
years ? '
' He goes in for science — laboratory work, evolutionary
speculations. Of course I can't judge his progress in
such matters ; but Moxey, a clever man in the same line,
thinks very highly of him.'
'Just the fellow to travel with. I want to get hold
of some solid scientific ideas, but I haven't the patience
to work steadily. A confounded fault of mine, you know,
Earwaker, — want of patience. \'ou must have noticed
it?'
* Oh — well, now and then, peihaps.'
'Yes, yes; but of course I know myself Ix'tter. And
now tell me about Moxev. A marri<'d man, of course ? '
124 BORN IN EXILE
' No, lives with a sister.'
' Unmarried sister ? — Brains ? '
' Pretty well supplied with that commodity.'
* You must introduce me to her. T do like women with
brains. — Orthodox or enlightened ? '
' Bitterly enlightened.'
' Really ? Magnificent ! Oh, I must know her.
Nothing like an emancipated woman 1 How any man
can marry the ordinary female passes my understanding.
What do you. think ? '
' My opinions are in suspense ; not yet precipitated, as
Peak might say.'
One o'clock sounded from neighbouring cliurches, but
Malkin was wide awake as ever. He entered upon a
detailed narrative of his travels, delightful to listen to,
so oddly blended were the strains of conscious and un-
conscious humour wdiich marked his personality. Two
o'clock ; three o'clock ;■ — he would have talked till break-
fast-time, but at last Earwaker declared that the hour
had come for sleep. As Malkin had taken a room at
the Inns of Court Hotel, it was easy for him to repair
to his quarters. The last his friend heard of him was
an unexplained laugh, echoing far down the staircase.
ir
Peak's destination was Peckliani llya. On quittiuLj tho
railway, he had a walk of some ten minutes aluni^' a road
which smelt of new l)ricks and stucco lieated liy the
summer sun ; an obscure passage led him into a street
partly of dwelling-houses, partly of shops, the latter closed.
He paused at the side door of one over which tlie street
lamp dimly revealed — ' Button, Herbalist.'
His latch-key admitted him to total darkness, but he
moved forward with the confidence of long use. He
softly ascended two flights of stairs, opened a door, struck
a match, and found himself in a comfortable sitting-room,
soon illumined by a reading-lamp. The atmosphere, as
throughout the house, was strongly redolent of dried
simples. Anyone acquainted with the characteristics of
furnished lodgings must have surmised that Peak dwelt
here among his own movealJes, and was indebted to the
occupier of the premises for bare walls alone ; the tables
and chairs, though plain enough, were such as civilisation
permits ; and though there were no pictures, sundry orna-
ments here and there made strong denial of lodging-house
alfinity. It was at once laboratory, study, and dwelling-
room. Two large caljinets, something the worse lor
transportation, alone formed a link between this abode
and the old home at Twyl)ridge. liooks were not
numerous, and a good microscope seemed to l)e the only
scientific instrument of much importance. On door-pegs
hung a knapsack, a botanist's vasculum, and a geologist's
wallet.
A round table was spread with the materials of supper,
126 BORN IN EXILE
and here again an experienced lodger must have bestowed
contemplative scrutiny, for no hand of common landlady
declared itself in the arrangement. The cloth was
spotless, the utensils tasteful and carefully disposed. In
a bowl lay an appetising salad, ready for mingling; a
fragment of Camembert cheese was relieved upon a setting
of green leafage : a bottle of ale, with adjacent corkscrew,
stood beside the plate ; the very loaf seemed to come from
no ordinary baker's, or was made to look better than its
kin by the fringed white cloth in which it nestled.
The custom of four years had accustomed Eeak to take
these things as a matter of course, yet he would readily
have admitted that they were extraordinary enough.
Indeed, he even now occasionally contrasted this state of
comfort with the hateful experiences of his first six years
in London. The subject of lodgings was one of those on
which (often intemperate of speech) he spoke least temper-
ately. For six years he had shifted from quarter to
quarter, from house to house, driven away each time by
lliejLateful contact of vulgarity in every form, — by foulness
and dishonesty, by lying, slandering, quarrelling, by
drunkenness, by brutal vice, — by all abominations that
distinguish the lodging-letter of the metropolis. Obliged
to practise extreme economy, lie could not take refuge
among self-respecting people, or at all events had no luck
in endeavouring to find such among the poorer working-
class. To _a man of Godwin's idiosyncrasy the London
poor were of necessity a^bmninablc, and it anguished him
to be forced to live among them.
Itcscue came at last, and in a very unexpected way.
Iicsident in the more open part of Bermondsey (winter
mornings made a long journey to Ivotherhithe intolerable),
he happened to walk one day as far as Peckham Ilye, and
was there attracted by the shop window of a herbalist.
He entered to make a purchase, and got into conversation
with Mr. Button, a middle-aged man of bright intelligence
and more reading than could be expected. The herbalist
led his customer to an upper room, in which Avere stored
sundry curiosities, and happened casually to say that
he was desirous of finding a lodger for two superfluous
BURN IX KXILK 127
cliambers. Peak's inquiries led to liis seein,Lj Mrs. JJution,
wliom lie found tu ])e a Frencli woman of very jjlcasin"
appearance; she spoke fluent Freneli-Kn^lish," anythinjj;
but disagreeable to iiOL-t^ai' constantly tormented by the
London ve rnacular. After short rellection \hi dt'iided to
take and furnish the rooms. It proved a most lortunate
step, for he lived (after the outlay for furniture) at much
less expense than theretofore, and in com])arative luxurv.
Cleanliness, neatness, good taste by no means exliausted
^Irs. lUitton's virtues; her cooking seemed to tlie lodger
of incredil)le perfection, and the intinite goodwill with
which he was tended made strange contrast with the base
usage he had commonly experienced.
In these ten years he had paid but four visits to
Twybridge, each of brief duration. Xaturally there were
changes among his kinsfolk : Charlotte, after an engage-
ment which prolonged itself to the fifth twelvemonth, had
become Mrs. Cusse, and her husband now had a draper's
shop of his' own, with two children already born into the
w^orld of draperdom. Oliver, twice fruitlessly atlianced,
luid at length (when six-and-twenty) wedded a young
person wliom his njother and his aunt both regarded as a
most undesirable connection, tlie daughter (aged tliirty-
two) of a man who was drinking himself to death on sucli
money as he could earn by casual reporting for a
Twybridge newspaper. ]\Irs. Peak the elder now aljode
with her sister at tlie millinery shop, and saw little of her
two married children. With Oliver and Charlotte tlieir
brother had no sym])athy, and affected none; he never
wrote to them, nor they to him; but years had strength-
ened his regard for his mother, and with her he had fairly ^
regular correspondence. Gladly he would have seen her
more often, but the air of shopkeeping lie was com]»elled
to breathe \vhen he visited Twybridge nauseated ami
repelled him. He recognised the suitability both of
TTTiver and Charlotte for the positions to which life had
consigned them — they suffered from \u) profitless aspira-
tion ; but it seemed to him a just cause of (juarrel with
fate that his kindred should thus have relapsed, instead of
bettering the rank their father had bequeathed to them.
128 BORN IN EXILE
He would not avow to such friends as Moxey and
Earwaker the social standing of his only recognised
relatives.
As for the unrecognised, he had long ago heard with
some satisfaction that Andrew Peak, having ultimately
failed in his Kingsmill venture, returned to London.
Encounter with the fatal Andrew had been spared him
ever since that decisive day when Master Jowey Peak
recited from Coleridge and displayed his etymological
crenius.
o
For himself, he had earned daily bread, and something
more ; he had studied in desultory fashion ; he had seen
a good deal of the British Isles and had visited Paris. The
result of it all was gnawing discontent, intervals of furious
revolt, periods of black despair.
—.-.He had achieved nothini'', and he was alone.
Young still, to be sure ; at twenty-nine it is too early
to abandon ambitions which are supported by force of
brain and of will. But circumstances must needs help if
the desires of his soul were to be attained. On first
coming to London, received with all friendliness by
Christian Moxey, he had imagined that it only depended
upon himself to find admission before long to congenial
society — by which he then understood the companionship
of intelligent and aspiring young men. Christian, how-
ever, had himself no such circle, and knew that the
awkward lad from Twybridge could not associate with the
one or two wealthy families to which he could have pre-
sented him. The School of Mines was only technically
useful; it helped Godwin to get his place with Bates &
Sons, but supplied no friendships. In the third year,
Moxey inherited means and left the chemical works for
continental travel.
By tormenting attraction Godwin was often led to walk
! in the wealthy districts of London. Why was no one of
i these doors open to him ? There were his equals ; not in
the mean streets where he dwelt. There were the men of
^_, culture and capacity, the women of exquisite person and
1 exalted mind. Was he the inferior of such people? By
Iheaven, no !
I'.oKX IN i:.\iij-: 121)
He chanced once to be in Hyde Park on the uccasiun of
some public ceremony, and was l)rought to pause at the
edge of a gaping plebeian crowd, drawn uj) to witness ihe
passing of aristocratic veliicles. Close in front of him an
open carriage came to a stop ; in it sat, or rather reclined,
two ladies, old and young. Upon this picture (lodwiu
fixed his eyes with- the intensity of fascination; his
memory never lost the impress of these ladies' faces.
Xothing very noteworthy about them ; but to ( lodwin they
conveyed a passionate perception of all that is imi)lied in
social superiority. Here he stood, one of the multitude,
of the herd ; shoulder to shoulder with boors and pick-
pockets ; and within reach of his hand reposed those two
ladies, in Olympian calm, seeming unaware even of the
existence of the throng. Xow they exchanged a word ;
now they smiled to eacli other. How delicate was the
moving of their lips! How fine must 1)0 their enuncia-
tion ! On the box sat an old coachman and a young
footman ; they too were splendidly impassive, scornful of
the multitudinous gaze. — The block was relieved, and on
the carriage rolled.
They were his equals, those ladies ; nierely his equals.
With such as they he should by right of nature associate.
In his rebellion, he could not liate them. He hated the
malo doro us rabble who stared insolently at them and who
envied their immeasurable remoteness. Of mere wealth
he thought not ; might he only be recognised by the gentle
of birth and breeding for what he really was, and Ix'
rescued from the promiscuity ofjjie vulgar !
Yet at this time he was drawn into connection with the
movement of popidar Radicalism which revolts against
religious respectability. Inherited antipatliy to all con-
ventional forms of faith outweighed his other prejudices
so far as to induce him to write savage papers for The
Liberator. Personal contact with artisan freethinkers
was disgusting to him. From the meeting of emancii)ated
workmen he went away with scorn and detestation in his
heart; but in the quiet of his lodgings lie could sitclown
to aid their propaganda. One explanation of this incon-
sistency lay in the fact that no otlier channel was open to
9
130 BORN IN EXILE
his literary impulses. Pure science could not serve him,
for he had no original results to announce. Pure litera-
ture seemed beyond his scope, yet he was constantly
endeavouring to express himself. He burned willi_thfi-
desire of fame, and saw no hope of achieving it save as an
author. The Liberator would serve him as a first step.
In time he might get foothold in the monthly reviews,
and see his name side by side with those of the leaders
of thought.
Occasions, of course, offered when he might have
extended his acquaintance, but they were never of a kind
that he cared to use; at best they would only have
admitted liim to the homes of decent, semi-educated
families, and for such society he was altogether unfitted.
The licence of the streets but seldom allured him. After
his twenty-fourth year he was proof against the decoys of
venal pleasure, and lived a life of asceticism exceed-
ingly rare in young and lonely men. When Christian
Moxey returned to London and took the house at Notting
Hill, which he henceforth occupied together with his
sister, a possibility of social intercourse at length appeared.
Indeed it was a substantial gain to sit from time to time
at a civilised table, and to converse amid graceful sur-
roundings with people who at all events followed the
^ intellectual current of the day. Careless hitherto of his
personal appearance, he now cultivated an elegance of
attire in conformity with^iis aristocratic instinctsKand
this habit became fixed. When next he visited Twy bridge,
the change in his appearance was generally remarked.
Mrs. Peak naturally understood it as a significant result
of his intercourse with Miss Moxey, of whom, as it seemed
to her, he spoke with singular reticence.
But Marcella had no charm for Goodwin's imagination^
notwithstanding that he presently suspected a warmth
of interest on her side which he was far from consciously
encouraging. Nor did he find among his friends any man
or woman for whose acquaintance he greatly cared. .The
Moxeys had a very small circle, consisting chieHy of
intellectual inferiors. Christian was too indolent to make
a figure in society, and his sister suffered from peculiarities
HOllX IX KXTI,!-: 13 I
of mind ami tempcrameiil whicli matlc. it as dinicull for
lier as for Peak liimselt' to form intimate friendships.
Wlien chance encounter brouglit him into connection
with Earwaker, tlie revival of bygone things was at
first doubtfully pleasant. Karwaker himself, remarkably
developed and become a very interesting man, was as
welcome an associate as he could have found, but it cost
him some eftbrt to dismiss the tliought of Andrew Peak's
eating-house, and to accept the friendly tact with which
tlie journalist avoided all hint of unpleasant memories.
That Earwaker should refrain from a single question
concerning that abrupt disappearance, nearly ten years ago,
sutticiently declared his knowledge of the unspeakalile
cause, a reflection wliich often made Godwin wriihe.
However, this difficulty was overcome, and the two met
very frequently. For several weeks (Jodwin enjoyed
better spirits than he had known since the first excite-
ment of his life in London faded away.
One result was easily foreseen. His mind grew busy
with literary projects, many that he had long contem-
l)lated and some that were new. Once more he aimed
at contributing to the ' advanced ' reviews, and sketched
out several papers of sociological tenor. Xone of these
were written. As soon as he sat down to deliberate
composition, a sense of his deficiencies embarrassed liim.
Godwin's self-conhdence had nothing in common with the
conceit which rests on imaginary strength. Power there
was in him ; of that he could not but be conscious : its true
direction he had not yet learned. Defect of knowledge,
lack of pen-practice, confusion and contradictoriness of
aims, instability of conviction, — these faults he recogniseil
in liimself at every moment of inward scrutiny.
On liis table this evening lay a library volume wliich
he had of late been reading, a book wliich had sprung into
enormous popularity. It was called Spiritual Aspnts of
Evolution, and undertook, with confidence characteristic of
its kind, to reconcile the latest results of science with the
dogmas of Oriental religion. This work was in his mind
when he spoke so vehemently at Mt)xey's ; already he had
trembled with an impulse to write something on the subject,
132 BORN IN EXILE
and during liis journey home a possible essay liad begun to
shape itself. Late as was the hour he could not prepare
for sleep. His brain throbbed with a congestion of
thought ; he struggled to make clear the lines on which his
satire niiglit direct itself. By two o'clock he had tiung
down on paper a conglomerate of burning ideas, and thus
relieved he at length went to bed.
Two days later came a note from Staple Inn, inviting
him to meet Malkin the next evening. By this time he
had made a beirinnino- of his critical essav, and the
exordium so far satisfied him that he was tempted to
take it for Earvvaker's judgment. But no ; better his
friend should see tlie thing when it was complete.
About eight o'clock he reached the journalist's chambers.
Malkin had not yet arrived. Peak amused liimself with
exandning certain tropical products which the traveller
had recently cast pell-mell into his friend's sitting-room.
Then sounded a knock at the door, but it was not such
as would have heralded the expected man.
' A telegram,' observed Earwaker, and went to take it in.
He returned with hoarse sounds of mirth.
' Our friend excuses himself. Eead this characteristic
despatch.'
l*eak saw with surprise that the telegram far exceeded
familiar dimensions. ' Unspeakably grieved,' it began.
' Cannot possibly with you. At moment's notice under-
taken escort two poor girls Eouen. Not even time look
in apologise. (Jo riCi Dieppe and leave Victoria few
minutes. Hope be back Thursday. Express sincerest
regret Mr. Peak. Lament appearance discourtesy. AVill
apologise personally. Common humanity constrains go
Eouen. Will explain Thursday. No time add another
word. Eush tickets train.'
' There you have the man ! ' cried Karwaker. ' How do
you class such a mind as that ? Ten to one this is some
Quixotic obligation he has laid upon himself, and probably
he has gone without even a handbag.'
* Vocally delivered,' said Peak, ' this would represent a
certain stage of drunkenness. I sui)pose it isn't open to
such an explanation ? '
BORN IN KXII.K 133
' Mai kin never was intoxicated, save wiili liis own
vivacity.'
Tliey discussed the sint^ailar Itcinij with good-natured
mirth, tlien turned by degrees to other topics.
' I have just come across a passage tliat will delight you/
said Earwaker, taking up a l)ook. ' Perha}»s you know it.'
He read from Sir Thomas lirown's Psrudodit.ria
Epidcmica. ' " jMen's names sliould not only distinguisli
them, A man should be something tliat all men are not,
and individual in somewhat beside his proper name.
Thus, while it exceeds not the bound of reason and
modesty, we cannot condemn singularity. Nos numcius
sumvs is the motto of the multitude, and for that reason
are they fools." '
Peak lauglied his approval.
' It astonishes me,' he said, lighting ids pipe, ' that you
can go on writing for this Sunday rag, when you have
just as little sympathy with its aims as I have. 1 )o get
into some less offensive connection.'
'What paper would you reconnncnd (' asked the other,
with liis significant smile.
' Why need you journalise at all i '
' On the whole, I like it. And remember, to admit that
the multitude are fools is not the same thing as to deny |f
the possibility of progress.'
' Do you really believe yourself a democrat, Karwaker i '
' M — m — m ! Well, yes, I believe the democratic spirit
is stronger in me than any other.'
Teak mused for a minute, then suddeidy Ljoked up.
' And what am I ? '
' I am glad nothing much depends on my successfidly
defining you.'
They laughed together.
*r sup])Ose,' said Godwin, 'you can't call a man a
democrat who recognises in his heart and soul a true
distinction of social classes. Social, mark. The division I y
instinctively support is by no means intellectual. Tlie wcll-
Itorn fool is very often more sure of my rcsi)ect tlian the
working man who struggles to a fair measure of education.'
Karwaker would have liked to comment on this with
134 BORN IN EXILE
remarks personal to the speaker, but he feared to do so.
His silence, however, was eloquent to Peak, who resumed
brusquely.
' I am not myself well-born, — tliough if my parents
could have come into wealth early in their lives, perhaps
I might reasonably have called myself so. All sorts of
arguments can be brought against my prejudice, but the
prejudice is ineradicable. I respect hereditary social
standing, independently of the individual's qualities.
There's nothing of the flunkey in this, or I greatly deceive
myself. Birth in a sphere of -xefinEHueiit js desirable and
respectable ; it saves one, absolutely, from many forms of
coarseness. The masses are not only fools, but very near
the brutes. Yes, they can send forth fine individuals —
but remain base. I don't deny the possibility of social
advance; I only say that at present the lower classes
are always disagreeable, often repulsive, sometimes
hateful.'
' I could apply that to the classes above them.'
'Well, I can't. But I am quite ready to admit that
there are all sorts of inconsistencies in me. Now, the
other day I was reading Burns, and I couldn't describe
what exaltation all at once possessed me in the thought
that a ploughman had so glorified a servant-girl that
together they shine in the highest heaven, far above all
the monarchs of earth. This came upon me with a rush
— a very rare emotion. Wasn't that democratic ? '
He inquired dubiously, and Earwaker for a moment
had no reply but his familiar ' M — m — m ! '
'No, it was not democratic,' the journalist decided at
length ; ' it was pride of intellect.'
' Think so ? Then look here. If it happens that a
whining wretch stops me in the street to beg, what do you
suppose is my feeling ? I am ashamed in the sense of
my own prosperity. I can't look him in the face. H I
yielded to my natural impulse, I should cry out, " Strike
me ! spit at me ! show you hate me ! — anything but that
terrible humiliation of yourself before me!" That's how
I feel. The abasement of which he isn't sensible affects
mc on his behalf. T give money with what delicacy I can.
K<>i;\ jx Kxii.K i:jr,
If 1 am obliged to refuse, I mutter ajiologies and hurry
away with burning cheeks. Wliat does that mean ^'
Earwaker regarded liim curiously.
' That is mere fineness of humanity.'
• Perhaps moral weakness T
' 1 don't care for the scalpel of the pessimist. Let us
give it the better name.'
Teak had never been so communicative. His progress
in composition these last evenings seemed to have raised
liis spirits and spurred the activity of his mind. With
a look of pleasure he pursued his self-analysis.
' Special antipathies — sometimes explicable enough —
inlluence me very widely. Now, I by no means hate all
orders of uneducated people. A hedger, a fisherman, a
country mason, — people of that kind I rather like to talk
with. I could live a good deal wdth them. Rut the
London vulgar I abominate, root and branch. The mere
sound of their voices nauseates me ; tlieir vilely grotes([ue
accent and pronunciation — bah 1 I could wi'ite a paper
to show that they are essentially the basest of English
mortals, rnhappily. 1 kno w so much about tltem. If I
saw the probability of my dying in a London lodging-
house, I would go out into the sweet-scented fields and
there kill myself.'
Earwaker understood much by this avowal, and wondered
whether liis friend desired him so to do.
' Well, I can't say that I have any affection for the
race,' he replied. ' I certainly believe that, socially and
politically, there is less hope of them tlian of the lower
orders in any other part of England.'
'They are damned by the beastly conditions of tlieir
life!' cried Godwin, excitedly. '1 don't mean only the
slum -denizens. All, all — Hannuersmith as much as
St. George's - in - the - East. 1 must write about this;
1 must indeed.'
* Do by all means. Nothing would benefit you more
than to get your soul into print.'
Peak delayed a little, then :
' Well, I am doing something at last.'
And he gave an account of his projected essay. l»y
136 BORN IN EXILE
this time his hands trembled with nervous agitation, and
occasional!}^ a dryness of the palate half choked his voice.
' This may do very well,' opined Earwaker. ' I suppose
you will try Tlir Critical ?■ '
* Yes. But have I any chance ? Can a perfectly
unknown man hope to get in ? '
They debated this aspect of the matter. Seeing Peak
had laid down his pipe, the journalist offered him tobacco.
'Thanks; I can't smoke just yet. It's my misfortune
tliat I can't talk earnestly without throwing my body into
disorder.'
' How stolid I am in comparison ! ' said Earwaker.
' That book of M'Naughten's,' resumed the other, going
back to his sul)ject. ' I suppose the clergy accept it ? '
' Largely, I believe.'
Peak mused.
' Now, if I were a clergyman '
But his eye met Earwaker's, and they broke into
laughter.
' Why not ? ' pursued Godwin. ' Did I ever tell you
that my people originally wished to make a parson of me ?
Of course I resisted tooth and nail, but it seems to me
now that I was rather foolish in doing so. I wish I had
l)een a parson. In many ways the position woukl have
suited me very well.'
' M— m— m ! '
' I am quite serious. Well, if I were so placed, I
should preach Church dogma, pure and simple. I would
have nothing to do with these reconciliations. I would
stand firm as Jeremy Taylor ; and in consequence 1
should have an immense and enthusiastic congregation.'
' I daresay.'
' Depend upon it, let the dogmas do what they still
can. Tliere's a vast police force in tliem, at all events. A
man may ver}^ strongly defend himself for preacliing them.'
The pursuit of this argument led Earwaker to ask :
'What proportion of the clergy can still take that
standing in stolid conscientiousness ? '
'What proportion are convinced that it is untenable ?'
returned Peak.
BORX IX KXILK 137
'Many wilfully shut tlicir eyes to tlie truth.'
* No, they don't shut their eyes ! ' cried ( iodwiu. ' Tliey
merely lower a nictitating membrane which permits
them to gaze at light without feeling its full impact.'
* I recommend you to l)ring that into your paper,' said
the journalist, with his deep cliuckle.
An hour later they were conversing with no less
animation, but the talk was not so critical. Christian
Moxey had come up as a topic, and P^arwaker was saying
that he found it difficult to divine the man's personality.
* You won't easily do that,' replied Peak, ' until you know
more of his story. I can't see that 1 am bound to secrecy
— at all events with you. Poor Moxey imagines that he
is in love, and the fancy has lasted about ten years.'
* Ten years ? '
'When I first knew him he was paying obvious
attentions to a rather plain cousin down at Twyl)ridge.
Why, I don't know, for he certainly was devoted to
a girl here in London. All he has confessed to me is
that he had given up hopes of her, but that a letter
of some sort or other revived them, and he hastened back
to town. He might as well have stayed away ; the girl
very soon married another man. Less than a year later
she had bitterly repented this, and in some way or other
she allowed Moxey to know it. Since then they have
been Platonic lovers — nothing more, I am convinced.
They see each other about once in six months, and
presumably live on a hope that the obnoxious husband
may decease. T only know the woman as " Constance " ;
never saw her.'
'So that's Moxey ? I begin to understand better.'
'Admirable fellow, l)ut dei)loral)ly weak. I have an
aflection for him, and have had from our first meetini^.'
'Women!' mused Earwaker, and sliook liis licad.
' Vou despise them ? '
' On the whole, Pm afraid so.'
'Yes, but irj(((f women?' cried the other with im])a-
tience. 'It would be just as reasonabh* to say that y«»u
despise men. Can't you see tliat V
' I doul)t it.'
138 BORN IN p:xile
' Now look here ; the stock objections to women are
traditional. They take no account of the vast change
that is coming about. Because women were once empty-
headed, it is assumed they are all still so en masse. The
defect of the female mind ? It is my belief that this is
nothing more nor less than the defect of the uneducated
human mind. I believe most men among the brutally
ignorant exhibit the very faults which are cried out
upon as exclusively feminine. A woman has hitherto
l)een an ignorant human being; that explains everything.'
' Not everything ; something, perhaps. Eemember
your evolutionism. The preservation of the race demands
in women many kinds of irrationality, of obstinate
instinct, which enrage a reasoning man. Don't suppose I
speak theoretically. Four or five years ago I had really
made up my mind to marry; I wasted much valuable
time among women and girls, of anything but low social
standing. But my passions were choked by my logical
faculty. I foresaw a terrible possibility — that I might
beat my wife. One thing I learned w^ith certainty was
that the woman, fjujf woman, liates abstract thought —
hates it. Moreover (and of consequence) she despises
every ambition that has not a material end.'
He enlarged upon the subject, followed it into all its
ramifications, elaborated the inconsistencies with wliich
it is rife. Teak's reply was deliberate.
'Admitting that some of these faults are rooted in
sex, 1 should only find them intolerable when their
expression took a vulgar form. Between irrationality
and coarseness of mind there is an enormous distinc-
tion.'
' With coarse minds I have nothing to do.'
' Forgive me if I ask you a blunt question,' said Beak,
after hesitating. ' Have you ever associated with women
of the highest refinement ^ '
Earwaker laughed.
' I don't know what that phrase means. It sounds
rather odd on your lips.'
'AVell, women of the highest class of commoners.
With peeresses we needn't concern ourselves.'
HOKX IX KXII.K 1:^)0
'You iiiiaLjino thai social })icct'denc(.' makes all that
ilitlereiice in women ? '
* Yes, 1 do. The daughter of a county family is a
liner being than any girl who can sj)ring from the nomad
orders.'
'Even supposing your nomads i)roduce a Kachel or a
( 'harlotte Bronte i '
' We are not talking of genius,' Peak replied.
' It was irrelevant, I know. — Well, yes, 1 Juirr conversed
now and then with what you would call well-born women.
They are delightful creatures, some of theni, in given
circumstances. But do you think I ever dreamt of taking
a wife drenched with social prejudices T
Peak's face expressed annoyance, and he said nothing.
* A man's wife,' pursued P'arwaker, ' may be his superior
in whatever you like, cjccpt social position. That is
precisely the distinction that no woman can forget or
forgive. On that account they are the obstructive element
in social history. If I loved a woman of rank above my
own she would make me a renegade: for her sake I should
deny my faith. I should write for the >SV. Jamcss G(i'jfti\
and at last poison myself in an agony of shame.'
A burst of laughter cleared the air for a moment, but
for a moment only. Peak's countenance clouded over
again, and at length he said in a lower tone :
' Tliere are men whose character would defy that rule.'
'Yes — to their own disaster. But I ought to have
made one exception. There is a case in which a woman
will marry without much regard to her husband's origin.
Let him be a parson, and he may aim as liigh as he
chooses.'
Peak tried to smile. He made no answer, and fell
into a tit of brooding.
' What's all this about ? ' asked the journalist, wlien he
too had mused awhile. 'Whose aeciuaintance liave ynu
been making ? '
' Xo one's.'
The suspicion was inevitable.
'If it were true, perhaps you would be justified in
mistrusting my way of regarding these things. liut it's
o
140 BORN IN EXILE
the natural tendency of my mind. If I ever marry at all,
it will be a woman of far higher birth than my own.'
' Don't malign your parents, old fellow. They gave you
a brain inferior to tliat of few men. You wall never meet
a woman of higher birth.'
'That's a friendly sophism. 1 can't thank you for it,
because it has a bitter side.'
But the compliment had excited Peak, and after a
moment's delay he exclaimed :
* I have no other ambition in life — no other ! Think
the confession as ridiculous as you like ; my one supreme
desire is to marry a perfectly refined woman. Put it in
the correct terms : I am a plebeian, and I aim at marrying
^ lady.'
The last words were Hung out defiantly. He quivered
as he spoke, and his face Hushed.
' I can't wish you success,' returned liis friend, with a
srave smile.
You couldn't help it sounding like a sneer, if you did.
The desire is hopeless, of course. It's l)ecause I know-
that, that I have made up my mind to travel for a year
or two ; it'll help me on towards the age when I shall
reQ;ard all women with indifference. We won't talk about
it any more.'
' One question. You seriously believe that you could
find satisfaction in the life to which such a marriage would
condemn you ? '
* What life ? ' asked Peak, impatiently.
•' That of an average gentleman, let us say, with house
in town and country, with friends whose ruling motive
was social propriety.'
' I conld enjoy the good and tln^ow aside the distasteful.'
' What about the distastefulness of your wife's crass
conventionalism, especially in religion ? '
' It' would not be r/Y/.s.s, to begin with. If her religion
were genuine, I could tolerate it well enough ; if it were
merely a form, I could train her to my own opinions.
Society is growing liberal — the best of it. Please re-
member that I have in mind a woman of the liighest type
our civilisation can produce.'
lioKN IX KXTLK 141
* Then you nuistn't look tor licr in society ! ' cried
Earwaker.
• I don't care ; where you will, so lonj^' as she had always
liVed among people of breeding and high education, and
never had her thoughts soiled with the vihi contact of
poverty.'
Karwakcr started up and reached a volume from a shelf.
Quickly finding the desired page, he hegan to read aloud :
' Di-ar, liad the world in its tapriie
Deigned to proclaim — I know you liotii.
Have recognised your jdighted truth.
Am sponsor for you ; live in peace ! '
He read to the end of the poem, and then looked u[»
with an admiring smile.
'An ideal!' exclaimed Peak. 'An ideal akin Lo
]\Iurger's and Musset's grisettes, who never existed.'
'An ideal, most decidedly. lUit pray what is this
consummate lady you have in mind ? An ideal every
bit as much, and of the two I prefer Browning's. For
my own part, I am a polygamist ; my wives live in
literature, and too far asunder to be able to quarrel.
Impossible women, but exquisite. They shall suflico
to inc.'
Teak rose, sauntered about the room for a minute or
two, then said :
'T have just got a title for my paper. 1 shall call it
" The Xew Sophistry."'
' Do very well, I should think,' replied the other, smiling.
' AVill you let me see it when it's done ? '
' Who knows if I shall finish it ? Nothing 1 ever
undertook has been finished yet — nothing won that I
ever aimed at. Good night. Let me hear about Malkin.'
In a week's time GodNvin received another sunnnons
t(j Staple Inn, with promise of ]\Ialkin's assured presence.
In reply he wrote :
' ( )wing to a new arrangement at Bates's, I start to-
morrow for my holiday in Cornwall, so cannot see you
lor a few weeks. Please otler Malkin my ajtologies:
make them (I mean it) as profuse as those he telegraphed.
142 BOKN IN EXILE
Herewith 1 send you my paper, " The New Sophistry,"
which 1 have written at a few vehement sittings, and
have carelessly copied. If you think it worth while,
will you have the kindness to send it for me to Tiic
Critical! I haven't signed it, as my unmeaning name
would perhaps indispose the fellow to see much good
in it. I should thank you if you would write in your
own person, saying that you act for a friend ; you
are probably well known in those quarters. If it is
accepted, time enough to claim my glory. If it seems
to you to have no chance, keep it till I return, as I hate
the humiliation of refusals. — Don't think I made an ass
of myself the other night. "\\x will never speak on that
subject again. All I said was horribly sincere, but I'm
afraid you can't understand that side of my nature. I
should never have spoken so frankly to Moxey, though
he has made no secret with me of his own weaknesses.
If I perish before long in a South American swamp, you
will be able to reflect on my personality with completer
knowledge, so I don't regret the indiscretion.'
Ill
' Fcirunt ft iiiipuliinturj
Godwin Peak read the motto benealli the clock in
Exeter Cathedral, and believed it of Christian ori^'in.
Had he known that the words were found in Martial,
his rebellious spirit would have enjoyed the consecration
of a phrase from such an unlikely author. Even as he
must have laudied had he stood in the Vatican before
o
I he figures of those two Greek dramatists who, for ages,
were revered as Christian saints.
His ignorance preserved him from a clash uf senti-
ments. This afternoon he was not disposed to cNiiicism ;
rather he welcomed the softening influence of tliis noble
interior, and let the golden sunlight form what shapes
it would — heavenly beam, mystic aureole — before Ins
mind's eye. Architecture had no special interest for
him, and the history of church or faith could seldom
touch his emotions ; but the glorious handiwork of men
long dead, the solemn stillness of an ancient sanctuary,
made that appeal to him which is inde]ten(k'nt of
names.
' Pcrcant ct ii/qji'/tditii/:'
He sat down where the soft, slow ticking of the clock
could guide his thoughts. This morning he had left
London by the earliest train, and after a night in Exeter
would travel westward by leisurely stages, seeing as
much as possible of the coast and of that inland scenery
which had geological significance. His costume declared
him bent on holiday, but, at the same time, distinguished
him with delicate emphasis from the tourist of the season.
144 BORN IN EXILE
Trustworthy sartorial skill had done its best for his
person. Sitting thus, lie had the air of a gentleman who
enjoys no unwonted ease. He could forget himself in
reverie, and be unaware of soft footfalls that drew near
along the aisle.
But the sound of a youug voice, subdued yet very
clear, made claim upon his attention.
' Sid well !— Sidwell ! '
She who spoke was behind him ; un looking up, he
saw that a lady just in front had stopped and turned to
the summons ; smiling, she retraced her steps. He
moved, so as to look discreetly in the backward direction,
and observed a group of four persons, who were occupied
with a tabk-t on the wall : a young man (not long out
of boyhood), a girl who might l)e a year or two younger,
and two ladies, of whom it could only be said that they
were mature in the beauty of youth, probably of maiden-
hood — one of them, she who iiad V)een called back by
the name of ' Sidwell.'
Surely an uncommon name. From a guide-book, with
which he had amused himself in the train, he knew that
one of the churches of Exeter was dedicated to St.
Sidwell, but only now did his recollection apprise him
of a long past acquaintance with the name of the saint.
Had not Buckland Warricombe a sister called Sidwell ?
And — did he only surmise a connection between the
Warricombes and Devon ? No, no ; on that remote day,
when he went out with Buckland to the house near
Kingsmill, Mr. Warricombe spoke to him of Exeter, —
mentioning that the town of his birtli was Axminster,
Avhere AVilliam Buckland, the g'eoloiiist, also was born ;
whence the name of his eldest son. How suddenly it
all came back !
He rose and moved apart to a spot whence he might
quietly observe the strangers. ' Sidwell,' once remarked,
could not be confused with the companion of her own
age; she was slimmer, shorter (if but slightly), more
sedate in movement, and perhaps better dressed — though
both were admirable in that respect. Ladies, b eyond a
doubt. And the youug num
BORN IX KXILK 14',
At tliis (listiince it was easy to docoivc onesulf, but
(lid not that lace bring soniethinj^ )»ack { Now, us he
smiled, it seemed to recall ]>uckland Warricombc — with
ii dill'erence. This might well be a younger brother;
there used to be one or two.
They were familiar with the Cathedral, and at jtresent
appeared to take exclusive interest in certain mural
monuments. For perhaps ten minutes they lingered
about the aisle, then, after a glance at the west window,
went forth. With quick step, Godwin pursued them ; he
issued in time to see them enticing an open carriage,
which presently drove away towards High Street.
For half an hour he walked the Cathedial Close. Xot
long ago, on first coming into that (|uiet space, with its
old houses, its smooth lawns, its majestic trees, he had
felt the charm peculiar to such scenes — the natural
delight in a form of beauty especially English. Now,
the impression was irrecoverable; he could sec nothing
but those four persons, and their luxurious carriage, and
the two beautiful horses w^hich had borne them —
whither ? As likely as not the identity he had supposed
for them was quite imaginary; yet it would be easy to
ascertain whether a Warricombe family dwelt at Exeter.
The forename of Buckland's father ^ He never had
known it. Still, it was worth while consulting a dii-ectory.
He walked to his hotel.
Yes, the name Warricombe stood there, but it occurred
more than once. He sought counsel of the landlord.
Which of these Warricombes was a gentleman of position,
with grown-up sons and daughters ? To such a descrip-
tion answered Martin Warricombe, Esquire, well known
in the city. His house was in the Old Tiverton Koad,
out beyond St. Sidwell's, two miles away ; anyone in that
district would serve as guide to it.
With purpose indefinite, Godwin set forth in the
direction suggested. At little more than a saunter, he
passed out of High Street into its continuation, where he
soon descried the Church of St. Sidwell, and thence,
having made in(|uiry, walked towards the Old Tiverton
Koad. He was now (piite beyond the town limits.
146 BORN IN EXILE
and few pedestrians came in sight ; if he really wished
to find the abode of IMartin Wamcombe, he must stop
the first questional )le person. But to what end this
inquiry ? He could not even be certain tliat Martin was
the man he had in mind, and even were he right in all
his conjectures, what had he to do with the Warricombes ?
Ten years ago the family had received him courteously
as Buckland's fellow-student ; he had spent an hour or
two at tlieir house, and subsequently a few words had
passed when they saw him on prize-day at Whitelaw.
To Buckland he liad never written ; he had never since
heard of him ; that name was involved in the miserable
whirl of circumstances which brought his College life to
a close, and it was always his hope that lUickland thought
no more of him. Even had there been no disagreeable
memories, it was surely impossible to renew after this
interval so very slight an acquaintance. How could they
receive him, save with civilly mild astonishment ?
An errand-boy came along, whistling townwards, a
l)io- basket over his head. No harm in askino- where
Mr. Warricombe lived. The reply was prompt : second
house on the right hand, rather a large one, not a quarter
of a mile onward.
Here, then. The site was a good one. From this part of
the climbing road one looked over the lower valley of the
Exe, saw the whole estuary, and beyond that a horizon of
blue sea. Fair, rich land, warm under the westering sun.
The house itself seemed to be old, but after all was not
very large ; it stood amid laurels, and in the garden
behind rose a great yew-tree. No person was visible ;
but for the wave-like murmur of neighbouring pines,
scarce a sound would have disturbed the air.
Godwin walked past, and found that the road descended
into a deep hollow, whence between high banks, covered
with gorse and bracken and many a summer flower, it
led again up a hill thick planted with firs ; at the lowest
point was a l)ridge over a streamlet, offering on either
hand a view of soft green meadows. A spot of exquisite
retirement : happy who lived here in security from the
struggle of life !
KORX IX i:\ILK 147
It was folly to spoil liis enjoyment of eountry such as
this by dreaming impossil)le opiioiiunities. Tlie Warri-
combes could be nothiiiL^- to him ; to nu'ut witli lUukland
would only revive the shame long ago outlived. Afier
resting for a few minutes he turned back, i)assed the
silent house again, delighted himself witli the wide view,
and so into the city once more, where he began to seek
the remnants of its old walls.
The next morning was Sunday, and lie had planned to
go by the riymouth train to a station whence he could
reach Start Toint; but his mood was become so unsettled
that ten o'clock, when already he should have been on his
journey, found him straying about the Cathedral Close.
A mere half-purpose, a vague wavering intention, which
might at any moment be scattered by connnon sense, drew
his steps to the door of the Cathedral, where people
were entering for morning service ; he moved idly within
sight of the carriages which drew up. Several had
discharged their freightage of tailoring and millinery,
wdien two vehicles, which seemed companions, stopped
at the edge of the pavement, and from the second alighted
the young ladies whom Godwin had yesterday observed ;
their male companion, however, was different. The
carriage in advance also contained four persons : a
gentleman of sixty, his wife, a young girl, and the
youth of yesterday. It needed but a glance to inform
Godwin that the oldest of the party was ]\Ir. Warri-
coml)e, ] Auckland's father ; ten years had made no change
in his aspect. Mrs. Warricoml)e was not less recognisable.
They passed at once into the edifice, and he had scarcely
time to bestow a keen look upon Sid well.
That was a beautiful girl ; he stood musing upon the
picture registered by his brain. But why not follow, and
from a neighbouring seat survey her and the others at
his leisure ? Pooh ! But the impulse constrained him.
After all, he could not get a place that allowed him
to see Sidwell. Her companion, however, the one who
seemed to be of much the same age, was well in view.
Sisters they could not be ; nothing of the AVarricombe
countenance revealed it^^elf in those liMudsome but
148 BORN IN EXILE
strongly-marked features. A beautiful girl, she also, yet
of a type that made slight appeal to him. Sidwell was
all he could imagine of sweet and dignified ; more modest
in Ijearing, more gracile, more
Monday at noon, and he still walked the streets of
Exeter. Early this morning he had been out to the
Old Tiverton Eoad, and there, on the lawn amid the
laurels, had caught brief glimpse of two female figures,
in one of which he merely divined Sidwell. Why he
tarried thus he did not pretend to explain to himself.
Eain liad just come on, and the lowering sky made him
low-spirited ; he mooned about the street under his
nmbrella.
And at this rate, might vapour away his holiday.
Exeter was tedious, but he could not make up his mind to
set forth for the sea-shore, where only his own thoughts
awaited him. Packed away in his wallet lay geological
hammer, azimuth compass, clinometer, miniature micro-
scope, — why should he drag all that lumber about with
him ? What to him were the bygone millions of ages, the
lioary records of unimaginable time ? One touch of a
girl's hand, one syllable of musical speech, — was it not
that whereof his life had truly need ?
As remote from him, however, as the age of the ptero-
dactyl. How often was it necessary to repeat this ? On
a long voyage, such as he had all but resolved to take, one
might perchance form acquaintances. He had heard of
such things; not impossibly, a social circle might open to
him at Buenos Ayres. But here in England his poor
orifdn, his lack of means, would for ever bar him from
[the intimacy of people like the Warricombes.
He loitered towards the South- Western station, dimly
conscious of a purpose to look for trains. Instead of
seeking the time-tables he stood before the bookstall and
ran his eye along the titles of new novels ; he had half a
mind to buy one of Hardy's and read himself into the
temper which suited summer rambles. But just as his
hand was stretched forth, a full voice, speaking beside
him, made demand for a London weekly paper. Instantly
he turned. The tones had carried him back to Whitelaw :
BORN IX KXILK 14'.»
the face disturbed tliat illusiun, but sub.stitutcMl a reality
whicli threw liiui into treuior.
His involuntary gaze was met with out' of ecjual
intensity. A man of liis own year.s, hut in spK-ndid
health and with bright eyes that looked enjoyment (»!
life, suddenly addressed him.
* Godwin Teak — surely ! '
' Ihickland AVarriconil)e, no less surely.'
They shook liands with vigour, laughing iu eaeli other's
faces; then, after a moment's pause, Warricombe drew
aside from the bookstall, for sake of privacy.
' Why did we lose sight of each other i ' he asked,
tlasliing a glance at Godwin's costume. ' AVliy didn't you
write to me at Cambridge { What liave you been doing
tliis half-century ? '
* I have been in London all the time.'
' I am there most of the year. Well, I rejoice to have
met you. On a holiday ? '
' Loitering towards Cornwall.'
' In that case, you can come and have lunch witli me at
my father's house. It's only a mile or two utl'. I was
going to walk, but we'll drive, if you like'
There was no refusing, and no possil)ility of reflection.
Luckland's hearty manner made the invitation in itself
a thoroughly pleasant one, and before Teak could
sufficiently command his thoughts to picture tlie scene
towards which he was going they were walkiug side by
side through the town. In appearance, Warricombe
showed nothing of the revolutionary wliich, in old day<.
he aimed at making himself, and liis speech liad a suavity
which no doubt resulted from much intercourse with tin
polished world ; Godwin was filled with envious admiration
of his perfect physique, and the mettle wliich kept it in such
excellent vigour. Even ibr a sturdy walki'r, it was no com-
mon task to keep pace with Buckland's strides ; Peak soon
found himself conversing rather t(jo breathlessly for coin fort.
' What is your latest record for the mile ? ' he inquired
Warricombe, understanding at once the reference to his
old athletic pastime and its present application, laughed
merrily, and checked his progress.
150 BURN IN EXILE
' A bad habit of mine ; it gets me into trouble with
everyone. By-the-bye, haven't you become a stronger
man tlian used to seem likely ? I'm quite glad to see
how well you look.'
The sincerity of these expressions, often repeated, put
Godwin far more at his ease than the first moment's sensa-
tion had promised. He too began to feel a genuine pleasure
in the meeting, and soon bade defiance to all misgivings.
Delicacy perhaps withheld Warricombe from further
mention of Whitelaw, but on the other hand it was not im-
possible that he knew nothing of the circumstances which
tormented Godwin's memory. On leaving the College
perchance he had lost all connection with those common
friends who might have informed him of subsequent
jokes and rumours. Unlikely, to be sure ; for doubtless
some of his Whitelaw contemporaries encountered him
at Cambridge ; and again, was it not probable that the
younger Warricombe had become a Whitelaw student ?
Then Professor Gale — no matter! The Warricombes
of course knew all about Andrew Peak and his dining-
rooms, but they were liberal-minded, and could forgive a
l)oy's weakness, ns well as overlook an acquaintance's
obscure origin. In the joy of finding himself exuberantly
welcomed by a man of Buckland's world he overcame
his ignoble self-consciousness.
' Did you know that we were in this part of the
country?' AYarricombe asked, once more speeding
ahead.
'I ahvavs thought of vou in connection with Kings-
mill.'
' We gave up Thornhaw seven years ago. My father
was never (juite comfortable out of Devonshire. The
house I am taking you to has been in our family for
three generations. I have often tried to be proud of the
fact, but, as you would guess, that kind of thing doesn't
come very natural to me.'
In the eflbrt to repudiate such sentiment, Buckland
distinctly betrayed its hold u])on him. He imagined he
was meeting Godwin on equal ground, but the sensibility
of the proletarian could not thus be deceived. There was
liOKX IX KXII,K 151
a brief silence, duriiiL; wliich each looked away from tli.
other.
'Still keep up your geology T was Wanicoiiibe's next
question.
* I can just say that I haven't forgotten it all.'
'I'm afraid that's more than 1 can. During my
Cambridge time it caused disagreeable debates with my
father. You remember that his science is of tlie old
school. 1 wouldn't say a word to disparage liim. I
believe the extent of his knowledge is magniticent; but
he can't get rid of that old man of the sea, the Book of
Genesis. A few years ago I wasn't too considerate in
argument, and I talked as I oughtn't to have done, called
names, and so on. The end of it was, 1 dropped science
altogether, having got as much out of it as I needed. The
good old pater has quite forgiven my rudeness. At present
we agree to differ, and get on capitally. I'm sure he'll
be delighted to see you. There are some visitors with us ;
a Miss Moorhouse and her brother. I think you'll like
them. Couldn't you stay overnight ? '
Godwin was unable to reply on the instant, and his
companion proceeded with the same heartiness.
Must as you like, you know. But do stay if you can.
On Wednesday morning I must go back to town. I act
as secretary to Godolphin, the member for Slacksea.'
Peak's acquaintance with current politics was sliglit,
but Mr. Ellis (l(xlolphin,\the aristocratic IJadicapneces-
saril}- stood before his imagination with some clearness
of outline. So this was how life had dealt with Buckland.
The announcement was made with a certain satisfactii>n,
as if it implied more than the hearer would readily
a))preciate. xVgain there was a slight shrinking on
(Godwin's part; it would be natural for him to avow
his own position, and so leave no room for misunder-
standings, but before he could shape a phrase Ibicklan.l
was again questioning.
' Do you ever see any of the old fellows ? '
' I have met one or two of them, by chance.'
As if bis tact informed him that this in(iuiry had bci'ii
a mistake, Warricoml)e resumed the subject of his family.
152 BORN IN PLXILE
' ]\Iy brotlier Louis is at home — of course you can't
reineinber him ; lie was a youngster when you were at
Tliornhaw, The younger boy died some years ago, a
pony accident ; cut up my father dreadfully. Then
there's my sister Sidwell, and my sister Fanny — that's
all of us. I can't quite answer for Louis, but the rest are
of the old school. Liberal enough, don't be afraid. But
— well, the old school.'
As Godwin kept silence, the speaker shot a glance at
liim, keenly scrutinising. Their eyes did not meet: Peak
kept his on the ground.
' Care much about politics nowadays ? '
' Not very much.'
' Can't say that 1 do myself,' pursued Buckland. ' I
rather drifted into it. Godolphin, I daresay, has as little
humbug about him as most parliamentarians ; we stick
to the practical fairly well. I shall never go into the
House on my own account. But there's a sort of pleasure
in being in the thick of public movements. I'm not cut
out for debate ; should lose my temper, and tell disagree-
able truths — which wouldn't do, you know. But behind
the scenes — it isn't bad, in a way.'
A longer pause obliged Godwin to speak of himself.
* My life is less exciting. For years I have worked in
a manufacturing laboratory at Kotherhithe.'
' So science has carried the day with you, after all. It
used to be very doubtful.'
This was a kind and pleasant way of interpreting
necessity. Godwin felt grateful, and added with a
smile :
' I don't think 1 shall stick to it much longer. For one
thing, I am sick of town. Perhaps I shall travel for a
year or two ; perhaps — I'm in a state of transition, to
tell the truth.'
Buckland revolved this information ; his face told that
he found it slightly puzzling.
' You once had thoughts of literature.'
* Long given up.'
' Leisure would perhaps revive them ? '
' Possibly ; but I think not.'
i;()i;x IX KXiij'. loo
They were now (luiltiiig ihe town, and Peak, unwillin;^'
to appear before strangers in a state of ])rofiiS(' jtcrspini-
tion, again moderated his friend's speed. Thi-y Inj^au
to talk abont the surrounding country, a theme whicli
occupied them until the house was readied. With ([uick-
beating heart, Ciodwin found liimself at the gate by
which he had already twice j)assed. Secure -iu the
decency o f his apparel, and n<» longer oppressed by
bashfulness, he would have gone joyously forward but
for the dread of a possible ridiculous association which
his name might revive in the thoughts of Mr. and ^Irs.
Warricombe. Yet Auckland — who liad no lack of kindly
feeling — would hardly have l)rought him here had the
reception whicli awaited him l)een at all dubious.
*Jf we don't come across anyone,' said Warricombe,
' we'll go straight up to my room.'
But the way was not clear. Within the beautiful old
porch sat Sidwell Warricombe and her friend of the
striking countenance, whom Godwin now knew as Mi.ss
]\Ioorhouse. Buckland addressed his sister in a tone of
lively pleasure.
'Whom do you think I have met and brought home
with me ? Here is my old friend, Godwin Peak.'
Under the two pairs of female eyes, Godwin kept a
calm, if rather stern, face.
*I should have had no difficulty in recognising Mr.
Peak,' said Sidwell, holding out her hand. * lUit was the
meeting quite by chance ? '
To (iodwin himself the question was of course directed,
with a look of smiling interest — such welcome as could
not have been improved upon ; she listened to his rejdy,
then presented him to Miss Afoorliouse. A slight languor
in her movements and her voice, together with the
beautiful coldness of her comi)lexion, made it i)robable
that she did not share the exuberant health manifest in
her two brothers. She conversed with mature self-
possession, yet showed a slight tendency to abstracted nes.*<.
On being addressed, she regarded the sjieaker steadily for
an instant before shaping her answer, which always,
however trilling the sul)ject, seemed carefully worded.
154 BORN IN EXILE
111 these few moments of dialogue, Godwin reached the
conchision that Sidwell had not much sense of humour,
but that the delicacy of her mind was unsurpassable.
In Miss Moorhouse there was no defect of refinemejit,
but her conversation struck a note of spiightliness at
once more energetic and more subtle than is often found
in Enolish grirls. Thus, thouoh at times she looked so
young that it might be doubted whether she had long
been out of her teens, at others one suspected her older
than Sidwell. The friends happened to be as nearly
as possible of an age, which was verging to twenty -
six.
When he spoke to Miss Moorhouse, Buckland's frank
tone subdued itself. He watched her face with reverent
attention, smiled when she smiled, and joined in lier
laugliter with less than his usual volume of sound. In
acuteness he was obviously inferior to her, and there
were moments when he betrayed some nervousness under
her rejoinders. All this was matter of observation for
Peak, who had learnt to exercise his discernment even
whilst attending to the proprieties.
The sounding of the first luncheon-bell left the young
men free to go upstairs. When at length they presented
tliemselves in the drawing-room, Mrs. Warricombe and
her younger daughter sat there alone. The greeting of
his liostess did not quite satisfy Godwin, though it was
sufficiently courteous ; he remembered that ten years ago
Mrs. W^arricombe had appeared to receive him with some
restraint, and liis sensation in renewing her acquaintance
was one of dislike. But in a moment the master of the
house joined them, and no visitor could have had a more
kindly welcome than that he offered to his son's friend.
AYith genial tact, Mr. Warricombe ignored the interval
since his last conversation with Godwin, and spoke as
if this visit were the most natural thing in the world.
' Do you already know the country about Exeter ?'
' I have seen very little of it yet.'
' Oh, then, we must show you our points of view. Our
own garden offers a glimpse of the river-mouth and a good
prospect of Haldoii — the ridge beyond the Exe ; but there
BORN IN KXILK 155
are many iniicli better points witliin easy reacli. Vmi
are in no hurry, I hope ?'
Louis Warricombe and Miss Moorhouse's brother were
away on a long walk ; they did not return for luneli.
Godwin was glad of this, for time had wrought the
change in him that he felt more at ease in female society
than under tlie eyes of young men wliose social ])()sition
inclined them to criticism. The meal proved as delight-
ful as luncheon is wont to be in a luxurious country-
house, when brilliant sunshine glennis on the foliage
visible from windows, and the warmth of the season
sanctions clear colours in costume. The talk was wholly
of country pleasures. It afforded the visitor no little
satisfaction to be able to make known his acquaintance
with parts of England to which the Warricombes had not
penetrated. Godwin learnt that the family were insular
in their tastes; a mention by Miss Moorhouse of con-
tinental scenes led the host to avow a strong preference
for his own country, under whatever aspect, and Sid well
murmured her sympathy.
Xo less introspective than in the old <lays, though he
could better command his muscles, Peak, after each of
his short remarks, made comparison of his tone and
phraseology with those of the other speakers. Had he
still any marks of the ignoble world from which he
sprang? Any defect of pionunciation, any native awk-
wardness of utterance? Impossible to judge himself
infallibly, but he was conscious of no vulgar mannerism.
Though it was so long since he left Whitelaw, the accent
of certain of the Professors still remained witli him as an
example ; wdien endeavouring to be graceful, he was wont
to hear tlie voice of Dr. Nares, or of Professor Parber
who lectured on English Literature. ]\rore recently he
had been observant of Christian Moxey's speech, which
had a languid elegance worth imitating in certain
particulars. P>uckland Warricombe was rather a careless
talker, but it was the carelessness of a man who had
never needed to reflect on such a matter, the refinement
of whose enunciation was assured to him from the nursery.
That now was a thimr to be aimed at. Preciseness must
156 BORN IN EXILK
be avoided, for in a young man it seemed to argue
conscious effort : a loose sentence now and then, a
colloqualism substituted for the more grammatical phrase.
Heaven be thanked that he was unconcerned on the
point of garb! Inferiority in that respect would have
j been fatal to his ease. His clothes were not too new,
! and in quality were such as he had the habit of wearing.
! The Warricombes must have immediately detected any
pretentiousness, were it but in a necktie ; that would
impress them more unfavourably than signs of poverty.
But lie defied inspection. Not Sidwell herself, doubtless
sensitive in the highest degree, could conceive a prejudice
against him on this account.
' His misgivings were overcome. If these people were
acquainted with the ' dining-rooms ' joke, it certainly
did not affect their behaviour to him, and he could hope,
l)y the force of his personality, to obliterate from their
minds such disagreeable thoughts as they miglit secretly
entertain. Su^rely lie could make good his _claini toJie,
deemed a gentleman. To Buckland he had declared his
position, and no shame attached to it. A man of scientific
tastes, like Mr. Warricombe, must consider it respectable
enough. Grant him a little time, and why should he not
become a recognised friend of this family ?
If he were but resident in Exeter.
For the first time, he lost himself in abstraction, and
only an inquiry from Sidwell recalled him.
' You have seen the Cathedral, Mr. Peak ? '
' Oh yes ! I attended service there yesterday morn-
ing.'
Had he reflected, perhaps he would not have added this
circumstance ; even in speaking he suffered a confused
doubtfulness. But as soon as the words were nttered, he
felt strano^ely glad. Sidwell bestowed upon him an nn-
mistakable look of approval ; her mother gazed with colder
interest ; Mr. Warricombe regarded him, aud mused ;
Buckland, a smile of peculiar meaning on his close lips,-
glanced from him to Miss Moorhouse.
'Ah, then, you heard Canon Grayling,' remarked the
father of the family, with something in his tone which
HOKN IX KXILK I .",7
answered to Sidwell's fUcial expression. ' llow did you
like his seriiioii ^ '
Godwin was trilling with a pair of nut-crackers, but the
nervousness evident in his lingers did not prevent him
from replying with a natural air of deliberation.
* I was especially struck with the passage about the
barren lig-tree.'
The words might have exjjressed a trutli, but in tlu\t
case a tone of sarcasm must have winged them. As it
was, they involved either hypocrisy or ungenerous irony
at the expense of his questioner. Buckland could not but
understand them in the latter sense ; his face darkened.
At tliat moment, Peak met his eye, and encountered its
steady searching gaze with a perfectly calm smile. Half-
a-dozen pulsings of his heart — violent, painful, and the
fatal hour of his life had struck.
'What had he to say about it?' Buckland asked,
carelessly.
Peak's reply was one of those remarkable efforts of
mind — one might say, of character — which are sometimes
called forth, without premeditation, almost without con-
sciousness, by a profound moral crisis. A minute or two
ago he would have believed it impossible to recall and
state in lucid terms the arguments to which, as he sat in
the Cathedral, he had barely given ear; he remeniberi'd
vaguely that the preacher (whose name he knew not till
now) had dwelt for a few moments on the topic indicated,
but at the time he was indisposed to listen seriously, and
what chance was there that the chain of thought had fixed
itself in his memory ? Xow, under the marvtdling regard
of his conscious self, he poured forth an admirable render-
ing of the Canon's views, fuller than the original — more
eloquent, more subtle. For live minutes he held his
hearers in absorbed attention, even Buckland bending
forward with an air of genuine interest ; and when he
stopped, rather suddenly, there followed a silence.
' j\Ir. Peak,' said the host, after a cough of apology, ' you
have made that clearer to me than it was yesterday. I
must tlumk you.'
Godwin felt that a slight bow of acknowleilgmcnl was
158 BOBN IN EXILE
perhaps called foi", but not a muscle would obey his will.
He was enervated; perspiration stood on his forehead.
Tlie most severe physical effort could not have reduced
liim to a feebler state.
Sidwell was speaking :
' Mr. Peak lias developed what Canon Grayling only
suggested.'
'A brilliant effort of exegesis,' exclaimed Buckland, with
a good-natured laugli.
Again the young men exchanged looks. Godwin smiled
as one might under a sentence of death. As for the other,
his suspicion had vanished, and he now gave way to frank
amusement. Luncheon was over, and by a general move-
ment all went forth on to the lawn in front of the house.
Mr. Warricombe, even more cordial than hitherto, named
to Godwin the features of the extensive landscape.
'But you see that the view is in a measure spoilt by
the growth of the city. A few years ago, none of those
ugly little houses stood in the mid-distance. A few years
hence, I fear, there will be much more to complain of. I
daresay you know all about the ship-canal : the story of
the countess, and so forth ? '
Buckland presently suggested that the afternoon miglit
be used for a drive.
' I was about to propose it,' said his father. ' You might
start by the Stoke Canon Eoad, so as to let Mr. Peak liave
the famous view from the gate ; then go on towards
Silverton, for the sake of the reversed prospect from the
Exe. Who shall be of the party ? '
It was decided that four only should occupy the vehicle.
Miss Moorhouse and Fanny Warricombe to be the two
ladies. Godwin regretted Sid well's omission, but the
friendly informality of the arrangement delighted him.
When the carriage rolled softly from the gravelled drive,
Buckland* holding the reins, he felt an animation such as
no event had ever produced in him. Xo longer did he
calculate phrases. A spontaneous aptness marked his
dialogue with Miss Moorhouse, and the laughing words he
now and then addressed to Fanny. For a short time
Buckland was laconic, but at length he entei-ed into the
BOPvX IX KXILK 150
joyous tone of the occasion. Karwaker would Ikin'o stood
in amazement, could he have seen and heard the saturnine
denizen of l*eckham live.
The weather was superb. A sea-breeze miti«,'ate(l the
warmth of the cloudless sun, and where a dark i)ine-tree
rose against the sky it gave the azure depths a magnifi-
cence unfamiliar to northern eyes.
'On such a day as this,' remarked Miss Moorhouse,
dividing her look between Auckland and his friend, ' one
feels that there's a good deal to be said for England.'
* But for the vile weather,' was Warricomlje's reply,
' you wouldn't know such enjoyment.'
' Oh, I can't agree with that for a moment ! My cai)acity
for enjoyment is unlimited. Tiiat philosophy is unwortliy
of you ; it belongs to a paltry scheme called " making the
best of things." '
* In which you excel, Miss ^loorhouse.'
' That she does ! ' agreed Fanny — a laughing, rosy-
cheeked maiden.
' 1 deny it ! No one is more copious in railing against
circumstances.'
' But you turn them all to a joke,' Fanny objected.
' That's my profound pessimism. 1 am misunderstood.
Xo one expects irony from a woman.'
Peak found it ditticult not to gnze too persistently at
the subtle countenaiice. He was impelled to examine it
by a consciousness that he himself received a large share
of Miss ^loorhouse's attention, and a doubt as to the
estimation in which she held him. Canon (Jrayling's
sermon and (Godwin's comment had elicited no remark
from her. Did she belong to the ranks of emancipated
women ? With his experience of ^rarcella Moxey, he
welcomed the possibility of this variation of the type, but
at the same time, in obedience to a new spirit that had
strange possession of him, recognised that such phenomena
no longer aroused his personal interest. By the oddest of
intellectual processes he had placed himself altogether
outside the sphere of unorthodox spirits. Concerning Miss
^loorhouse he cared only for tlie report slie might make
of him to the Warricombes.
160 BORN IN exilp:
Before long, the carriage was stopped that he might
enjoy one of the pleasantest views in the neighbourlioocl
of the city. A gate, interrupting a high bank with which
the road was bordered, gave admission to the head of a
great cultivated slope, which fell to the river Exe ; hence
was suddenly revealed a wide panorama. Three well-
marked valleys — those of the Greedy, the Exe, and the
Culm — spread their rural loveliness to remote points of the
horizon ; gentle undulations, with pasture and woodland,
with long winding roads, and many a farm that gleamed
white amid its orchard leafage, led the gaze into regions
of evanescent hue and outline. Westward, a bolder swell
pointed to the skirts of Dartmoor. No inappropriate
detail disturbed the impression. Exeter was wholly hidden
behind the hill on which the observers stood, and the line
of railway leading thither could only be descried by
special search. A foaming weir at the hill's foot blended
its soft murmur with that of the lir branches hereabouts ;
else, no sound that the air could convey beyond the pulsing
of a bird's note.
All had alighted, and for a minute or two there was
i silence. When Peak had received such geographical
I instruction as was needful, Warricombe pointed out to
; him a mansion conspicuous on the opposite slope of the
i Exe valley, the seat of Sir Stafford Northcote. The house
had no architectural beauty, but its solitary lordship amid
green pastures and tracts of thick wood declared the graces
and privileges of ancestral wealth. Standing here alone,
Godwin would have surveyed these possessions of an
English aristocrat with more or less bitterness ; envy
would, for a moment at all events, have perturbed his
pleasure in the natural scene. Accompanied as he was,
his emotion took a form which indeed was allied to envy,
but had nothing painful. He exulted in the prerogatives of
birth and opulence, felt proud of hereditary pride, gloried
that his mind was capable of appreciating to the full those
distinctions which, by the vulgar, are not so much as
suspected. Admitted to equal converse with men and
.women who represented the best in English society, he
■could cast away the evil grudge, the fierce spirit of self-
BOKN IN KXII.K 161
assertion, and ha what nature had projxjsed in undowiu"
him with hirge brain, "generous hluud, dtdicate tissues!
What room for mali*,aianey { He was acceiited hy his
peers, and could re.G;ard witli tolerance even those i;4nol>le
orders of mankind amid wliom he had so lon^' dwell
unrecognised.
A bee humuied })ast liini, and this s(Mnid — of all the
voices of nature that which most intenerates — filled his
heart to overtlowing. Moisture made his eyes dim, and
at the impulse of a feeling of gratitude, such as only thu
subtlest care of psychology could fully have explaim-d, liu
turned to Buckland, saying :
* But for my meeting with you I should have had a
lonely and not very cheerful holiday, 1 owe you a great
deal.'
Warricomlje laughed, but as an Englishman does when
he wishes to avoid show of emotion.
' I am very glad indeed that we did meet. Stay with
us over to-morrow. I only wish I were not obligetl to go
to London on Wednesday. — Look, Fanny, isn't that a hawk,
over (. owley Bridge ? '
'Do you feel you would like to shoot it?' asked ^[iss
Moorhouse — who a moment ago had very closely examined
Peak's face.
* To shoot it — why do you ask that ? '
' Confess that you felt the desire.'
'Every man does,' replied Buckland, 'until he has had
a moment to recover himself. That's the human instinct.'
' The male human instinct. Thank you for your
honesty.'
They drove on, and by a wide circuit, occasionally
stopping for the view, returned to the Old Tiverton Road,
and so home. By this time Louis Warricombe and Mr.
Moorhouse were back from their walk. Keposing in the
company of the ladies, they had partaken of such refresh-
ments as are lawful at five o'clock, and now welcomed
with vivacity the later arrivals. Moorhouse was some-
thing older than Buckland, a sallow-cheeked man with
forehead and eyes expressive of much intelligence. 'I'ill
of late he had been a Cambridge tutor, but was now
1 1
162 BORN IN EXILE
privately occupied in mathematical pursuits. Louis
Warricombe had not yet made up his mind what profession
to follow, and to aid the process of resolve had for the
present devoted himself to pliysical exercise.
Tea-cup in hand, Godwin seated himself by Sidwell,
who began by inquiring how the drive had pleased him.
The fervour of his reply caused her to smile with special
graciousness, and their conversation was uninterrupted for
some minutes. Then Fanny came forward with a book of
mosses, her own collection, which she had mentioned to
Peak as tliey were talking together in the carriage.
'Do you make special study of any science?' Sidwell
asked, when certain remarks of Godwin's had proved his
familiarity with the things he was inspecting.
' It is long since I worked seriously at anything of the
kind,' he answered ; adding in a moment, * Except at
chemistry — that only because it is my business.'
' Organic or inorganic chemistry ? ' inquired Fanny,
with the promptness of a schoolgirl who wishes to have
it known that her ideas are no longer vague.
' Organic for the most part,' Godwin replied, smiling at
her. * And of the most disagreeable kind.'
Sidwell reflected, then put another question, but with
some diffidence.
' I think you were once fond of geology ? '
It was the first allusion to that beginning of their
acquaintance, ten years ago. Peak succeeded in meeting
her look with steadiness.
' Yes, I still like it.'
' Father's collections have been much improved since
you saw them at Thornhaw.'
* I hope Mr. Warricombe will let me see them.'
Buckland came up and made an apology for drawing
his friend aside.
' Will you let us send for your traps ? You may just as
well have a room here for a night or two.'
Perpetually imagining some kind chance that might
associate him with civilised people, Godwin could not
even pack his portmanteau for a ramble to Land's End
without stowing away a dress suit. He was thus saved
BORN IN KXILK 163
what would have been an embarrassment of special
annoyance. Without hesitation, he accepted Buckland's
ofter, and named the hotel at which tlie lugga«,'e was
deposited.
'All right; the messenger shall explain. Our name's
well enough known to them. If you would like to look
up my father in his study, he'll l)e delighted to go over
his collections with you. You still care for that kind of
thing ? '
' Most certainly. How can you doubt it ? '
liuckland smiled, and gave no other rei)ly.
' Ask Fanny to show you the way when you care to go.'
And he left the room.
IV
SiDWELL had fallen into conversation with Mr. Moor-
house. Miss Moorhouse, Mrs. Warricombe, and Louis
were grouped in animated talk. Oljserving that Fanny
threw glances tow^ards him from a lonely corner, Peak
went over to her, and was pleased with the smile he met.
Fanny had watchet eyes, much brighter than Sidwell's;
her youthful vivacity l)lended with an odd little fashion
of schoolgirl pedantry in a very piquant way. Godwin's
attempts at conversation with her were rather awkward ;
he found it difhcult to strike the suitable note, something
not too formal yet not deficient in respect.
' Do you think,' he asked presently, * that I should
disturb your father if I went to him ? '
' Oh, not at all ! I often go and sit in the study at this
time.'
' Will you show me the way ? '
Fanny at once rose, and together they crossed the hall,
passed through a sort of anteroom connecting with a
fernery, and came to the study door. A tap was answered
by cheerful summons, and Fanny looked in.
' Well, luy ladybird ? Ah, you are biinging Mr. Peak ;
come in, come in ! '
It was a large and beautiful room, its wide w^indows,
in a cushioned recess, looking upon the lawn where the
yew tree cast solemn shade. One wall presented an
unbroken array of volumes, their livery sober but hand-
some ; detached bookcases occupied other portions of the
irregular perimeter. Cabinets, closed and open, were
arranged with due regard to convenience. Above the
104
r>(»KX TX KXTLK 165
mantelpiece hung a few small })hologra])lis, ])ut the wall-
space at disposal was chiefly u(cui)i('(l with uhjccts whicii
illustrated Mr. Warricomhe's scientific tastes. On a
stand in the light of the window gleamed two elahoratu
microscopes, provocative of enthusiasm in a mind such as
Godwin's.
In a few minutes, Fanny silently retired. Her fatlier,
hy no means forward to speak of himself and his jtursuits,
was led in that direction by Peak's expressions of interest,
and the two were soon busied with matters which had a
charm for both. A collection of elvans formed the starl-
ing-point, and when they had entered upon the wide field
of paliuontology it was natural for ]\rr. Warricondn^ to
invite his guest's attention to the species of liamalonotus
which he had had the happiness of identifying some ten
years ago — a discovery now recognised and chronicle<l.
Though his sympathy was genuine enough, CJodwin
struggled against an uneasy sense of manifesting excessive
appreciation. Xever oblivious of himself, he could not
utter the simplest phrase of udmiration without criticis-
ing its justice, its tone. And at present it behoved him
to bear in mind that he was conversing with no half-bred
sciolist. Mr. AVarricombe obviously had his share of
human weakness, but he was at once a gentleman and a
student of well-stored mind ; insincerity must be very
careful if it would not jar upon his refined ear. So
Godwin often checked himself in the utterance of what
miglit sound too much like flattery. A young man talk-
ing with one much older, a poor man in dialogue with a
wealthy, must under any circumstances guard his speech ;
for one of (lodwin's aggressive idiosyncrasy the task of
discretion had peculiar difliculties, and the attituile he
iiad assumed at luncheon still further complicated the
o[)erations of his mind. Only at moments could he siHsik
in his true voice, and silence meant for the most ])art a
studious repression of much he would naturally have
uttered.
Ilesurgent^envy gave him no little troulile. ( )n enter-
ing the room, he could not but exclaim t<> himself. ' How
easy for a man to do notable work amid such surround-
166 BORN IN EXILE
ings ! If I were but thus equipped for investigation ! '
And as often as his eyes left a particular object to make
a general survey, the same thought burned in him. He
feared lest it should be legible on his countenance.
Taking a pamphlet from tlie table, Mr. Warricombe,
with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, inquired whether
Peak read German ; the answer being affirmative :
'Naturally,' he rejoined, 'you could hardly have
neglected so important a language. I, unfortunately,
didn't learn it in my youth, and I have never had per-
severance enough to struggle with it since. Something
led me to take down this brochure the other day — an old
attempt of mine to write about the weathering of rocks.
It was printed in '76, and no sooner had it seen the light
than friends of mine wanted to know what I meant
hy appropriating, without acknowledgment, certain facts
quite recently pointed out by Professor Pfaff of Erlangen !
Unliappily, Professor Pfaff's results were quite unknown
to me, and I had to <^et them translated. The coinci-
dences, sure enough, were very noticeable. Just before
you came in, I was reviving that old discomfiture.'
Peak, in glancing over the pages, murmured with a
smile :
' Fereant qui ante nos nostra dixcrunt ! '
' Even so 1 ' exclaimed Mr. Warricombe, laughing with
a subdued heartiness which was one of his pleasant
characteristics. And, after a pause, he inquired, ' Do
you find any time to keep up your classics ? '
' By fits and starts. Sometimes I return to them for a
month or two.'
' Why, it's pretty much the same with me. Here on
my table, for instance, lies Tacitus. I found it mentioned
not long ago that the first sentence of the Annals is a
hexameter — did you know it ? — and when I had once got
hold of tlie book I thought it a shabby thing to return it
to the dust of its shelf without reading at least a few
pages. So I have gone on from day to day, with no little
enjoyment. Buckland, as you probably know, regards
these old fellows with scorn.'
' We always differed abont that.'
BORN IN EXILE 1C7
' 1 can't quite decide wliether he is still siiirrre in all
he says about them. Time, I suspect, is mellowiii",' his
judgment.'
Tliey moved to the sladves where Greek and Litin
books stood in serried order, and only the warning dinnur-
bell put an end to their sympathetic discussion of tlu*
place such authors should hold in modern educational
systems.
'Have they shown you your room.''' Mr. Warricomlje
asked.
lUit, as he spoke, the face of his elde.^t son appeared at
the door.
' Your traps have safely arrived, Peak.'
The bedroom to which Godwin was conducted had a
delicious fragrance, of source indeterminable. ^Vhen he
had closed the door, he stood for a few moments looking
about him ; it was his first experience of the upper
chambers of houses such as this. Merely to step upon
the carpet fluttered his senses : merely to breathe the air
was a purification. Luxury of the rational kind, dictated
by regard for health of body and soul, appeared in every
detail. On the walls were water-colours, scenery of
Devon and Cornwall ; a hanging book-case held about a
score of volumes — poets, essayists, novelists. Elsewhere,
not too prominent, lay a Bible and a Prayer-book.
He dressed, as never before, with leisurely enjoyment ol
the process. When the mirror declared him ready, his
eyes returned frequently to an inspection of the tigiire he
presented, and it seemed to him that he was not unworthy
to take his place at the dinner-table. As for his visage,
might he not console himself with the assurance that it
was of no common stamp ? ' If I met that man in a room,
I should be curious about him ; I should see at once that
he didn't belong to the vulgar; I should desire to hear
him speak.' And the Warricombes were not lacking in
discernment. He would compare more than favouraldy
with Mr. Moorhouse, whose aspect, bright and agreeal»le
enough, made no promise of originality. — It must be time
to go down. He left the room with an air of grave self-
confidence.
168 BORN IN EXILE
At dinner he was careful to attempt no repetition of the
display which liad done very well at luncheon ; it must
not be thought that he had the habit of talking for effect.
Mrs. Warricombe, unless he mistook, had begun to view
him more favourably ; her remarks made less distinction
between him and the other guests. But he could not like
his hostess ; he tliought her unworthy to be the mother
of Sidwell and Fanny, of Buckland and Louis ; there was
a marked strain of the commonplace in her. The girls,
costumed for the evening, affected him with a return of
the awe he had all but overcome. Sidwell was exquisite
in dark colours, her sister in white. Miss Moorhouse
(addressed by her friends as ' Sylvia ') looked older than
in the day-time, and had lost something of her animation ;
possibly the country routine had begun to weary her a
little.
Peak was at a vast distance from tlie hour which saw
him alight at Exeter and begin his ramble al^out the city.
He no longer felt himself alone in the world ; impossible
to revive the mood in which he deliberately planned to
consume his economies in a year or two of desert wander-
ing; far other were the anticipations which warmed his
mind when the after-dinner repose attuned him to un-
wonted ho})efulness. This family were henceforth his
friends, and it depended only upon himself to make the
connection lasting, with all manner of benefits easily
imagined. Established in the country, the AVarricombes
stood to him in quite a different relation from any that
could have arisen had he met with them in London.
There he would have been nothing more than a casual
dinner-guest, welcomed for the hour and all but forgotten
when he had said good-night. Eor years he had under-
stood that London offered him no prospect of social
advancement. But a night passed under this roof practi-
cally raised him to a level whence he surveyed a rich field
of possil)le conquest. With the genial geologist he felt
himself on excellent terms, and much of this was ascrib-
al)le to a singular chance which had masked his real l)eing,
and represented him, with scarce an effort of his own, in
a light peculiarly attractive to Mr. Warricombe. He was
IJOI^X IX KXILK 1G9
now ]»layiii.L( tlie conscious liyjxxriti' ; not a jilrasant tliin;^'
to face anil accept, b\it tlie fault was not his — fate had
brouglit it about. At all events, he aimed at no vulgar
profit ; his one desire was for human fellowship ; he
sought nothing but that solace which every cmle of
morals has deemed legitimate. Let the society which
compelled to such an expedient bear the burden of its
shame.
That must indeed have been a circle of great intellects
amid which Godwin IVak felt himself subordinate. He
had never known that impression, and in the Warricoml»e
family was no one whom he could regard even as his
equal. Buckland, doubtless, had some knowledge of the
world, and could boast of a free mind; but he lacked
subtlety: a ])sychological problem would easily puzzle
him. Mr. AVarricoml)e's attainments were res])ectable,
but what could be said of a man who had devoted his life
to geology, and still (in the year 1884) remained an
orthodox meml)er of the Church of England ^ Godwin,
as he sat in the drawing-room and enjoyed its atmosphere
of refinement, sincerely held himself of far more account
as an intellectual being than all the persons about him.
But if his brain must dwell in solitude his heait
might compass worthy alliances — the thing most needful
to humanity. One may find the associates of his intellect
in libraries — the friend of one's emotions must walk in
tlesh and blood. Earwaker, ]\Ioxey — these were in many
respects admirable fellows, and he had no little love for
them, l)ut the world they represented was womanless, and
so of Hagrant imperfection. Of Marcella ]\Ioxey he could
not think emotionally; indeed she em]>hasised by her
])ersonality the lack which caused his sutlering. Sidwell
\Varricombe suggested, more com])letely than any woman
he had yet ol)serVed, that companionshi]) without which
life must to the end taste l)itter. His interest in her was
not strictly personal; she moved and spoke before him as
fi JXpical woman, not as the daughter of Martin Warri-
combe and the sister of Buckland. Here at last ojjcned to
his view that s[)here of female society which he had kimwu
as remotely existing, the desperate aim of and>ilion.
^
170 BOEN IN EXILE
Conventional women — Imt was not the phrase tauto-
logical ? In the few females who have liberated their
souls, was not much of the woman inevitably sacrificed,
and would it not be so for long years to come ? On the
other hand, such a one as Sidwell miglit be held a perfect
creature, perfect in relation to a certain stage of human
development. Look at her, as she sat conversing with
Moorhouse, soft candle-light upon her face ; compare her
on the one hand with an average emancipated girl, on the
other with a daughter of the people. How unsatisfying
was the former ; the latter, how repulsive ! Here one had
the exquisite mean, the lady as England has perfected her
towards the close of this nineteenth century. A being of
marvellous delicacy, of purest instincts, of unsurpassable
sweetness. Who could not detail her limitations, obvious
and, in certain moods, irritating enough ? These were
nothing to the point, unless one would roam the world a
hungry idealist; and Godwin was weary of the famined
pilgrimage.
The murmur of amiable voices softened him to the
reception of all that was good in his present surroundings,
and justified in the light of sentiment his own dis-
honour. This English home, was it not surely the best
result of civilisation in an age devoted to material pro-
I gross ? Here was peace, here was scope for the kindliest
I emotions. Upon him — the born rebel, the scorn er of
I average mankind, the consummate egoist — this atmo-
sphere exercised an influence more tranquillising, more
beneficent, than even the mood of disinterested study.
■ In the world to which sincerity would condemn him, only
the worst elements of his character found nourishment
and range; here he was humanised, made receptive of all
gentle sympathies. Heroism miglit point him to an un-
ending struggle with adverse conditions, but how was
heroism possible without faith ? Absolute faith he had
none ; he was essentially a negativist, guided by the mere
relations of phenomena. Nothing easier than to contemn
the mode of life represented by this wealthy middle class ;
but compare it with other existences conceivable by a
thinking man, and it was emphatically good. It aimed
BORN IN EXILK 171
at placidity, at l)enevolence,at sui)reiiie cleanliness, — things
whicli more than compensated i"or tiie absence of higher
spirituality. We can be but what we are ; these people
accepted themselves, and in so doing became estimable
mortals. No imbecile pretensions exposed them to the
rebuke of a social satirist ; no vulgarity tainted their
familiar intercourse. Their allegiance to a worn-out
creed was felt as an added grace ; thus only could their
souls aspire, and the imperfect poetry of their natures be
developed.
He took an opportunity of seating himself by Mrs.
Warricombe, with whom as yet he had held no continuous
dialogue.
'Has there been anything of interest at the London
theatres lately ? ' she asked.
'I know so little of them,' Godwin replied, trutlil'ully.
* It must be several years since I saw a play.'
'Then in that respect you have hardly become a
Londoner.'
* Xor in any other, I believe,' said Teak, with a smile.
' I have lived there ten years, but am far from re-
garding London as my home. I hope a few months more
will release me from it altogether.'
' Indeed ! — Perhaps you think of leaving England ? '
' I should be very sorry to do that — for any length of
time. My wish is to settle somewhere in the country,
and spend a year or two in quiet study.'
Mrs. AVavricombe looked amiable surprise, but corrected
herself to approving interest.
' I have heard some of our friends say that their minds
get unstrung, if they are long away from town, but I
should have thought that country quietness would be
much better than London noise. My liusband certainly
finds it so.'
* People are very differently constituted,' said (lodwin.
' And then it depends much on the nature of one's work.'
Uttering these commonplaces with an air of rellection,
he observed that they did not cost liim the self-contempt
which was wont to be his penalty for concession to the
terms of polite gossip ; rather, his mind accepted with
172 . BORN IN EXILE
gratitude this rare repose. He tasted something of the
tranquil self -content which makes life so enjoyable
when one has never seen a necessity for shaping original
remarks. ISTo one in this room would despise him for a
platitude, were it but recommended with a pleasant smile.
AVith the Moxeys, with Earwaker, he durst not thus
have spoken.
When the hour of separation was at hand, Buckland
invited his guest to retire with him to a part of the house
where they could smoke and chat comfortably.
' Moorhouse and Louis are fagged after their twenty
mile stretch this morning ; I have caught both of them
nodding during the last few minutes. We can send them
to bed without apology.'
He led the way upstairs to a region of kunber-rooms,
whence a narrow flight of steps brought them into a
glass-house, octangular and with pointed tops, out upon
the roof. This, he explained, had been built some twenty
years ago, at a time when Mr. Warricombe amused himself
with photography. A few indications of its original
purposes were still noticeable ; an easel and a box of oil-
colours showed that someone — doubtless of tlie younger
generation — had used it as a painting-room ; a settee and
deep cane chairs made it an inviting lounge on a warm
evening like the present, when, by throwing open a
hinged wall, one looked forth into the deep sky and
tasted the air from the sea.
' Sidwell used to paint a little,' said Buckland, as his
companion bent to examine a small canvas on which a
landscape was roughed in. It lay on a side table, and
was half concealed ])y an ordnance map, left unfolded.
* For the last year or two I think she has given it up.
I'm afraid we are not strong in matters of art. Neither
of the girls can play very well, though of course they both
tinkle for their own amusement. Maurice — the poor lad
who was killed — gave a good deal of artistic promise ;
father keeps some little water-colours of his, which men
in that line have praised — perhaps sincerely.'
' 1 remember you used to speak slightingly of art,' said
Godwin, as he took an offered ci<_>ar.
BOKN IX KXILK ITo
' Did 1 i And of a good many other things, I daresay.
It was my habit at one time, I helieve, to grow heated in
scorn of Euclid's definitions. What an interesting book
Euclid is ! Half a year ago, [ was led by a talk with
Moorhouse to go through some of the old * props,' and
you can't imagine how they delighted me. Mo(jrhouse
was so obliging as to tell me that 1 had an eminently
deductive mind.'
He laughed, but not witliout betraying some jileasure
in the remark.
' Surprising,' he went on, * how very little such a mind
as Moorhouse's suggests itself in common conversation.
He is leally profound in mathematics, a man of original
powers, Ijut I never heard him make a remark of the
slightest value on any other subject. Now his sister —
she has studied nothing in particular, yet she can't express
an opinion that doesn't bear the stamp of originality.'
(lodwin was contented to muse, his eyes fixed on a
brilliant star in the western heaven.
'There's only one inconsistency in lier that annoys and
puzzles me,' liuckland pursued, speaking with the cigar
in his mouth. ' In religion, she seems to be orthodox.
True, we have never spoken on the subject, but — well, she
goes to church, and carries prayer-bc)oks. I don't know
how to explain it. Hypocrisy is the last thing one could
suspect her of. I'm sure she hates it in every form. And
such a clear brain ! — I can't understand it.'
The listener was still star-gazing. He had allowed his
cigar, after the first few puffs, to smoulder untasted ; his
lips were drawn into an expression very unlike the laxity
appropriate to pleasurable smoking. When tlie nnnmur
of the pines had for a moment been audilile, he said, witli
a forced smile :
' I notice you take for granted that a clear l)rain and
religious orthodoxy are incompati])le.'
The other gave lum a keen look.
'Hardly,' was ]]uckland's reply, spoken with less
ingenuousness of tone than usual. ' I say tliat Miss
Moorhouse has undeniably a strong mind, and tliat it is
impossible to suspect her of the slightest hypocrisy.'
174 BORN IN EXILE
' Whence the puzzle that keeps you occupied/ rejoined
Peak, in a voice tliat sounded like assumption of supe-
riority, though the accent liad an agreeable softness.
Warricombe moved as if impatiently, struck a match
to rekindle his weed, blew tumultuous clouds, and finally
put a blunt question :
' What do you think about it yourself ? '
* From my point of view, there is no puzzle at all/
Godwin replied, in a very clear voice, smiling as he met
the other's look.
* How am I to understand that ? ' asked Buckland, good-
naturedly, though with a knitting of his brows.
* Not as a doubt of Miss Moorhouse's sincerity. I can't
see that a belief in the Christian religion is excluded by
any degree of intellectual clearness.'
' JSTo — your views have changed, Peak ? '
* On many subjects, this among them.'
' I see.'
The words fell as if involuntarily from Warricombe's
lips. He gazed at the floor awhile, then, suddenly looking
up, exclaimed :
* It would be civil to accept this without surprise, but
it is too much for me. How has it come about ? '
* That would take me a long tinie to explain.'
' Then,' pursued his companion, watching him closely,
' you were quite in sympathy with that exposition you
gave at lunch to-day ? '
' Quite. I hope there was nothing in my way of
speaking that macle you think otherwise ? '
'Nothing at all. I couldn't help wondering what it
meant. You seemed perfectly in earnest, yet such talk
had the oddest sound on your lips — to me, I mean. Of
course I thought of you as I used to know you.'
' Naturally.' Peak was now in an attitude of repose, his
legs crossed, thumb and forefinger stroking his chin. ' I
couldn't very well turn aside to comment on my own
mental history.'
Here again was the note of something like genial con-
descension. Buckland seemed sensible of it, and slightly
raised his eyebrows.
BORN IN KXI1,K 175
' I am to understand that you have become strictly
orthodox in matters of religious faith ? '
' The proof is,' replied Godwin, ' that I liope before lon^i;
to take Orders.'
Again there was silence, and again the sea-breath made
its whispering in the pines. Warricomhe, with a sudden
gesture, pointed towards the sky.
' A shooting star — one of the brightest I ever saw ! '
* I missed it,' said Peak, just glancing in tliat direction.
The interruption enabled liuckland to move his cliair ;
in this new position he was somewhat furtlier frum Peak,
and had a better view of his face.
' I sliould never have imagined you a clergyman,' he
said, thoughtfully, * but I can see that your mind has
been developing powers in that direction. — Well, so be it !
I can only hope you have found your true work in life.'
' But you doubt it ? '
' I can't say that I doubt it, as I can't understand you.
To be sure, we have been parted for many years. In
some respects / must seem much changed '
' Greatly changed,' Godwin put in, promptly.
* Yes,' pursued the other, correctively, ' but not in a
way that would seem incredible to anyone wliatever.
I am conscious of growth in tolerance, but my attitude
in essentials is unchanged. Thinking of you — as I have
often enough done— I always kept the impression you
made on me when we were both lads; you seemed
most distinctly a modern mind — one of the most modern
that ever came under my notice. Now, I don't lind it
impossible to understand my father, wlien he reconciles
science with religion; he was born sixty years ago. lUit
Godwin Peak as a — a '
* Parson,' supplied Peak, drily.
'Yes, as a parson — I shall have to meditate much
before I grasp the notion.'
' Perhaps you Imve dropped your pliilosophical studies ? '
said Godwin, with a smile of courteous interest.
' I don't know. Metaphysics have no great interest
for me, but I philosophise in a way. I thought myself
a student of human nature, at all events.'
176 BORN IN EXILE
' But you haven't kept up with philosophical specula-
tion on the points involved in ortliodox religion ? '
'I confess my ignorance of everything of the kind —
unless you include Bishop Blougram among the philo-
sophers ? '
Godwin bore the gaze which accompanied this signifi-
cant inquiry. For a moment he smiled, but there followed
an expression of gravity touched with pain.
' I hadn't thought of broaching this matter,' he said,
with slow utterance, but still in a tone of perfect friendli-
ness. ' Let us put it aside.'
Warricombe seemed to make an effort, and his next
words had the accent of well-bred consideration which
distinguished his ordinary talk.
'Pray forgive my bad joke. I merely meant that
I have no right whatever to argue with anyone who
has given serious attention to such things. They are
altogether beyond my sphere. I was born an agnostic,
and no subtlety of demonstration could incline me for
a moment to theological A^ews; my intellect refuses to
admit a single preliminary of such arguments. You
astonish me, and that's all I am justified in saying.'
'My dear Warricombe, you are justified in saying
whatever your mind suggests. That is one of the
principles which I hold unaltered — let me be quite
frank with you. I should never have decided upon such
a step as this, but for the fact that I have managed to
put by a small sum of money which will make me in-
dependent for two or three years. Till quite lately I
hadn't a thought of using my freedom in this way; it
was clear to me that I must throw over the old drudgery
at Piotherhithe, but this resolve which astonishes you
had not yet ripened — I saw it only as one of the
possibilities of my life. Well, now, it's only too true
that there's something of speculation in my purpose;
I look to the Church, not only as a congenial sphere
of activity, but as a means of subsistence. In a man
of no fortune this is inevitable ; I hope there is nothing
to be ashamed of. Even if the conditions of the case
allowed it, I shouldn't present myself for ordination
]iOKN IN KXli.K 177
IbrLhwith ; I must study and prepare myself in ([uiet-
ness. How the practical details will be arranj,'ed, I
can't say; I have no family inlluence, and 1 must hope
to make friends who will open a way lur me. I have
always lived apart from society; hut that isn't natural
to me, and it becomes more distasteful the older I grow.
The probability is that I shall settle somewhere in tlie
country, where I can live decently on a small income. After
all, it's better I should have let you know this at once.
I only realised a few minutes ago that to l)e silent about
my projects was in a way to be guilty of false pretences.'
The adroitness of this last remark, which directed
itself, with such show of candour, against a suspicion
precisely the opposite of that likely to be entertained by
the listener, succeeded in disarming Warricombe; he
looked up with a smile of reassurance, and spoke en-
couragingly.
'About the practical details I don't think you need
have any anxiety. It isn't every day that the Church
of England gets such a recruit. Let me suggest that
you have a talk with my father.'
Peak reflected on the proposal, and replied to it with
grave thoughtfulness :
' That's very kind of you, but I should have a dilliculty
in asking Mr. "VVarricombe's advice. I'm afraid 1 must
go on in my own way for a time. It will be a few
months, I daresay, before I can release myself from my
engagements in London.'
'But I am to understand that your mind is really
made up ? '
' Oh, quite ! '
' Well, no doubt we shall have opportunities of talk-
ing. We must meet in town, if possible. You have
excited my curiosity, and I can't help hoping you'll
let me see a little further into your mind some day.
When I first got hold of Newman's Apologia, I began
to read it with the utmost eagerness, flattering my-
self that now at length I should understand ho\y a
man of brains could travel such a road. I was horribly
disappointed, and not a little enraged, when I found
12
178 BORN IN EXILE
that he began by assuming the very beliefs I thought he
was going to justify. In you I shall hope for more logic'
' Newman is incapable of understanding such an
objection,' said Peak, with a look of amusement.
' But you are not.'
The dialogue grew chatty. When they exchanged
good-night. Peak fancied that the pressure of Buckland's
hand was less fervent than at their meeting, but his
manner no longer seemed to indicate distrust. Probably
the a^jnostic's mood was one of half-tolerant disdain.
Godwin turned the key in his bedroom door, and
strayed aimlessly about. He was fatigued, but the
white, fragrant bed did not yet invite him ; a turbulence
in his brain gave w^arning that it would be long before
he slept. He wound up his watch ; the hands pointed
to twelve. Chancing to come before the mirror, he saw
that he was unusually pale, and that his eyes had a
swollen look.
The profound stillness was oppressive to him ; he
started nervously at an undefined object in a dim corner,
and went nearer to examine it ; he was irritable, vaguely
discontented, and had even a moment of nausea, perhaps
tlie result of tobacco stronger than he was accustomed
to smoke. ^Vfter leaning for five minutes at the open
window, he felt a soothing effect from the air, and could
tliink consecutively of the day's events. AVhat had
happened seemed to him incredible ; it was as though
he revived a mad dream, of ludicrous coherence. Since
his display of rhetoric at luncheon all was downright
somnambulism. What fatal power had subdued him ?
What extraordinary intiuence had guided his tongue, con-
strained his features ? His conscious self had had no
part in all this comedy ; now for the first time was he
taking count of the character he had played.
Had he been told this morning that ^^^by, what
monstrous folly was all this ? Into what unspeakable
baseness had he fallen ? Happily, he had but to take
leave of the Warricombe household, and rush into some
region where he was unknown. Years hence, he would
relate tlie story to Earwaker.
B(>R\ IX i:\n.i: 179
Fur a long time he sullcred tlie torments of this
awtakening. Shame bulleted liini on ihe right ilieek and
the left; he looked about like one who slinks Imm
merited chastisement. Oli, thrice ignol)le varlel : To
])Ose with unctuous hypocrisy before i)eoj)lu who liad
welcomed him under tlieir roof, unquestioned, with all
the grace and kindliness of English hospitality : To lie
shamelessly in the face of his old fellow-student, who
had been so genuinely glad to meet him again !
Yet such possibility had not been unforeseen. At the
times of liis profound gloom, when solitude and desire
crushed his spirit, he had wished that fate would afford
him such an opportunity of knavish success. His im-
agination had played with the idea that a man like him-
self might well be driven to this expedient, and miglit
even use it with life-long result. Of a certainty, the
Church numbered such men among her priests, — not mere
lukewarm sceptics who made religion a source of income,
nor yet those who had honestly entered the portal and by
necessity were held from withdrawing, though their con-
victions had changed ; but deliberate schemers from the
first, ambitious Imt hungry natures, keen-sighted, unscruj)-
ulous. And they were at no loss to defend tlicmselves
against the attack of conscience. Life is a terrific
struggle for all who begin it with no endowments
save their brains. A hypocrite was not necessarily a
harm-doer; easy to picture the unbelieving priest whose
influence was vastly for good, in word and deed.
lUit he, he who had ever prided himself on his truth-
fronting intellect, and had freely uttered his scorn of
the credulous mob ! He who was his own criterion of
moral right and wrong : Xo wonder he felt like a
whipped cur. It was the ancestral vice in his blood,
Ijrought out liy over-tempting circumstance. The long
line of base-born predecessors, the grovelling hinds and
mechanics of his genealogy, were resi)onsible for this.
Oh for a name wherewith honour was hereditary !
His eyes were blinded by a rush of hot tears. Down,
down into the depths of uttermost despondency, of
self-pity and self-contempt! Had it been practicalde,
180 BORN IN EXILE
lie would have fled from the house, leaving its occupants
to think of him as they would; even as, ten years ago,
he had fled from the shame impending over him at Kings-
mill. A cowardly instinct, this ; having once acted upon
it gave to his whole life a taint of craven meanness.
Mere bluster, all his talk of mental dignity and uncom-
promising scorn of superstitions. A weak and idle man,
whose best years were already wasted !
He gazed deliberately at himself in the glass, at his
red eyelids and unsightly lips. Darkness was best;
perhaps he might forget his shame for an hour or two,
ere the dawn renewed it. He threw off his garments
heedlessly, extinguished the lamp, and crept into the
ready hiding-place.
PAET THE TIIIED
PART THE TlilUD
I
'Why are you obstinately silent r ' wiute Kaiwakfr, in a
letter addiessed to Godwin at his reekhani lod,L,dngs.
' I take it for granted that you must by tliis time be
back from your lioliday. Why haven't you lephed to
my letter of a fortnight ago ? Xothing yet from Tin
Ci'lticaL If you are really at work as usual, come and
S(ie me to-morrow evening, any time after eight. The
l>osture of my affairs grows dubious; the shadow of
Kenyon thickens about me. In all seriousness I lliink
I sliall be driven from Tlw llWl-li/ J'o-^f before long.
My quarrels with Paincorn are too frequent, and his
blackguardism keeps more than pace witli the times.
Come or write, for I want to know liow things go with
you. 7'i((.<^(i/u''<, J. K. K.'
Peak read this at l)reakfast on a Satunhiy morning.
It was early in September, and three weeks had elai)siMl
since his return from the west of England. Tpon lli«
autumn had fallen a blight of cold and rainy weather,
wliich did not enliance tlie cheerfidness of daily journey-
ing between Teckham Pye and Kotherhithe. When ii
was necessary for him to set fortli to the train, lie
muttered imprecations, f«)r a mood of inactivity pos-
sessed him ; lie would gladly have stayed in his com-
184 BOEN IN EXILE
fortable sitting-room, idling over books or only occupied
with languid thought.
Ill the afternoon he was at liberty to follow his
impulse, and this directed him to the British Museum,
whither of late he had several times resorted as a reader.
Among the half-dozen books for which he applied was
one in German, Eeusch's Bibel %incl Natur. After a little
dallying, he became absorbed in this work, and two or
three hours passed before its hold on his attention
slackened. He seldom changed his position ; the volume
was propped against others, and he sat bending forward,
his arms folded upon the desk. When he was thus
deeply engaged, his face had a hard, stern aspect ; if by
chance his eye wandered for a moment, its look seemed
to express resentment of interruption.
At length he threw himself back with a sudden yield-
ing to weariness, crossed his legs, sank together in the
chair, and for half-an-hour brooded darkly. A fit of
yawning admonished him that it was time to quit the
atmosphere of study. He betook himself to a restaurant
in the Strand, and thence about eight o'clock made his
way to Staple Inn, where the journalist gave him cheerful
welcome.
' Day after day I have meant to write,' thus he excused
himself. ' But I had really nothing to say.'
' You don't look any better for your holiday,' Earwaker
remarked.
' Holiday ? Oh, I had forgotten all about it. When
do you go ? '
'The situation is comical. I feel sure that if I leave
town, my connection with the Post will come to an end.
I shall have a note from Kuncorn saying that we had
l^etter take this opportunity of terminating my engage-
ment. On the whole I should be glad, yet I can't make
up my mind to be ousted by Kenyon — that's what it
means. They want to get me away, but I stick on,
postponing holiday from week to week. Runcorn can't
decide to send me about my business, yet every leader
I write enrages him. But for Kenyon, I should gain my
point ; I feel sure of it. It's one of those cases in which
BORN IN KXILK 185
homicide would be justified by public interest If Kenyon
gets my place, the paper becomes at once an organ of
ruftiandom, the delight of tlie blackgiiardry.'
* How's the circulation ? ' inquired Teak.
'Pretty sound; that adds to the joke. This series ol
stories by Doubleday has helped us a good deal, and my
contention is, if we can keep financially right V)y hel)»
of this kind, why not make a little sacrifice for the saki*
of raising our political tone ? Paincorn won't see it ; he
listens eagerly to Kenyon's assurance that we might sell
several thousand more by striking tlie true pot-house
note.' »
' Then pitch the thing over ! Wash your liands, and go
to cleaner work.'
' The work I am doing is clean enough,' replied Ear-
waker. ' Let me have my way, and I can make the paper
a decent one and a useful one. I shan't easily find
another such chance.'
' Your idealism has a strong root,' said Godwin, rather
contemptuously. 'I half envy you. There must be a
distinct pleasure in believing that any intellectual influ-
ence will exalt the English democracy.'
' I'm not sure that I do believe it, but I enjoy tin-
experiment. The chief pleasure, I suppose, is in tightin-
Ptuncorn and Kenyon.'
'They are too strong for you, Earwaker, Tliey have
the spirit of the age to back them up.'
Tlie journalist became silent ; he smiled, but tlic
harassment of conflict marked his features.
' I hear nothing about " The New Sophistry," ' ho re-
marked, when (Jodwin had begun to examine some l)ooks
that lay on the table. * Dolby has the trick of keeping
manuscripts a long time. Everything that seems al
the first glance tolerable, he sends to the printer, tlu'ii
muses over it at his leisure. Probably your paper is
in type.'
' I don't care a rap whether it is or not. What do you
think of this book of Oldwinkle's ? '
He was holding a volume of liumorous stories, which
had greatly taken the fancy of the puldic.
186 BORN IN P]XILE
' It's iincorainonly good/ replied the journalist, laughing.
'I had a prejudice against the fellow, but he has over-
come me. It's more than good farce, — something like
really strong humour here and there.'
'I quite believe it,' said Peak, 'yet I couldn't read a
page. Whatever the mob enjoys is at once spoilt for
me, however good I should otherwise think it. I am
sick of seeing and hearing the man's name.'
Earwaker shook his head in deprecation.
' Narrow, my boy. One nuist be able to judge and
enjoy impartially.'
'I know it, but I shall never improve. This book
seems to me to have a l)ad smell ; it looks mauled
with dirty lingers. I despise Oldwinkle for his popu-
larity. To make them laugli, and to laugh vith them
—pah ! '
They deltated this point for some time, Peak growing
more violent, though his friend preserved a smiling
equanimity. A tirade of virulent contempt, in whicli
Godwin exhibited all his powers of savage eloquence, was
broken by a visitor's summons at the door.
'Here's Malkin,' said the journalist: 'you'll see each
other at last.'
l*eak could not at once command himself to the look
and tone desirable in meeting a stranger ; leaning against
the mantelpiece, he gazed with a scowl of curiosity at
the man wlio presented himself, and when he shook
hands, it was in silence. But Malkin made speech from
the others unnecessary for several minutes. With ani-
mated voice and gesture, he poured forth apologies for
his failure to keep the appointment of six or seven
weeks ago.
' Only the gravest call of duty could have kept me
away, 1 do assure you ! Xo doubt Earwaker has informed
you of the circumstances. I telegraphed — I think I
telegraphed ; didn't I, Earwaker ? '
' I have some recollection of a word or two of scant
excuse,' replied the journalist.
'But I implore you to consider the haste I was in,'
cried Malkin; 'not five minutes, Mr. Beak, to book, to
BOKN IN EX ILK 187
register luggage, to do everything ; not five minutes, I
protest ! lUit here we are at hist. Let us talk ! I^t us
talk : '
He seated himself with an air of supreme enjoyment,
and began to cram the bowl of a large pipe from a bulky
pouch.
* How stands the fight with Kenyon and C(>. ? ' lie cried,
as soon as tlie tol)acco was glowing.
Earwaker briefly repeated what he liad told I'l-ak.
' Hold out ! No surrender and no compromise ! What's
your opinion, ^Ir. Peak, on the abstract (piestion .'' Is a
popular paper likely, or not, to be damaged in its circu-
lation by improvement of style and tonu — within tlie
limits of discretion ? '
*I shouldn't be surprised if it were,' Teak answered,
drily.
' Im afraid you're right. There's no usr in blinking
truths, however disagreeable. lUit, for Earwaker, that
isn't the main issue. AVhat he lias to do is to assert
himself. Every man's first duty is to assert himself.
At all events, this is how 1 regard the matter. I am all
for individualism, for the development of one's i)ersonality
at whatever cost. Xo compromise on i>oints of faith!
Earwaker has his ideal of journalistic duty, and in a fight
with fellows like Euncorn and Kenyon lie must stand
firm as a rock.'
' I can't see that he's called upon to light at all.'
said Peak. ' He's in a false position ; let him get out
of it.'
'A false position? 1 can't see that. No man better
fitted than Earwaker to raise the tone of IJadical journal-
ism. Here's a big Sunday newspaper jiractically in his
hands ; it seems to me that the circumstances give him
a grand opportunity of making his force felt. What an*
we all seeking but an op])ortunitv for striking t.ut with
etfect?'
Godwin listened with a sceptical smih*, and mndo
answer in slow, careless tones.
' Earwaker happens to be emidoycd and paid by ci-rtaiii
capitalists to increase the sale of their ]>ai»er.'
188 BORN IN EXILE
' My dear sir ! ' cried the other, bouncing upon his
seat. ' How can you take such a view ? A great news-
paper surely cannot be regarded as a mere source of
income. These capitalists declare that they have at
heart the interests of the working classes ; so has Ear-
waker, and he is far better able than they to promote
those interests. His duty is to apply their money to the
best use, morally speaking. If he were lukewarm in the
matter, I should be the first to advise his retirement;
but this fight is entirely congenial to him. I trust he
will hold his own to the last possible moment.'
'You must remember,' put in the journalist, with a
look of amusement, 'that Peak has no sympathy with
Eadicalism.'
'I lament it, but that does not affect my argument.
If you were a high Tory, I should urge you just as
strongly to assert yourself. Surely you agree with this
point of mine, Mr. Peak ? You admit that a man must
develop whatever strength is in him.'
' I'm not at all sure of that.'
Malkin fixed himself sideways in the chair, and ex-
amined his collocutor's face earnestly. He endeavoured
to sul^due his excitement to the tone of courteous debate,
but the words that at length escaped him were humor-
ously blunt.
' Then of what arc you sure ? '
' Of nothing.'
' Now we touch bottom ! ' cried Malkin. ' Philosophi-
cally speaking, I agree with you. But we have to live
our lives, and I suppose we must direct ourselves by some
conscious principle.'
' I don't see the necessity,' Peak replied, still in an
impassive tone. 'We may very well be guided by
circumstances as they arise. To be sure, there's a
principle in that, but I take it you mean something
different.'
'Yes I do. I hold that the will must direct cir-
cumstances, not receive its impulse from them. How,
then, are we to be guided ? What do you set before
yourself ? '
BORN IN EXILK 189
' To get throiigli life with as iniicli satisfaction and as
little pain as possible.'
*Yoii are a hedonist, then. Well and good! Then
that is your conscious principle '
' No, it isn't.'
* How am I to understand you ? *
* By recognising that a man's intellectual and moral
principles as likely as not tend to anything init his
happiness.'
'I can't admit it!' exclaimed ^NFalkin, leaping from his
chair. ' What is happiness ? '
' I don't know.'
' Earwaker, what is happiness ? What is hajjpiness ? '
' I really don't know,' answered the journalist, mirtli-
fully.
' This is trifling with a grave question. We all know
perfectly well that happiness is the conscious exertion
of individual powers. Why is there so much suffering
under our present social system ? Because the majority
of men are crushed to a dead level of mechanical toil,
with no opportunity of developing their special facultius.
Give a man scope, and happiness is put within his
reach.'
' What do you mean by scope ? ' inquired Godwin.
* Scope ? Scope ? Why, room to expand. The vice of
our society is hypocrisy; it comes of over-crowding.
When a man isn't allowed to be himself, he takes refuge
in a mean imitation of those other men who appear to be
better off. That was what sent me off to South America.
I got into politics, and found that I was in danger nf
growing dishonest, of compromising, and toailying. In
the wilderness, I Ibund myself again. — Do you seriously
believe that happiness can be obtained by ignoring one's
convictions ? '
He addressed the question to botli, snufllng the air with
head thrown back.
* What if you have no convictions ? ' asked Peak.
'Then you are incapable of happiness in any worthy
sense ! You may graze, but you will never feast.'
The listeners joined in laughter, and Malkin, after a
190 BORN IN EXILE
moment's hesitation, allowed his face to relax in good-
humoured sympathy.
' Now look here ! ' he cried. * You — Earwaker ; sup-
pose you sent conscience to the devil, and set yourself
to please Runcorn ])y increasing the circulation of
your paper by whatever means. You would flourish,
undoubtedly. In a short time you would be chief
editor, and your pockets would burst with money.
But what about your peace of mind ? What about
happiness ? '
' Why, I'm disposed to agree with Peak,' answered the
journalist. ' If I could take that line, I should be
a happier man than conscientiousness will ever make
me.'
Malkin swelled with indignation.
' You don't mean it ! You are turning a m^ave argu-
ment into jest ! — Where's my hat ? Where the devil is
my hat ? Send for me again when you are disposed to
talk seriously.'
He strode towards the door, but Earwaker arrested liim
with a shout.
' You're leaving your pipe ! '
' So I am. Where is it ? — Did I tell you where I
bought this pipe ? '
' No. What's the wood ? '
On the instant Malkin fell into a cheerful vein of re-
miniscence. In five minutes he was giving a rapturous
description of tropical scenes, laughing joyously as he
addressed now one now the other of his companions.
' I hear you have a mind to see those countries, Mr.
Peak,' he said at length. ' If you care for a travelling-
companion — rather short-tempered, but you'll pardon tliat
— pray give me the preference. I should enjoy above all
things to travel with a man of science.'
* It's very doubtful whether 1 shall ever get so far,'
Godwin replied, musingly.
And, as he spoke, he rose to take leave. Earwaker's
protest that it was not yet ten o'clock did not influence
him.
' I want to reflect on the meaning of liappiness,' he said,
IU)K\ IX i:\lLK 101
L'xteiiding liis Imiul to ^falkiii ; and, in spiic of ili,. smile,
his lace had a suiiihre cast.
The two who were left of course discussed liini.
' Vou won't care much for Peak,' said Karwaker. ' He
and I suit each other, because there's a good ileal of
indifferentisni in l)()th of us. Moral earnestness always
goes against the grain w^ith him ; I've notice<l it
frequently.'
' I'm sorry I spoke so dogmatically. It wasn't alto-
gether good manners. Suppose I write liim a slmrt
letter, just expressing my regret fur having heen led
away '
' Needless, needless,' laughed the journalist. ' He
thinks all the better of you for your zeal. But happiness
is a sore point with him ; few men, I should think, have
known less of it. I can't imagine any circumstances
which would make him thoroughly at peace with himself
and the world.'
'Poor fellow! You can see something of that in his
face. Why doesn't he get married ? '
*A remarkable suggestion! — By the way, why dnn't
yoi'!'
' My dear boy, there's nothing I wish mure, Imt it's a
business of such fearful prccariousness. I'm one of those
men whom marriage will either make or ruin. You
know my characteristics; the slightest check u]»on
my indei)cndence, and all's up with me. The woman
I marry must be perfectly reasonable, perfectly gooil-
tempered; she must have excellent education, and every
delicacy of breeding. Where am I to (ind this paragon i'
' Society is open to you.'
'True, but I am not open to society. I don't lake
kindly to the people of my own class. No, I tell you
what — my only chance of getting a suitable wife is to
train some very young girl for the i)uri)ose. Don't mis-
understand me, for heaven's sake ! I mean that I must
make a friendship with some schoolgirl in whose educa-
tion I can have a voice, whose relatives will ])crmit me to
influence her mind and devclo]* her characlcr. What do
you think (»f this idea V
192 BOEN IN EXILE
' Not bad, but it demands patience.'
' And who more patient than I ? But let us talk of
that poor Mrs. Jacox and her girls. You feel that you
know them pretty well from my letters, don't you ?
Nothing more monstrous can be imagined than the treat-
ment to which this poor woman has been subjected! I
couldn't have believed that such dishonesty and brutality
were possible in English families of decent position.
Her husband deserted her, her brother robbed her, her
sister-in-law libelled her, — the whole story is nauseating ! '
' You're quite sure that she tells you the truth ? '
Mai kin glared with sudden resentment.
' The truth ? What ! you also desire to calumniate her ?
For shame, Earwaker ! A poor widow toiling to support
herself in a foreign country, with two children dependent
on her.'
'Yes, yes, yes; but you seem to know very little of
her.'
' I know her perfectly, and all her circumstances ! '
Mrs. Jacox was the mother of the two girls whom
Malkin had escorted to Eouen, after an hour or so of
all but casual acquaintance. She and her history had
come in a very slight degree under the notice of certain
good-natured people with whom Malkin was on friendly
terms, and hearing that the children, Bella and Lily, aged
fourteen and twelve respectively, were about to undertake
alone a journey to the Continent, the erratic hero felt it
incumbent upon him to see them safe at their mother's
side. Instead of returning forthwith, he lingered in
Normandy for several weeks, striking off at length, on the
summons of a friend, to Orleans, whence he was only to-
day returned. Two or three letters had kept Earwaker
informed of his movements. Of Mrs. Jacox he wrote as
he now spoke, with compassionate respect, and the girls,
according to him, were exquisite models of budding
maidenhood.
' You haven't told me,' said Earwaker, calmly fronting
the indignant outburst, ' what her circumstances are — at
present.'
'She assists an English lady in the management of a
BORN IN KXILK I'Jii
boarding-houso,' ^lalkiii replicJ, wiili an air which forbade
trivial comiiieiit. ' IWdla and Lily will of course continue
their studies. I daresay I sliall run over now and then
to see them.'
' May I, without oflence, inquire if either of these young
ladies seems suitable for the ideal training of which you
spoke ? '
Malkin smiled tlioughlfuUy. He stood with liis legs
apart and stroked his blond beard.
'The surmise is not unnatural. Well, I confess that
Bella has inspired me with no little interest. She i.s
rather mature, unfortunately ; I wish she liad been Lily's
age. We shall see ; we shall see.'
Musing, he refilled his pipe, and gossiji was prolonged
till something after one o'clock. ^Lalkin was never
known to retire willingly from an evening's congenial talk
until the small hours were in progress.
Peak, on reaching home about eleven, was surprised to
see a light in his sitting-room window. As he entered,
his landlady informed him that Mr. Moxey liad l.>eeii
waiting upstairs for an hour or t\vo. Cliristian was
reading. He laid down the book and rose languidly. His
face was flushed, and he spoke with a laugh which
suggested that a fit of despondency (as occasionally
liappened) had tempted him to excess in cordials.
Godwin understood these signs. He knew that his friend's
intellect was rather brightened than impaired by such
stimulus, and he affected not to be conscious of any
peculiarity.
'As you wouldn't come to me,' Christian began, ' I had
no choice but to come to you. My visit isn't unwelcome,
1 hope ? '
' Certainly not. But how are you going to get Imnjc ?
You know the time ? '
'Don't trouble. I shan't go to bed to-night. Isnl
me sit here and read, will you ? U I feel tired I can
lie down on the sofa. What a delightful l)ook this is!
I must get it.'
It was a history of the Italian Kenaissance, recently
published.
13
194 BORN IN EXILE
' Where does this phrase come from ? ' he continued,
pointing to a scrap of paper, used as a book-mark, on
which Godwin had pencilled a note. The words were :
' Foris lit moris, intus nt lihet.'
' It's mentioned there,' Peak replied, * as the motto
of those humanists wdio outwardly conformed to the
common faith.'
*I see. All very well when the Inquisition was
flourishing, but sounds ignoble nowadays.'
' Do you think so ? In a half-civilised age, whether
the sixteenth or the nineteenth century, a wise man may
do w^orse than adopt it.'
' Better be honest, surely ? '
Peak stood for a moment as if in doubt, then exclaimed
irritably :
* Honest ? Honest ? Who is or can be honest ? Who
truly declares himself ? When a man has learnt that
truth is indeterminable, how is it more moral to go about
crying that you don't believe a certain dogma than
to concede that the dogma may possibly be true ? This
new morality of the agnostics is mere paltry conceit.
Why must I make solemn declaration that I don't
believe in absolute knowledge ? I might as well be
called upon to inform all my acquaintances how I stand
with regard to the theories of chemical affinity. One's
philosophy has nothing to do with the business of life.
If I chose to become a Church of England clergyman,
what moral objection could be made ? '
This illustration was so amusing to Moxey, tliat his
surprise at what preceded gave way to laughter.
' I wonder,' he exclaimed, ' that you never seriously
thought of a profession for which you are so evidently
cut out.'
Godwin kept silence ; his face had darkened, and he
seated himself with sullen weariness.
' Tell me what you've been doing,' resumed Moxey.
' Why haven't I heard from you ? '
' I should have come in a day or two. I thought you
were probably out of town.'
' Her husband is ill,' said the other, by way of reply.
BORN IX KXILK 195
He leaned forward with his arms upon the table, and
gazed at Godwin with eyes of peculiar hri^litness.
* 111, is he V returned Godwin, with slow interest. ' In
the same way as l)efore ? '
* Yes, l)ut much worse.*
Christian paused; and when he again spoke it was
huiTiedly, confusedly.
* How can I help getting excited about it? How can
I behave decently ? You're the only man 1 ever speak
to on the subject, and no doubt I ])oth weary and disgust
you ; but I must speak to some one. My nerves an;
strung beyond endurance; it's only by speaking tliat I
can ease myself from the intolerable strain.'
' Have you seen her lately ? '
'Yesterday, for a moment, in the street. It's ten
months since the last meeting.'
'Well,' remarked Godwin, abruptly, 'it's ])robable the
man will die one of these days, then your trials will have
a happy end. I see no harm in hoping that his life may
be short — that's a conventional feeling. If two people
can be benefited by the death of a single person, wliy
shouldn't we be glad in the prospect of his dying ? Not
of his suffering — that's quite another thing. But die he
must; and to curtail the life of a being who at length
wholly ceases to exist is no injury. You can't injure a
nonentity. Do you think I should take it ill if I knew that
some persons were wishing my death ? Why, look, if ever I
crush a little green fly that crawls upon me in the lields, at
once I am filled with envy of its fate — sincerest envy. To
have passed so suddenly from being into nothingness — how
blessed an extinction ! To feel in that way, instinctively,
in the very depths of your soul, is to be a true pessimist.
If I had ever doubted my sincerity in pessimism, this
experience, several times repeated, would have reassured
me.'
Christian covered his face, and brooded fur a long
time, whilst Godwin sat with his eyes on vacancy.
' Come and see us to-morrow,* said the former, at
length.
' Perhaps.'
196 BORN IN EXILE
' Why do you keep away ? '
' I'm in no mood for society.'
' We'll have no one. Only Marcella and I.'
Again a long silence.
' Marcella is going in for comparative philology/
Christian resumed, with the gentle tone in which he
invariably spoke of his sister. ' What a mind that
girl has ! I never knew any woman of half her
powers.'
Godwin said nothing.
' iSTo,' continued the other fervently, ' nor of half her
goodness. I sometimes think that no mortal could
come nearer to our ideal of moral justice and purity.
If it were not for her, I should long ago have gone to
perdition, in one way or another. It's her strength, not
my own, that has saved me. I daresay you know
this?'
' There's some truth in it, I believe,' Peak answered, his
eye wandering.
' See how circumstances can affect one's judgment. If,
just about the time I first knew you, I had abandoned
myself to a life of sottish despair, of course I should have
charged Constance with the blame of it. Now that I have
struggled on, I can see that she has been a blessing to me
instead of a curse. If Marcella has given me strength, I
have to thank Constance for the spiritual joy which other-
wise I should never have known.'
Peak uttered a short laugh.
' That is only saying that she might have been ruinous,
but in the course of circumstances has proved helpful.
I envy your power of deriving comfort from such
reflections.'
' Well, we view things differently. I have the habit
of looking to the consolatory facts of life, you to the
depressing. There's an unfortunate lack in you,
Peak ; you seem insensible to female influence, and I
believe that is closely connected with your desperate
pessimism.'
Godwin laughed again, this time with mocking length
of note.
BORN IN KXILK 197
' Come now, isn't it true ? ' urged tlie other. ' Sincere!
do you care for women at all ? '
* Perhaps not.'
'A grave misfortune, depend upon it! It accounts,
for nearly everything that is unsatisfactory in your
life. If you liad ever been sincerely devotecl to a ,
woman, be assured your i)Owers would have develoiHjd
in a way of which you have no conception. It's no
answer to tell me that / am still a mere tritler, never
likely to do anything of account ; I haven't it in me to
be anything better, and I might easily have l)econie
much worse. But you might have made yourself a great
position — I mean, you niujlit do so ; you are still very
young. If only you knew the desire of a woman's
help.'
'You really think so?' said Godwin, with grave
irony.
' I am sure of it ! There's no harm in repeating what
you have often told me — your egoism oppresses you. A
woman's influence takes one out of oneself Xo man can
be a better authority on this tlian I. For more tlian eleven
years I have worshipped one woman witli absolute
faithfulness '
' Absolute ? ' interrupted Godwin, bluntly.
* What exception occurs to you ? '
' As you challenge inquiry, forgive me for asking wliat
your interest was in one of your cousins at Twy]»ridge ?'
Christian started, and averted his face with a look of
embarrassment.
'Do you mean to say that you knew anything about
that ? '
* I was always an observer,' Peak replied, smiling.
'You don't remember, perhaps, tliat I happened to 1m'
present when a letter had just arrived for you at your
uncle's house — a letter which evidently disturlted you T
'This is astonishing! Peak, you're a terril)le fellow!
Heaven forbid that I should ever l)e at your mercy !
Yes, you are quite right,' he continued, despondently.
' I'.ut that was no real unfaitlifulness. I <lon't quite
know how to explain it. T d'n^ make love to j.oor Janet,
198 BORN IN EXILE
and with the result that I have never since seen any
of the family. My uncle, when he found I had drawn
back, was very savage — naturally enough. Marcella and
I never again went to Twybridge. I liked Janet; she
was a good, kind girl. I believed just then that my
love for Constance was hopeless ; my mood impelled me
to the conviction that the best thing I could do was to
marry Janet and settle down to a peaceful domestic life.
Then came that letter — it was from Constance herself.
It meant nothing, yet it was enough to revive all my
hopes. I rushed off' ! How brutally I had behaved !
Poor little Janet ! '
He let his face fall upon his hands.
'Allow me an indiscreet question,' said Peak, after
a silence. ' Have you any founded hope of marrying
Constance if she becomes a widow ? '
Christian started and looked up with wide eyes.
' Hope ? Every hope ! I have the absolute assurance
of her love.'
' I see.'
'But I mustn't mislead you,' pursued the other,
hurriedly. ' Our relations are absolutely pure. I have
only allowed myself to see her at very long intervals.
Why shouldn't 1 tell you ? It was less than a year after
her marriage ; I found her alone in a room in a friend's
house ; her eyes were red with weeping. I couldn't help
holding my hand to her. She took it, and held it for a
moment, and looked at me steadily, and whispered my
name — that was all. I knew then that she repented of
her marriage — who can say what led her into it ? I was
poor, you know ; perhaps — but in spite of all, she did
love me. There has never since been anything like a
scene of emotion between us — tliat her conscience couldn't
allow. She is a noble-minded woman, and has done her
duty. But if she is free '
He quivered with passionate feeling.
' And you are content,' said Godwin, drily, ' to liave
wasted ten years of your life for such a possibility ? '
' Wasted ! ' Christian exclaimed. * Come, come. Peak ;
why ivill you affect this wretched cynicism ? Is it
BORN IN KXII.i: 199
waste of years to liave lived with the lii^^'lu'.st aiul
purest ideal perpetually l)eforu one's mind { What can
a man do better than, having found an admirable woman,
to worship her thenceforth, and defy every temptation
that could lead him astray ? I don't like to seem boast-
ful, but I hare lived purely and devotedly. And if
the test endured to the end of my life, I could sustain it.
Is the consciousness of my love nothing to Constance ?
Has it not helped her ? '
Such profound sincerity was astonishing to iVak.
He did not admire it, for it seemed to liim, in this
case at all events, the fatal weakness of a character
it was impossible not to love. Though he could not
declare his doubts, he thought it more than prol»abli' that
this Laura of the voiceless Petrarch was unworthy of
such constancy, and that she had no intention whatever
of rewarding it, even if the opportunity arrived.
But this was the mere speculation of a pessimist;
he might be altogether wrong, for he had never denied
the existence of high virtue, in man or woman.
'There goes midnight!' he remarked, turning from
the subject. 'You can't sleep, neither can I. AVhy
shouldn't we walk into town ? '
'By all means; on condition that you will come liome
with me, and spend to-morrow there.'
' Very well.'
They set forth, and with varied talk, often broken liy
long silences, made their way through sleeping suburbs
to the dark valley of Thames.
There passed another month, during which Peak was
neither seen nor heard of by his friends. One evening
in October, as he sat studying at the P>ritish Museum, a
friendly voice claimed his attention. He rose nervously
and met the searching eye of Buckland Warricombe.
' I had it in mind to write to you,' said the latter. * Since
we parted down yonder I have been running about a good
deal, with few days in town. Do you often read here ('
' CJenerally on Saturday afternoon.'
Buckland glanced at the open volume, and caught a
heading, ' Apologetic Theology.'
200 BORN IN EXILE
' Still at the works ? '
' Yes ; I shall be there till Christmas — no longer.'
' Are you by chance disengaged to-morrow ? Could
you dine with me ? I shall be alone ; perhaps you don't
mind that ? We could exchange views on " fate, free-
will, foreknowledge absolute." '
Godwin accepted the invitation, and Warricombe, unable
to linger, took leave of him.
They met the next evening in Buckland's rooms, not
far from the Houses of Parliament. Commonplace
comfort was the note of these quarters. Peak wondered
that a man who had it in his power to surround himself
with evidences of taste should be content to dwell thus.
His host seemed to detect this thought in the glances
Godwin cast about him.
* Nothing but a incd-a-Uvrc. I have been here three
or four years, but I don't think of it as a home. I
suppose I shall settle somewhere before long : yet, on the
whole, what does it matter where one lives ? There's
something in the atmosphere of our time that makes one
indisposed to strike roots in the old way. Who knows
how long there'll be such a thing as real property ? We
are getting to think of ourselves as lodgers ; it's as well to
be indifferent about a notice to quit.'
' Many people would still make a good fight for the old
homes,' replied Peak.
'Yes; I daresay I should myself, if I were a family
man. A wife and children are strong persuasions to
conservatism. In those who have anything, that's to
say. Let the families who have nothing learn how they
stand in point of numbers, and we shall see what we shall
see.'
' And you are doing your best to teach them that.'
Buckland smiled.
'A few other things at the same time. One isn't
necessarily an anarchist, you know.'
'What enormous faith you must have in the meta-
physical powers of the multitude ! '
* Trenchant ! But say, rather, in tlie universal self-
interest. That's the trait of human nature whicli we
BORN IN EXILK 201
have in mind wlien we speak uf enliglitennient. The
aim of practical liadicalisni is to instinct men's seltishnes.s.
Astonishing how capable it is of being instructed ! The
mistake of tlie Socialist lies in his crediting men witli
far too much self-esteem, far too little perception of their
own limits. The characteristic of mankind at large is
humility.'
Peak began to understand his olil acquaintance ; he
had imagined him less acute. Gratified l»y the smile of
interest, Warricombe added :
' There are forces of madness ; I liave sliown you that I
make allowance for them. But they are only dangemus
so long as privilege allies itself with liypocrisy. 'j'lie
task of tlie modern civiliser is to sweep away sham
idealisms.'
' I agree with you,' Godwin replied.
AVith sudden change of mood, Buckland Itegan to speak
of an indifferent topic of tlie day, and in a few minutes
they sat down to dinner.
Xot till the welcome tobacco blended its aroma with
that of coffee did a frankly personal note sound in their
conversation.
' So at Christmas you are free,' said "Warricombe. ' You
still think of leaving London ? '
' I have decided to go down into Devonshire.'
' The seaside ? '
'I shall stay first of all in Exeter,' (Jodwin re-
plied, with deliberation; 'one can get hold of l)()oks
there.'
' Yes, especially of the ecclesiastical colour.'
'You are still unable to regard my position with
anything but contempt ?' Peak asked, looking steadily at
the critical face.
' Come now; what does it all mean ? (^f course I (piile
understand how tolerant the Churcli is l)e('oming : 1 know
what latitude it permits in its servants. Ihit what do
you propose to yourself ? '
' Precisely what you call the work of tin- civilix-r— to
attack sham ideals.'
* As for instance ? '
202 BORN IN EXILE
J J 'The authority of the mob/ answered Peak, suavely.
' Your clericalism is political, then ? '
' To a great extent.'
' I discern a vague sort of consistency in this. You
regard the Church formulas as merely syml^olical — useful
for the purposes of the day ? '
' Rather for the purposes of eternity.'
' In the human sense.'
' In every sense.'
Warricombe perceived that no directness of questioning
would elicit literal response, and on the whole this relieved
him. To hear Godwin Peak using the language of a
fervent curate would have excited in him something more
than disgust. It did not seem impossible that a nature
like Peak's — intellectually arrogant, vehemently anti-
popular — should have been attracted by the traditions,
the social prestige, of the Anglican Church ; nor at all
unlikely that a mind so constituted should justify a
seeming acceptance of dogmas, which in the strict sense
it despised. But he w^as made uneasy by his ignorance
of Peak's private life during the years since their, parting
at College. He did not like to think of the possible
establishment of intimacy between this man of low origin,
uncertain career, boundless ambition, and the household
of Martin Warricombe. There could be no doubt that
Peak had decided to go to Exeter because of the social
prospects recently opened to him. In the vulgar phrase,
he had probably 'taken stock' of Mr. Warricombe's
idiosyncrasy, and saw therein a valuable opportunity for
a theological student, who at the same time was a devotee
of natural science. To be sure, the people at Exeter
could be put on their guard. On the other hand, Peak
had plainly avowed his desire to form social connections
of the useful kind ; in his position such an aim was
essential, a mere matter of course.
Godwin's voice interrupted this train of tliought.
* Let me ask you a plain question. You have twice
been kind enough to introduce me to your home as a
friend of yours. Am I guilty of presumption in hoping
that your parents will continue to regard me as an
BORN IN KXIU: 203
acquaintance ? 1 trust there's no need to assure you
tliat I know the meaning of discretion.'
An appeal to lhickh\nd's generosity seldom failed.
Yes, it was true tliat lie had more than once encouragtMl
the hope now frankly expressed. Indulging a corre-
spondent frankness, he might explain that iVnik's position
was so distasteful to him that it disturhed the future
with many kinds of uncertainty. But this would be
churlish. He must treat his guest as a gentleman, so
long as nothing compelled him to take the less agree-
able view.
' My dear Peak, let us have none of these formalities.
My parents have distinctly invited you to go and see
them whenever you are in the neighbourhood. I am
quite sure they will help to make your stay in Exeter a
pleasant one.'
Therewith closed the hazardous dialogue. Warricom1)e
turned at once to a safe topic — that of contcnq^orary
fiction, and they chatted pleasantly enough for the rest
of the evening.
Xot many days after this, Godwin received l)y ])ost an
envelope which contained certain proof sheets, and there-
with a note in which the editor of The Crltin/l Jirvinr
signified his acceptance of a paper entitled 'The New
Sophistry.' The communication was originally addressc^l
to Earwaker, who had scribbled at the foot, ' Correct, if
you are alive, and send back to Dolby.'
The next morning he did not set out as usual for Rother-
hithe. Through the night he had not closed his eyes;
he was in a state of nervousness which bordered on fever.
A dozen times he had read over the proofs, with throbbing
pulse, with exultant self-admiration: but the printer's
errors which had caught his eye, and a U\\\ faults of
phrase, were still uncorrected. What a capital i)iece of
writing it was ! What a flagellation of M'Naughten and
all his tribe! If this did not rouse echoes in the literaiy
world
Through the long day he sat in languor or y^wA his
room like one made restless by pain. Oidy when the
gloom of nightfall obliged him to light his lamp di<l he
204 BORN IN EXILE
at length sit down to the table and carefully revise the
proofs, pen in hand. When he had made up the packet
for post, he wrote to Earwaker.
' I had forgotten all about this thing. Proofs have gone
to Dolby. I have not signed ; probably he would object
to my doing so. As it is, the paper can be ascribed to
anyone, and attention thus excited. We shall see
paragraphs attributing it to men of mark — perhaps
scandal will fix it on a bishop. In any case, don't let
out the secret. I beg tliis seriously, and for a solid
reason. Not a word to anyone, liowever intimate. If
Dolby betrays your name, grin and bear it. I depend
upon your friendship.'
II
Ix a l)y-way whicli declines from ihe main thorough-
fare of Exeter, and bears the name of Longljrook Street,
is a row of small houses placed above long strii)S of
sloping garden. They are old and plain, with no archi-
tectural feature calling for mention, unless it be the
latticed porch which gives the doors an awkward quaint-
ness. Just beyoild, the road crosses a liollow, and begins
the ascent of a hill here interposed between the city
and the inland-winding valley of Exe. The little terrace
may be regarded as urban or rural, according to the
tastes and occasions of those who dwell there. In one
direction, a walk of five minutes will conduct to the
middle of High Street, and in the other it takes scarcely
longer to reach the open country.
On the upper floor of one of these cottages, Godwin
Peak liad made his abode. Sitting-room and bedchamber,
furnished with homely comfort, answered to his ])achel<»r
needs, and would allow of his receiving without
embarrassment any visitor whom fortune might send
him. Of (quietness he was assured, for a widow and her
son, alike remarkable for sobriety of demeanour, were
the only persons who shared the house with him. Mrs.
Eoots could not compare in grace and skill with the
little Frenchwoman who had sweetened his existence
at Peckham liye, but her zeal made amends for natural
deficiency, and the timorous respect with which she
waited upon him was l)y no means disagreeable to
Godwin. Her reply to a request or suggestion was
always, ' If you please, sir.' Throughout the day she
206 BORN IN EXILE
went so tranquilly about her domestic duties, that
Godwin seldom heard anything except the voice of the
cuckoo-clock, a pleasant sound to him. Her son, em-
ployed at a nurseryman's, was a great sinewy fellow
with a face of such ruddiness that it seemed to diffuse
warmth; on Sunday afternoon, whatever the state of
the sky, he sat behind the house in his shirt-sleeves,
and smoked a pipe as he contemplated the hart's-tongue
which grew there upon a rockery.
'The gentleman from London' — so Mrs. Eoots was
wont to style her lodger in speaking with neighbours —
had brought his books with him; they found place on
a few shelves. His microscope had its stand by the
window, and one or two other scientific implements lay
about the room. The cabinets bequeathed to him by
Mr. Gunnery he had sent to Twybridge, to remain in
his mother's care. In taking the lodgings, he described
himself merely as a student, and gave his landlady to
understand that he hoped to remain under her roof for
at least a year. Of his extreme respectabiUty, the widow
could entertain no doubt, for he dressed with aristocratic
finish, attended services at the Cathedral and elsewhere
very frequently, and made the most punctual payments.
Moreover, a casual remark had informed her that he was
on friendly terms with Mr. Martin Warricombe, whom
her son knew as a gentleman of distinction. He often
sat up very late at night, but, doubtless, that was the
practice of Londoners. No lodger could have given less
trouble, or have acknowledged with more courtesy all
that was done for his convenience.
No one ever called upon Mr. Peak, but he was often
from home for many hours together, probably on visits
to great people in city or country. It seemed rather
strange, however, that the postman so seldom brought
anything for him. Though he had now been more than
two months in the house, he had received only three
letters, and those at long intervals.
Noticeable was the improvement in his health since his
arrival here. The pallor of his cheeks was giving place
to a wholesome tinge ; his eye was brighter ; he showed
IJORN IN KXII.K 2U7
more disposition to converse, and was ivadit-r with
])leasant smiles. ]\rrs. lioots even lieard him singing in
his bedroom — tliougli, oddly enough, it was a secular
song on Sunday morning. The weekly bills for footl,
which at first had been very modest, grew riclier in items.
Godwin had, in fact, never felt so well. He extended his
walks in every direction, sometimes raml)ling u]* the
valley to sleepy little towns where he could rest in the
parlours of old inns, sometimes striking across country
to this or that point of the sea-coast, or making his wjiy
to the nearer summits of Dartmoor, noble in their wintry
desolation. He marked with delight every promise of
returning spring. When he could only grant himself a
walk of an hour or two in the sunny afternoon, there was
many a deep lane within easy reach, where the gorse
gleamed in masses of gold, and the little oak-trees in
the hedges were ruddy with last year's clinging leafage,
and catkins hung from the hazels, and tlie fresh green
of sprouting ivy crept over bank and wall. Had he now
been in London, the morning would liave awakened him
to fog and slush and misery. As it was, when he looked
out upon the glow of sunrise, he felt the sweet air
breathini:^ health into his frame and vigour into his mind.
There were moments wlien he could all but say of himself
that he was at peace with the world.
As on a morning tow\ards the end of ^larch, when a
wind from the Atlantic swept spaces of brightest blue
amid the speeding clouds, and sang joyously as it rushed
over hill and dale. It was the very day for an upland
walk, for a putting forth of one's strength in conllict with
boisterous gusts and sudden showers, that give a taste of
earth's nourishment. But Godwin had something else in
view. After breakfast, he sat down to iinish a piece of
work wdiicli had occupied him for two or three days, 'a
translation from a Gennan periodical. His mind wrought
easily, and he often hummed an air as his ])en moved
over the paper. When the task was comi)leted, he rolled
his papers and the pami)hlet together, put them into the
pocket of his overcoat, and presently went forth.
Twenty minutes' walk brought him to the Warri-
208 BORN IN EXILE
combes' house. It was his second call within the present
week, but such assiduity had not hitherto been his wont.
Though already summoned twice or thrice by express
invitation, he was sparing of voluntary visits. Having
asked for Mr. Warricombe, he was forthwith conducted
to the study. In the welcome which greeted his appear-
ance, he could detect no suspicion of simulated warmth,
though his ear had unsurpassable discrimination.
* Have you looked through it ? ' Martin exclaimed, as he
saw the foreign periodical in his visitor's hand.
' I have written a rough translation '
* Oh, how could you think of taking such trouble !
These things are sent to me by the dozen — I might
say, by the cartload. My curiosity would have been
amply satisfied if you had just told me the drift of the
thing.' ,
' It seemed to me,' said Peak, modestly, ' that the paper
was worth a little careful thought. I read it rapidly at
first, but found myself drawn to it again. It states the
point of view of the average scientific mind with such
remarkable clearness, that I wished to think it over, and
the best way was to do so pen in hand.'
' Well, if you really did it on your own account '
Mr. Warricombe took the offered sheets and glanced
at the first of them.
' My only purpose,' said Godwin, * in calling again so
soon was to leave this with you.'
He made as though he would take his departure.
* You want to cjet home ac^ain ? Wait at least till this
shower is over. I enjoy that pelting of spring rain
against the window. In a minute or two we shall have
the laurels flashing in the sunshine, as if they were hung
with diamonds.'
They stood together looking out on to the garden.
Presently their talk returned to the German disquisition,
which was directed against the class of quasi-scientific
authors attacked by Peak himself in his Critical article.
In the end Godwin sat down and began to read the
translation he had made, Mr. Warricombe listening with
a thoughtful smile. From time to time the reader paused
BORN IN EXILK 200
and uttered a comment, endeavourin*; to show that the
arguments were merely phuisible ; his air was that of
phicid security, and he seemed to enjoy tlie irony which
often fell from his lips. Martin fre([uently scrutinisetl
liim, and always with a look of interest which betokened
grave reflection.
' Here,' said Godwin at one point, ' he lias a noto
citing a passage from Reusch's book on The liiUc and
Nat H re. If I am not mistaken, he misrepresents his
author, though perhaps not intentionally.'
* You know tlie book ? '
* I have studied it carefully, but 1 don't possess it.
I thought I remembered tins particular passage very
well.'
' Is it a work of authority ? '
'Yes; it is very important. Unfortunately, it hasn't
yet been translated. Rather bulky, but I shouldn't
mind doing it myself if I were sure of finding a pub-
lisher.'
' The Bible and Nature' said Martin, musingly.
' What is his scheme ? How does he go to work ? '
Godwin gave a brief but lucid description of the book,
and ]\Ir. AVarricombe listened gravely. AVhen there had
been silence for some moments, the latter spoke in a
tone he had never yet used when conversing with Peak.
He allowed himself, for the first time, to betray a troubled
doubt on the subject under discussion.
* So he makes a stand at Darwinism as it allects
man ? '
Peak had yet no means of knowing at what jjoint
Martin himself ' made a stand.' Modes of reconcilement
between scientific discovery and religious tradition are
so very numerous, and the geologist was only now
beginning to touch upon these topics with his young
acquaintance. That his mind was not perfectly at case
amid the conflicts of the day, Godwin soon perceived.
and by this time he had clear assurance that Martin
would willingly tlirash out the whole debate with anyone
who seemed capable of supi)orting orthodox tenets by
reasoning not unacceptable to a man of broad views. Tlie
14
210 BORN IN EXILE
negativist of course assumed from the first that Martin,
however respectable his knowledge, was far from possess-
ing the scientific mind, and each conversation had
supplied him with proofs of this defect ; it was not at
all in the modern spirit that the man of threescore years
pursued his geological and kindred researches, but with
the calm curiosity of a liberal intellect which has
somehow taken this direction instead of devoting itself
to literary study. At bottom, Godwin had no little
sympathy with Mr. Warricombe ; he too, in spite of his
militant instincts, dwelt by preference amid purely human
interests. He grasped with firm intelligence the modes of
thought which distinguish scientific men, but his nature
did not prompt him to a consistent application of them.
Personal liking enabled him to subdue the impulses of
disrespect which, under other circumstances, would have
made it difficult for him to act with perfection his present
part. None the less, his task was one of infinite delicacy.
Martin Warricombe was not the man to unbosom himself
on trivial instigation. It must be a powerful influence
which would persuade him to reveal whatever self-
questionings lay beneath his genial good breeding and
long-established acquiescence in a practical philosophy.
Godwin guarded himself against his eager emotions ; one
false note, one syllable of indiscretion, and his aims might
be hopelessly defeated.
' Yes,' was his reply to the hesitating question. ' He
argues strenuously against the descent of man. If I
understand him, he regards the concession of this point
as impossible.'
Martin was deep in thought. He held a paper-knife
bent upon his knee, and his smooth, delicate features wore
an unquiet smile.
' Do you know Hebrew, Mr. Peak ? '
The question came unexpectedly, and Godwin could not
help a momentary confusion, but he covered it with the
tone of self-reproach.
' I am asliamed to say that I am only now taking it up
seriously.'
' I don't think you need be ashamed,' said Martin,
BORN IN EXILK L> 1 1
good-naturedly. 'Even a mind as active as yours must
poatpone sonic studies, licusch, I supi)ose, is sound on
that head ? '
The inquiry struck Godwin as significant. So ;Mr.
Warriconibe attaclied importance to the verbal intcr-
pretation of the Old Testament.
'Distinctly an authority,' he replied, 'llu devotes
whole chapters to a minute examination of the
text.'
' If you had more leisure,' Martin began, deliberately,
when he had again reflected, ' I should be dis[>osed to
urge you to undertake that translation.'
Peak appeared to meditate.
' Has the book been used by English writers ? ' the
other inquired.
' A good deal. — It was published in the sixties, but I
read it in a new edition dated a few years ago. Keusch
has kept pace with the men of science. It would be very
interesting to compare the flrst form of the book with the
latest.'
' It would, very.'
Eaising his head from the contemplative posture,
Godwin exclaimed, with a lauiih of zeal :
' I think I must find time to translate him. At all
events, I might address a proposal to some likely
publisher. . Yet I don't know how I should assure him
of my competency.'
' Probably a specimen would be the surest testimony.'
* Yes. I might do a few chapters.'
Mr. Warricombe's lapse into silence and brevities
intimated to Godwin that it was time to take leave. He
always quitted this room with reluctance. Its air of
luxurious culture affected his senses deliciously, and he
hoped that he might some day be permitted to linger
among the cabinets and the library shelves. There were
so many books he would have liked to take down, some
with titles familiar to him, others wliicli kindled his
curiosity when he chanced to observe tliem. The libra ry
abounded in sucli works as only a wealthy man can
purchase, and Godwin, who liad examined some of them
212 BORN IN EXILE
at the British Museum, was filled with the humaner
kind of envy on seeing them in Mr. Warricombe's
possession. Those publications of the PaUieontological
Society, one volume of which (a part of Davidson's
superb work on tlie Brachioiooda) even now lay open
within sight — his hand trembled with a desire to touch
them ! And those maps of the Geological Surveys, British
and foreign, how he would have enjoyed a day's poring
over them !
He rose, but Martin seemed in no haste to bring the
conversation to an end.
' Have you read M'Naughten's much-discussed book ? '
'Yes.'
' Did you see the savage attack in the Critical not long
ago ? '
Godwin smiled, and made quiet answer :
' I should think it was the last word of scientific
bitterness and intolerance.'
* Scientific ? ' repeated Martin, doubtfully. ' I don't
think the writer was a man of science. 1 saw it
somewhere attributed to Huxley, but that was pre-
posterous. To begin with, Huxley would have signed
his name ; and, again, his English is better. The article
seemed to me to be stamped with literary rancour; it
was written by some man who envies M'Naughten's
success.'
Peak kept silence. Martin's censure of the anonymous
author's style stung him to the quick, and he had much
ado to command his countenance.
'Still,' pursued the other, 'I felt that much of his
satire was only too well pointed. M'Naughten is
suf^gestive, very suggestive; but one comes across books
of the same purpose which can have no result but to
injure their cause with all thinking people.'
'I have seen many such,' remarked Godwin.
Mr. Warricombe stepped to a bookcase and took down
a small volume.
'I wonder whether you know this book of Ampere's,
La Grke, Rome, ct Dante ? Delightful for odd moments !
• — There came into my mind a passage here at the
BORN IN KXTLK 213
beginning, apropos of what we were saying: "II
faut souvent iin vrai courage ])r)ur pi-rsistcr dans iiii
opinion juste en depit dc ses di'fenscurs." — Isn't thai
capital ? '
l*eak received it witli genuine apiM-eciation ; for oner
he was able to laugh unfeignedly. The apliorisni had sn
many applications from his own point of view.
'Excellent! — T don't remember to liave seen the
book.'
' Take it, if you care to.'
This oiler seemed a distinct advance in Mr. Warri-
combe's friendliness. Godwin felt a thrill of encourai/c-
ment.
' Then you will let me keep this translation for a day
or two ? ' Martin added, indicating tlie sheets of manu-
script. 'I am greatly ol)liged to you for enabling me to
read the thing.'
They shook hands. Godwin had entertained a sbglit
hope that he might be asked to stay to luncheon; but it
could not be much past twelve o'clock, and on the whole
there was every reason for feeling satisfied with the
results of his visit. Before long lie wouhl probably
receive another invitation to dine. So with light step he
went out into the hall, where Martin again shook hands
with him.
The sky had darkened over, and a shrilling of the wind
sounded through the garden foliage — fir, and cypress, and
laurel. Just as Godwin reached the gate, he was met by
Miss Warricombe and Fanny, who were returning from a
walk. They wore the costume appropriate to March
weather in the country, close-fitting, defiant of gust.s ; and
their cheeks glowed with health. As he exchanged
greetings with them. Peak received a new im])ression of
the sisters. He admired the physical vigour which
enabled them to take delight in such a day as this, when
girls of poorer blood and i.^nob h^ nurture would shrink
from the sky's showery tumult, and ])rotect tlu'ir surfact;
elegance by the fireside. Impossible for Sid well and
Fanny to be anything but graceful, for at all times they
were perfectly unaffected.
214 BORN IN EXILE
'There'll be another storm in a minute,' said the
younger of them, looking with interest to the quarter
whence the wind came. * How suddenly they burst !
"What a rush ! And then in five minutes the sky is clear
again.'
Her eyes shone as she turned laughingly to Peak.
* You're not afraid of getting wet ? Hadn't you better
come under cover ? '
' Here it is ! ' exclaimed Sidwell, with quieter enjoy-
ment. ' Take shelter for a minute or two, Mr. Peak.'
They led the way to the portico, where Godwin stood
with them and watched the squall. A moment's down-
pour of furious rain was followed by heavy hailstones,
which drove horizontally before the shrieking wind. The
prospect had wrapped itself in grey gloom. At a hundred
yards' distance, scarcely an object could be distinguished ;
the storm-cloud swooped so low that its skirts touched
the branches of tall elms, a streaming, rushing ragged-
ness.
* Don't you enjoy that ? ' Fanny asked of Godwin.
' Indeed I do.'
'You should be on Dartmoor in such weather,' said
Sidwell. ' Father and I were once caudit in storms far
o
worse than this — far better, I ought to say, for I never
knew anything so terrifically grand.'
Already it was over. The gusts diminished in fre-
quency and force, the hail ceased, the core of blackness
was passing over to the eastern sky. Fanny ran out into
the garden, and pointed upward.
' Look where the sunlirfit is cominf:^ ! '
An uncloaked patch of heaven shone with colour like
that of the girl's eyes — faint, limpid blue. Picminding
himself that to tarry longer in this conq^any would be
imprudent, Godwin bade tlie sisters good-morning. The
frank heartiness with which Fanny pressed his hand, sent
him on his way exultant. Not too strong a word ; for,
independently of his wider ambitions, he was moved and
gratified by the thought tliat kindly feeling towards him
had sprung up in such a heart as this. Nor did conscience
so much as whisper a reproach. With unreflecting
J
BORN IX KXILK 1> 1 -
ingenuousness he tasted the joy as if it wen- his ri-^lit.
Tlius long he had waited, tliruii-^h yvdm of liuni^r.
manhood, for the look, the tone, which were in liarnion .
with his native sensiltilities. Fanny AVaiTicond»c waaj
hut an undeveloped girl, yet he valued her friendshia
above the passionate attacliment of any woman Ijred on'
a lower social plane. Had it l)een possil)le, he would
have kissed her fingers with purest reverence.
When out of sight of the house, he i)ause(l to regard
the sky again. Its noontide splendour was dazzling ;
masses of rosy cloud sailed swiftly from horizon to
horizon, the azure deepening al)0ut them. Yet ])efore
long the west would again send forth its turbident
spirits, and so the girls might perhaps be led to think of
him.
By night the weather grew more tranquil. There
was a full moon, and its radiance illumined the evi-r-
changing face of heaven with rare grandeur. CJodwin
could not shut himself up over his books; he wandered
far away into the country, and let his thoughts have
freedom.
He was learning to review with calmness the course by
which he had readied his now steadfast resolve. A
revulsion such as he had experienced after his first day
of simulated orthodoxy, half a year ago, could not be «»f
lasting effect, for it was opposed to the whole tenor of his
mature thought. It spoilt his holiday, but had no chance
of persisting after his return to the atmosphere of
IJothcrhithe. That he should have been cajtalile of such
emotion was, he said to himself, in the just order of
things ; callousness in the first stages of an undertaking
which demanded gross hypocrisy would signify an
ignoble nature — a nature, indeed, which could never have
been submitted to trial of so strange a kind. Ihit lie had
overcome himself; that phase of difliculty was outlivetl,
and henceforth he saw only tlie material obstacles to b«-
defied by his vindicated will.
What he proposed to himself was a life of deliberai'
baseness. Godwin Peak never tried to play the sophist
with this fact. lUit he succeeded in justifying himself by
216 BORN IN EXILK
f a consideration of the circumstances which had compelled
him to a vile expedient. Had his project involved
conscious wrong to other persons, he w^ould scarcely even
have speculated on its possibilities. He was convinced
that no mortal could suffer harm, even if he accomplished
the uttermost of his desires. Whom was he in danger
of wronging ? The conventional moralist would cry :
Everyone with whom he came in slightest contact ! But
a mind such as Peak's has very little to do with con-
ventional morality. Injury to himself he foresaw and^
accepted ; he could never be the man nature designed in
him ; and he must frequently submit to a self-contempt
which would be very hard to bear. Those whom he
consistently deceived, how would they suffer ? Martin
AVarricombe to begin with. Martin was a man who had
lived his life, and whose chief care would now be to keep
his mind at rest in the faiths which had served him from
youth onwards. In that very purpose, Godwin believed
he could assist him. To see a young man, of strong
and trained intellect, championing the old beliefs, must
dou1)tless be a source of reassurance to one in Martin's
position. Eeassurance derived from a lie ? — And what
matter, if the outcome were G^enuine, if it lasted until the
man himself was no more ? Did not every form of
content result from illusion ? What was truth without
the mind of the believer ?
Society, then — at all events that part of it likely to be
affected by his activity ? Suppose him an ordained priest,
performing all the functions implied in that office. Why,
to think only of examples recognised by the public at
large, how would he differ for the worse from this, that,
and the other clergyman who taught Christianity, all but
with blunt avowal, as a scheme of human ethics ? No
wolf in sheep's clothing he ! He plotted against no man's
pocket, no woman's honour ; he had no sinister design of
sapping the faith of congregations — a scheme, by-the-bye,
which fanatic liberators might undertake with vast self-
approval. If by a word he could have banished religious
dogma from the minds of the multitude, he would not
have cared to utter it. Wherein lay, indeed, a scruple to
k
BORN IN KXILK 217
be surmounted. The Christian ]>riest must ]k3 a man of
humble temper; he must be willing,', even ea«»cr, to sil
down among the poor in spirit as well as in estate, and
impart to them his unworldly solaces. Yes, but it had
always been recognised tliat some men wlio could do the
Church good service were personally unfitted lor those
meek ministrations. His place was in the hierarchy of
intellect ; if he were to be active at all, it must be with
the brain. In his conversation with Buckland Warri-
combe, last October, he had spoken not altogether
insincerely. Let him once be a member of the Church
militant, and his heart woidd go with many a stroke
a^inst that democratj c_movement which desired, among,
other things, the Church's abolition. He had power of
utterance. Enused to combat by the proletarian challengr,
he could make his voice ring in the ears of men, even
though he used a symbolism* wliich he woidd not hy
choice have adopted.
For it was natural that he should anticipate distinction.
Whatever his lot in life, he would not be able to rest
among an inglorious brotherhood. H' he allied liimiself
with the Church, the Church must assign him leadership,
whether titular or not was of small moment. In days io
come, let people, if they would, debate his liistory, canvass
his convictions. His scornful pride invited any degree
of publicity, when once his position was secure.
But in the meantime he was leaving aside the most
powerful of all his motives, and one which demanded
closest scrutiny. Not ambition, in any ordinary .sense;
not desire of material luxury; no incentive recognised by
unprincipled schemers first suggested ^ his dis hon our.
This edifice of subtle untruth liad for its foundation a
mere ideal of sexual love. For the winning of .some
chosen woman, men have wrought vehemently, hav«'
ruined themselves and others, have achieved triumphs
noble or degrading. lUit (Jodwin Teak had for years
contemplated the possiliility of baseness at the im])ulse
of a craving for love cai)able only of a social (one might
say, of a political) definition. The woman throned in his
imagination was no individual, but the type <»f an order.
218 BORN IN EXILE
So strangely had jiixiiuiii^tmiC£S. moulded him, that he
could not brood on a desire of spiritual affinities, could
not, as is natural to most cultivated men, inflame himself
with the ardour of soul reaching to soul ; he was pre-
occupied with the contemplation of qualities which
characterise a class. The sense of social distinctions was.
so burnt into him, that he could not be affected by any
pictured charm of mind or person in a w^oman who had
not the stamp of gentle birth and breeding. If once he
were admitted to the intimacy of such women, then,
indeed, the canons of selection would have weight with
him ; no man more capable of disinterested choice. Till
then, the ideal which possessed him was merely such an
assemblage of qualities as would excite the democrat to
disdain or fury.
In Sid well AVarricombe this ideal found an embodi-
ment; but Godwin did not " thereupon come to the
conclusion that Sidwell was the wife he desired. Her
influence had the effect of deciding his career, but he
neither imagined himself in love with her, nor tried to
believe that he might win her love if he set himself to
the endeavour. For the first time he was admitted to
familiar intercourse with a woman whom he could make
the object of his worship. He thought much of her; day
and night her figure stood before him ; and this had
continued now for half a year. Still he neither was,
nor dreamt himself, in love with her. Before long his
acquaintance would include many of her like, and at any
moment Sidwell might pale in the splendour of another's
loveliness.
But what reasoning could defend the winning of a wife
by false pretences ? Tliis, his final aim, could hardly be
achieved without grave wrong to the person whose welfare
must in the nature of things be a prime motive with him.
The deception he had practised must sooner or later be
discovered ; lifelong hypocrisy was incompatible with
])erfect marriage ; some day he must either involve his
wife in a system of dishonour, or with her consent re-
linquish the false career, and find his happiness in the
obscurity to which he would then be relegated. Admit
BORN IN EXILE 219
the wrong. Grant that some woman whom liu h:>ved
supremely must, on his account, pass tlirough a harsh
trial — would it not be in his power to compensate her
amply ? The wife whom he imagined (his idealism in
this matter was of a crudity which matle tlie strangest
contrast with his habits of thought on every otlier subject)
would be ruled by her emotions, and that part of her
nature would be wholly under his governance. Keligious
fanaticism could not exist in her, for in that case slie
would never have attracted him. Little by little she would
learn to think as he did, and her devotedness must lead
her to pardon his deliberate insincerities. Godwin had
absolute faith in his power of dominating the woman
whom he should inspire with tenderness. This was a
feature of \his_egois.m2 the explanation of those manifold
inconsistencies inseparable from his tortuous design. Hcj
regarded his love as something so rare, so vehement, so
exalting, that its bestowal must seem an abundanti
recompense for any pain of which he was the cause.
Thus, with perfect sincerity of argument, did Godwin
Peak face the undertaking to which he was committed.
Incidents might perturb him, but his position was no
longer a cause of uneasiness — save, indeed, at those
moments when he feared lest any of his old ac«iuaintances
might hear of him before time was ripe. This was a
source of anxiety, but inevitable ; one of the risks he
dared.
Had it seemed possible, he would have kept even from
his mother the secret of his residence at Exeter ; but this
would have necessitated the establisliment of some in-
direct means of communication with lier, a troublesome
and uncertain expedient. He shrank from leaving her
in ignorance of his whereabouts, and from passing a year
or two without knowledge of her condition. And, on the
whole, there could not be much danger in this corresi)on-
dence. The Moxeys, who ah)ne of his friends had ever
been connected with Twybridge, were now absolutely
without interests in that ([uarter. From them he had
stolen away, only acquainting Christian at the last
moment, in a short letter, with his departure from
220 BORN IN EXILE
London. 'It will be a long time before we again see
each other — at least, I think so. Don't trouble your
head about me. I can't promise to write, and shall be
sorry not to hear how things go with you ; but may
all happen as you wish 1 ' In the same way he had
dealt with Earvvaker, except that his letter to Staple
Inn was much longer, and contained hints which the
philosophic journalist might perchance truly interpret.
* " He either fears his fate too much " — you know the old
song. I have set out on my life's adventure. I have gone
to seek that without which life is no longer worth having.
Forgive my shabby treatment of you, old friend. You
cannot help me, and your displeasure would be a hindrance
in my path. A last piece of counsel : throw overboard
the weekly rag, and write for people capable of under-
standing you.' Earwaker was not at all likely to in-
stitute a search ; he would accept the situation, and
wait with quiet curiosity for its upshot. No doubt
he and Moxey would discuss the affair together, and
any desire Christian might have to hunt for his vanished
,_comrade would yield before the journalist's surmises.
No one else had any serious reason for making inquiries.
Probably he might dwell in Devonshire, as long as he
, chose, without fear of encountering anyone from his old
j world.
Occasionally — as to-night, under the full moon — he was
able to cast off every form f)f trouble, and rejoice in his
seeming liberty. Though every step in the life before him
was an uncertainty, an appeal to fortune, his faith in
himself grasped strongly at assurance of success. Once
more he felt himself a young man, with unwearied
energies ; he had shaken off the burden of those ten
frustrate years, and kept only their harvest of experience.
Old in one sense, in another youthful, he had vast
advantages over such men as would henceforth be his
competitors — the complex brain, the fiery heart, passion
to desire, and skill in attempting. If with such endow-
ment he could not win the prize which most men claim
as a mere matter of course, a wife of social instincts
correspondent with his own, he must indeed be luckless.
BORN IX KXILK 221
But he was not doomed to defeat ! Fureta.ste of triuiuph
urged the current of his blood and intlanied him with
exquisite ardour. He sang aloud in the still lanes the
hymns of youth and of love ; and, when weariness brought
Inm back to his lonely dwelling, he laid his head on tlje
pillow, and slept in dreamless calm.
As for the details of his advance towards the clerical
state, he had decided to resume his career at the point
where it was interrupted by Andrew Peak. Twice had
his education received a check from hostile circumstances :
when domestic poverty compelled him to" leave school fur
Mr. Moxey's service, and when shame drove him from
Wiiitelaw College. In reflecting upon his own character
and his lot he gave much weight to these irregularities,
no doubt with justice. In both cases he was turned aside
from the way of natural development and opportunity.
He would now complete his academic course by taking
the London degree at which he had long ago aimed ; the
preliminary examination might without dilliculty be
passed this summer, and next year he might write him-
self Bachelor of Arts. A return to the studies of boyhood
probably accounted in some measure for the frequent
gaiety which he attributed to improving health and
revived hopes. Everything he undertook was easy to
him, and by a plea sant self-deception he made the
passing of a school task his augury of success in greater
things.
During tlie spring he was indebted to the AVarricombes'
friendship for several new acquaintances. A clergyman
named Lily white, often at the Warricoml)es' house, made
friendly overtures to him ; the connection might be a
useful one, and Godwin made the most of it. Mr.
Lilywhite was a man of forty — well-read, of scientific
tastes, an active pedestrian. Peak had no dilliculty in
associating with him on amicable terms. With Mrs. Lily-
white, the mother of six children and possessed of many
virtues, he presently l)ecame a favourite, — she saw in him
' a great deal of quiet moral force.' One or two families
of good standing made him welcome at tlieir houses ;
society is very kind to those who seek its benefits with
222 BORN IN EXILE
recognised credentials. The more he saw of these wealthy
and tranquil middle-class people, the more fervently did
he admire the gracefulness of their existence. He
had not set before himself an imaginary ideal ; the gir s
and women were sweet, gentle, perfect in manner, and,
within limits, of bright intelligence. He was conscious
of benefiting greatly, and not alone in things extrinsic,
by the atmosphere of such homes.
Nature's progress towards summer kept him in a mood
of healthful enjoyment. From the window of his sitting-
room he looked over the opposite houses to Northernhay,
the hill where once stood Eougemont Castle, its wooded
declivities now fashioned into a public garden. He watched
the rooks at their building in the great elms, and was
gladdened when the naked branches began to deck them-
selves, day by day the fresh verdure swelling into soft,
graceful outline. In his walks he pried eagerly for
the first violet, welcomed the earliest blackthorn blossom ;
every common flower of field and hedgerow gave him a
new, keen pleasure. As was to be expected he found
the same impulses strong in Sidwell Warricombe and her
sister. Sidwell could tell him of secret spots where the
wood-sorrel made haste to flower, or where the white
violet breathed its fragrance in security from common
pilferers. Here was the safest and pleasantest matter
for conversation. He knew that on such topics he could
talk agreeably enough, revealing wdthout stress or impor-
tunity his tastes, his powers, his attainments. And it
seemed to him that Sidwell listened with growing
interest. Most certainly her father encouraged his visits
to the house, and Mrs. Warricombe behaved to him with
increase of suavity.
In the meantime he had purchased a copy of Keusch's
Bihel tend Natur, and had made a translation of some
fifty pages. This experiment he submitted to a London
publishing house, with proposals for the completion of the
work; without much delay there came a civil letter of
excuse, and with it the sample returned. Another
attempt again met with rejection. This failure did not
trouble him. What he really desired was to read through
BORN IN KXIIJ-: 223
his version of Iteusch with ^Martin Warricomhe, and
before long he had broiiglit it tu i)ass that Mariin
requested a perusal of the manuscript as it ailvaiiced,
which it did but slowly. CJodwin durst not endanger
his success in the examination by encroaching ujion
hours of necessary study; his leisure was largely sacrificed
to B'ihcl und Natur, and many an evening of calm golden
loveliness, when he longed to be amid the fields, j)assed
in vexatious imprisonment. The name of Iteusch grew
odious to him, and he revenged himself for the hypocrisy
of other hours by fierce scorn, cast audibly at this
laborious exegetist.
Ill
It occasionally happens that a woman whose early life
has been directed by native silliness and social bias,
will submit to a tardy education at the hands of her
own children. Thus was it with Mrs. Warricombe.
She came of a race long established in squirearchic
dignity amid heaths and woodlands. Her breeding was
pure through many generations of the paternal and
maternal lines, representative of a physical type, forti-
fied in the males by much companionship with horse
and hound, and by the corresponding country pursuits
of dowered daughters. At the time of her marriage she
had no charms of person more remarkable than rosy
comeliness and the symmetry of supple limb. As for
the nurture of her mind, it had been intrusted to home-
governesses of respectable incapacity. Martin Warri-
combe married her because she was one of a little circle
of girls, much alike as to birth and fortune, with whom
he had grown up in familiar communication. Timidity
imposed restraints upon him which made his choice
almost a matter of accident. As befalls often enough,
the betrothal became an accomplished fact whilst he
was still doubting whether he desired it or not. When
the fervour of early wedlock was outlived, he had no
difficulty in accepting as a matter of course that his
life's companion should be hopelessly illogical and
at heart indifferent to everything but the small
graces and substantial comforts of provincial existence.
One of the advantages of wealth is that it allows
husband and wife to keep a great deal apart with-
224
out any sjiow of mutual unkindacss, a condition
essential to happiness in niairia<,^u. Time fostereil
in them a calm attacliment, independent of spiritual
sympatliy, satisfied witli a common re^^'ord for domesti-
lionour.
Xot that Mrs. AVarricombe remained in complete
ignorance of her husband's pursuits ; social forms would
scarcely have allowed this, seeini^^ that slie was in constant
intercourse, as hostess or guest, with Martin's scientific
friends. Of fossils she necessarily knew something. Uj»
to a certain point they amused her; she could talk of
ammonites, of brachiopods, and would ])oint a friend's
attention to tlie Cahrola sandalina whicli ^lartin ])riz('d
so much. The significance of paheontology she dimlv
apprehended, for in the early days of their union her
husband had felt it desirable to explain to her what was
meant by geologic time, and how lie reconciled his views
on that subject with the demands of religious faith.
Among tlie books which he induced her to read were
lUickland's Bridgewater Treatise and the works of Hugh
Miller. The intellectual result was chaotic, and Airs.
Warricombe settled at last into a comfortable private
opinion, that though the record of geology might ])e
trustworthy that of the Bil)le was more so. She wouM
admit that there was no impiety in accepting the evi-
dence of nature, but held to a secret conviction that it
was safer to believe in Genesis. For anything beyond
a quasi-permissilde variance from l)iblical authority as
to the age of the world she was quite unprepared, and
Martin, in his discretion, imparted to her nothing of
the graver doubts which were wont to troultle him.
But as her children grew up, Airs. Warricombe's mind
and temper were insensibly modified by intluences which
operated through her maternal affections, intluences no
doubt aided by the progressive spirit of the time. The
three boys — Buckland, Maurice, and I.ouis— were dis-
tinctly of a new generation. It needed some ingenuity
to discover their points of kindred with paternal and
maternal grandparents; nor even with father and mother
had they much in common wdiich observation ( ouM
15
226 BORN IN EXILE
readily detect. Sidwell, up to at least her fifteenth year,
seemed to present far less change of type. In her Mrs.
Warricombe recognised a daughter, and not without
solace. But Fanny again was a problematical nature,
almost from the cradle. Latest born, she appeared to
revive many characteristics of the youthful Buckland,
so far as a girl could resemble her brother. It was a
strange brood to cluster around Mrs. Warricombe. For
many years the mother was kept in alternation between
hopes and fears, pride and disapproval, the old hereditary
habits of mind, and a new order of ideas which could
only be admitted with the utmost slowness. Ijuckland's
Radicalism deeply offended her ; she marvelled how
such depravity could display itself in a child of hers.
Yet in the end her ancestral prejudices so far yielded
as to allow of her smiling at sentiments which she once
heard with liorror. Maurice, whom she loved more
tenderly, all but taught her to see the cogency of a
syllogism — amiably set forth. And Louis, with his in-
dolent good-nature, laughed her into a tolerance of many
things which had moved her indignation. But it was
to Sidwell that in the end she owed most. Beneath the
surface of ordinary and rather Ijackward girlhood, which
discouraged her father's hopes, Sidwell was quietly de-
veloping a personality distinguished by the refinement
of its ethical motives. Her orthodoxy seemed as unim-
peachable as Mrs. Warricombe could desire, yet as she
grew into womanhood, a curiosity, which in no way
disturbed the tenor of her quietly contented life, led
her to examine various forms of religion, ancient and
modern, and even systems of philosophy which professed
to establish a moral code, independent of supernatural
faith. She was not of studious disposition — that is to
say, she had never cared as a schoolgirl to do more
mental work than was required of her; and even now it
I was seldom that she read for more than an hour or two
lin the day. Her habit was to dip into books, and
meditate long on the first points which arrested her
thoughts. Of continuous application she seemed incap-
able. She could read French, but did not attempt to
BOKX IN KXILK '2'2~
])ursue the other huiguages of whuli her leaclitTs liuii
given her a siiialteriiig. It pleased hur Ixist wlieii she
could learn from eonversation. In this way she obtaiiK'd
some insight into her fatliur's favourite scit'nces, occa-
sionally making suggestions or inc^uiries which revealed
a subtle if not an acute intelligence.
Little by little iMrs. AVarriconiljc found herself cljangin"
places with the daughter whom slie had regarded as
wholly subject to her direction. Sidwell began to exercise
an indeterminate control, the proofs of which were at
length manifest in details of her mother's speech and
demeanour. An exquisite social tact, an unfailing
sincerity of moral judgment, a gentle force which operated
as insensibly as the qualities of ])ure aii- : these were
the points of character to which ]\Irs. AVarricond»e owed
the humanisation observable when one compared her in
1885 with what she was, say, in 1874, when the sight
of Professor Walsh moved her to acrimony, and when
she conceived a pique against Professor (Jale because
the letter P has alphabetical precedence of W. Her
limitations were of course the same as ever, and
from her sons she had only learnt to be ashamed of
announcing them too vehemently. Sidwell it was who
had led her to that degree of genuine humility, which
is not satisfied with hiding a fault but strives to
amend it.
Martin Warricombe liimself was not unallected by the
growth about him of young men and maidens who looked
upon the world with new eyes, whose world, indeed,
was another than that in which he had spent the better
part of his life. In his case contact with the young
generation tended to unsettlement, to a troublesome per-
sistency of speculations which he would have jueferred
to dismiss altogether. At the time of his marriage, an«l
for some years after, he was content to make a broa<l
distinction l)etween those intellectual jmrsuits whieli
allorded him rather a liberal amusement than the plea-
sures of earnest study and the questions of meta})hy;>ical
faith whicli concerned his heart and conscience. His
native prejudices were almost as strong, and much tiie
228 BORN IN EXILE
same, as those of his wife ; but with the vagueness of
emotional logic natural to his constitution, he satisfied
himself that, by conceding a lew inessential points, he
left himself at liberty to follow the scientific movements
of the day witliout damage to his religious convictions.
The tolerant smile so frequently on his countenance was
directed as often in the one (quarter as in the other.
Now it signified a gentle reproof of those men of science
who, like Professor AValsh, ' went too far,' whose zeal for
knowledge led them 'to forget the source of all true
enlightenment'; now it expressed a forbearing sympathy
with such as erred in the opposite direction, who were
' too literal in their interpretation of the sacred volume.'
Amiable as the smile was, it betrayed weakness, and at
moments Martin became unpleasantly conscious of indis-
position to examine his ow^n mind on certain points.
His life, indeed, was one of debate postponed. As the
realm of science extended, as his intercourse wdth men
who frankly avowed their 'infidelity' grew more frequent,
he ever and again said to himself that, one of these days,
he must sit down and ' have it out ' in a solemn self-
searching. But for the most part he got on very well
amid his inconsistencies. Eeligious faith has rarely an^.
connection with reasoning. Martin believed because he
believed, and avoided the impact of disagreeable argu-
ments because he wished to do so.
The bent of his mind was anything but polemical ; he
cared not to spend time even over those authors whose
attacks on the outposts of science, or whose elaborate
reconcilements of old and new, might have afforded him
some support. On the other hand, he altogether lacked
that breadth of intellect which seeks to comprehend all
the results of speculation, to discern their tendency, to
derive from them a consistent theory of the nature of
things. Though a man be well versed in a science such
as palaeontology it does not follow that he will view it
in its philosophical relations. Martin had kept himself
informed of all the facts appertaining to his study which
the age brought forth, but without developing the new
modes of mental life requisite for the recognition of all
I'.oltX I\ KXILI-: L>*_"»
that .such fiict.s iiivdlvt'd. 'J'hu thuuiies of ev«jluii(»u he
did not venture ()})enly t(» resist, hut his acceptjince of
them was so lialf-hcarled that practically he made no
use of their tcacliiuLr. lie was no man of science, but
anidlei^amon-- the whihIcix wliich -cii'ii.,. us^g for lief
own purposes.
He regarded with surj)rise and anxiety the icnd-
encies early manifested in his son Auckland. Could lie
have had his way the lad would have grown up with
an inipossil)le combination of qualities, hlending the
enthusiasm of modern research with a si)irit of expan-
sive teleology. Whilst Buckland was still of boyish
years, the father treated with bantering good-humour such
outbreaks of irreverence as came immediately under his
notice, weakly abstaining from any attempt at direct
argument or influence. But, at a later time, there
took place serious and painful discussions, and only
when the voung man had rubbed olf his edges in the
world's highways could Martin forget that stage of
most unwelcome conflict.
At the death of his younger boy, Maurice, he suffered
a blow which had results more abiding than the melan-
choly wherewith for a year or two his genial nature
was overshadowed. From that day onwards he was
never wholly at ease among the pursuits which had
been wont to aftbrd him an unfailing resource against
whatever troubles. He could no longer accept and
disregard, in a spirit of cheerful faith, those ditliculties
science was perpetually throwing in his way. The old
smile of kindly tolerance had still its twofold meaning,
but it was more evidently a disguise of indecision, and
not seldom touched with sadness. Martin's life was
still one of postponed debate, but he could not reganl
the day wlien conclusions would be demanded of him
as indefinitely remote. Desiring to dwell in the familiar
temporary abode, his structure of incongruities and
facile reconcilements, he found it no longer weather-
proof. The times were sliaking his position wit h earth-
qua ke af ter eailliquake. His sons (for he suspected
"Hiat Louis was hardly less emancipated than Buckland)
230 BORN IN EXILE
stood far aloof from him, and must in private feel
contemptuous of his old-fashioned beliefs. In Sidwell,
however, he had a companion more and more indispens-
able, and he could not imagine that her faith would ever
give way before the invading spirit of agnosticism.
Happily she was no mere pietist. Though he did not
quite understand her attitude towards Christianity, he
felt assured that Sidwell had thought deeply and
earnestly of religion in all its aspects, and it was a
solace to know that she found no difficulty in recognising
the large claims of science. For all this, he could not
deliberately seek her confidence, or invite her to a
discussion of religious subjects. Some day, no doubt,
a talk of that kind would begin naturally between them,
and so strong was his instinctive faith in Sidwell that he
looked forward to this future communing as to a certain
liope of peace.
That a figure such as Godwin Peak, a young man of
vigorous intellect, preparing to devote his life to the
old religion, should excite Mr. Warricombe's interest was
of course to be anticipated ; and it seemed probable
enough that Peak, exerting all the force of his character
and aided by circumstances, might before, long convert
this advantage to a means of ascendency over the less
self-reliant nature. But here was no instance of a dotard
becoming the easy prey of a scientific Tartufe. Martin's
intellect had suffered no decay. His hale features and
dignified bearing expressed the mind which was ripened
by sixty years of pleasurable activity, and which was
learning to regard with steadier view the problems it
had hitherto shirked. He could not change the direc-
tion nature had given to his thoughts, and prepossession
would in some degree obscure his judgment where
tlie merits and trustworthiness of a man in l^eak's
circumstances called for scrutiny ; but self - respect
guarded him against vulgar artifices, and a fine seiisi-
bility made it improbable that he would become the
victim of any man in whom l)ase motives predomi-
nated.
Left to his own impulses, he would still have proceeded
BURN IX KXILK 231
with all caution in his offers of friendly services to I'eak.
A letter of carefully - worded aihnonition, whicli he
received from his son, ap]nisini,^ him of Peak's resolve
to transfer liiniself to Kxeter, scaretdy allecU-d his
behaviour when the young man apiJcared. It was but
natural — he argued — that lUickland sliould look askance
on a case of 'conversion'; for his own part, lie under-
stood that sucli a step might be prom})ted by interest,
but he found it dillieult to believe that to a man in
Peak's position, the Churrli would offer teini)lati()n thus
coercive. Nor could he discern in the candidate for
a curacy any mark of dishonourable purpose. Faults,
no doubt, were observable, among them a tendency tf»
spiritual pride — which seemed (Martin could admit) an
argument for, rather than against, his sincerity. The
progress of acquaintance decidedly confirmed his favour-
able impressions; they were supported by the remarks
of those among his friends to whom Peak presently
became known.
It was not until Whitsuntide of the next year, when
the student had been living nearly five months at Exeter,
tliat Auckland again came down to visit his relatives.
On the evening of his arrival, chancing to be (done with
Sidwell, he asked her if Peak had been to the liouse
lately.
' Not many days ago,' replied his sister, ' he lunched
witli us, and then sat with lather for some time.'
' Does he come often ^ '
'Not very often. He is translating a (Jerman l)ook
which interests father very much.'
' Oh, what book ? '
* I don't know. Father has only mentioned it in that
way.'
They were in a little room sacred to the two girls,
very daintily furnished and fragrant of sweet-brier, whicli
Sidwell loved so nmch that, when the season allowed
it, she often wore a little spray of it at her girdle.
Buckland opened a book on the table, and, on seeing
the title, exclaimed witli a disparaging laugli :
' I can't get out of the way of tliis fl-Uow ^PNaughten :
232 BORN IN EXILE
Wherever I go, there he lies about on the tables and
chairs. I should have thought he was thoroughly
smashed by an article that came out in the Critical last
year.'
Sidwell smiled, evidently in no way offended.
' That article could " smash " nobody,' she made answer.
* It was too violent ; it overshot the mark.'
' Not a bit of it ! — So you read it, eh ? You're begin-
ning to read, are you ? '
' In my humble way, Buckland.'
'M'Naughten, among other things. Humble enough,
that, I admit.'
'I am not a great admirer of M'Naughten,' retui*ned
his sister, with a look of amusement.
' No ? I congratulate you. — I wonder what Peak
thinks of the book ? '
' I really don't know.'
' Then let me ask another question. What do you
think of Peak ? '
Sidwell regarded him with quiet reflectiveness.
' I feel,' she said, ' that I don't know him very well yet.
He is certainly interesting.'
' Yes, he is. Does he impress you as the kind of man
likely to make a good clergyman ? '
' I don't see any reason wliy lie should not.'
Her brother mused, with wrinkles of dissatisfaction on
his brow.
' Father gets to like him, you say ? '
' Yes, I think father likes him.'
' Well, I suppose it's all right.'
' All right ? '
* It's the most astounding thiug that ever came under
my observation,' exclaimed Buckland, walking away and
then returning.
' That Mr. Peak should be studying for the
Church ? '
'Yes.'
' But do reflect more modestly ! ' urged Sidwell, with
something that was not quite archness, though as near
it as her habits of tone and feature would allow. ' Why
ii()i:x IN KxiLK •_':;:;
should you refuse to admit an error in your own Nva\
of looking at things? Wouldn't it he lietler U) take thi-
as a proof that intellect isn't necessarily at war wiili
Cliristianity { '
'I never stated it so hroadly as thai,' returned her
hrother, with impatience. ' lUit I sliould certainly have
maintained that 7V^//.'.s intellect was necessarily in thai
position.'
'And you see how wrong you would have heen,' re-
nuirked the girl, softly.
' Well— 1 don't know.'
' You don't know { '
' I mean that I can't acknowledge what I can't under-
stand.'
'Then do try to understand, JUickland 1 — Have you
ever put aside your prejudice for a moment to incpiire
what our religion really means? Not once, I think
— at all events, not since you reached years of (Hs-
cretion.'
' Allow me to inform you that I studied the ([Uestinii
thoroughly at Cambridge.'
' Yes, yes ; but that was in your boyhood.'
' And when does manhood begin ^ '
'At diflerent times in ditVerent persons. In your case
it was late.'
Buckland laughed. He was considering a rtgoindrr.
when they were interrupted by tlie appearance of I'^anu} .
wlio asked at once :
'Shall you go to see Mr. Peak tliis evcnin-j;, Ihiek-
land?'
' I'm in no liurry,' was the abrupt re}»ly.
The girl hesitated.
'Let us all have a drive together— with Mr. iVak, 1
mean — like when you were here last.'
' We'll see about it.'
Buckland went slowly from the room.
Late the same evening he sat with his fatlier in the
study. Mr. Warricombe knew not the .solace of tobacco
and his son, thougli never (|uite at ease without i>ipe oi
cigar, denied himself in tliis room, with tlie result that li.
234 BORN IN EXILE
shifted frequently upon his cliair and fell into many
awkward postures.
'And how does Peak impress you?' he inquired, when
the subject he most wished to converse upon had been
postponed to many others. It was clear that Martin
would not himself broach it.
*Not disagreeably,' was the reply, with a look of
frankness, perhaps over-emphasised.
' What is he doing ? I have only heard from him once
since he came down, and he had very little to say about
himself.'
' I understand that he proposes to take the London
B.A.'
' Oh, then, he never did that ? Has he unbosomed
himself to you about his affairs of old time ? '
' No. Such confidences are hardly called for.'
' Speaking plainly, father, you don't feel any uneasi-
ness ? '
Martin deliberated, fingering the while an engraved
stone which hung upon his watch-guard. He was at a
disadvantage in this conversation. Aware that Buckland
regarded the circumstances of Peak's sojourn in the
neighbourhood with feelings allied to contempt, he could
neither adopt the tone of easy confidence natural to him
on other occasions of difference in opinion, nor express
himself with the coldness which would have obliged his
son to quit the subject.
' Perhaps you had better tell me,' he replied, ' whether
you are really uneasy.'
It was impossible for Buckland to answer as his mind
prompted. He could not without offence declare that no
young man of brains now adopted a clerical career with
pure intentions, yet such was his sincere belief. Made
tolerant in many directions by the cultivation of his
j shrewdness, he was hopelessly biassed in judgment as
soon as his anti-religious prejudice came into play — a point
of strong resemblance between him and Peak. After
fidgeting for a moment, he exclaimed :
' Yes, I am ; but I can't be sure that there's any cause
for it.'
BORN IX FA'IKK 235
'Let lis conic to matters of fact,' said Mr. Warricmnbe,
sliowing that lie was not sorry to discuss this side of the
aft'air. ' I suppose there is no doubt that Teak liad a
position till lately at tlie place he speaks of ^ '
'No doubt whatever. I have taken pains to ascer-
tain tliat. His account of liiniself, so far, is strictly
true.'
]\Iartin smiled, with satisfaction he did imi care to
disguise.
* Have you met some acquaintance of his ? '
'Well,' answered Buckland, changing;' his position, 'I
went to work in rather an underliand way, perhaps, —
but the results are satisfactory. No. I liaven't come
across any of his friends, but I happened to hear
not long ago that he was on intimate terms with some
journalists.'
His father laughed.
'Anything compromising in that association, Ihick-
land?'
' I don't say that — though the fellows T speak of are
hot Radicals.'
' Though ? '
' I mean,' replied the young man, with Ins shrewdei
smile, 'that they are not exactly the companions a
theological student would select.'
'I understand. rossil)ly he has journalised a little
himself?'
' That I can't say, though I should have thouglit it
likely enough. I might, of course, find out much more
about him, l)Ut it seemed to me that to liave assurance of
his trutlifulness in that one respect was enough for the
present.'
'Do you mean, Buckland,' asked liis father, gravely,
' that you have been setting secret i)olice at work i '
'Well, yes. I thouglit it the least objectionable way of
getting information.'
]Martin compressed his lips and looked disapproval.
' I really can't see that such extreme measures were
demanded. Come, come; what is all this about? Do
you suspect him of planning burgbiries { That was an
236 BORX IN KXILE
ill-judged step, Buekland; decidedly ill-judged. I said
just now that Peak impressed me by no means disagree-
ably. Now I will add that I am convinced of his good
faith — as sure of it as I am of his remarkable talents and
aptitude for the profession he aims at. In spite of your
extraordinary distrust, I can't feel a moment's doubt of
his honour. AVhy, I could have told you myself that he
has known Ivadical journalists. He mentioned it the
other day, and explained how far his sympathy went with
that kind of tiling. Xo, no ; that was hardly permissible,
Buekland.'
The young man had no difficulty in l»owing to his
fatlier's reproof when tlie point at issue was one of
gentlemanly behaviour.
' I admit it,' he replied. ' I wisli I had gone to
Eotherhithe and made simple inquiries in my own name.
That, all things considered, I might have allowed myself ;
at all events, I shouldn't have been at ease without
getting that assurance. If Peak had heard, and had said
to me, " What the deuce do you mean ? " I should have
told him plainly, what I have strongly hinted to him
already, that 1 don't understand what he is doing in this
galley.'
'And have placed yourself in a position not easy to
define.'
' Xo doubt.'
' All this arises, my boy,' resumed Martin, in a tone
of grave kindness, 'from your strange inability to
grant that on certain matters you may be wholly
misled.'
' It does.'
' A¥ell, well ; that is forbidden ground. But do try to
be less narrow. Are you unable then to meet Peak in a
friendly way ? '
' Oh, by no means ! It seems more than likely that I
have wronged him.'
' Well said ! Keep your mind open. I marvel at the
dogmatism of men who are set on overthrowing dogma.
Sucli a position is so strangely unphilosophic tliat I don't
know how a fellow of your brains can hold it for a
r.oitN IN KxiLK -J.".;
muinent. If 1 were not afraid of an<^a'iiiij^' you,' Maitiu
added, in lii.s i)leasantL'.st tone, ' 1 ^vollld (|U»)te the Master
of Trinit}-.'
'A capital epi^^rani, but it is iei)eated too often.'
Mr. Warriconibe sliook liis licad, and with a laiit^di rose
to say good-niglit.
' It's a great pity,' he remarked next day to Sidw ell,
wlio had heen saying that her brother seemed less
vivacious tlian usual, ' that JUickknd is defective on the
side of humour. For a man who claims to be philo-
sophical he takes things with a rather obtuse serious-
ness. 1 know nothing better than humour as a
protection against the kind of mistake he is always
committing.'
The application of this was not clear to Sid well.
'Has something happened to depress him { ' she asked.
' Not that I know of. 1 spoke only of his general
tendency to intemperate zeal. That is enough to account
for intervals of reaction. And how much sounder
his judgment of men would be if he could only see
through a medium of humour now and then ! — You
know he is going over to Ludleigh Salterton this after-
noon ? '
Sid well smiled, and said quietly :
* I thought it likely he would.'
At Budleigh Salterton, a nook on the coast some
fifteen miles away, Sylvia Moorhouse was now dwelling.
Her mother, a widow of substantial means, had recently
established herself there, in the proximity of friends,
and the mathematical brother made his home with them.
That Buckland took every opportunity of enjoying
Sylvia's conversation was no secret ; whether the pre-
dilection was mutual, none of his relatives could say,
for in a matter such as this Buckland was by nature
disposed to reticence. Sid well's intimacy with Miss
Moorhouse put her in no better position than the others
for forming an opinion ; she could only suspect tliat
the irony which flavoured Sylvia's talk with and con-
cerning the Kadical, intimated a lurking kindness.
Buckland's preference was easily understood, and its
238 BORN IN EXILE
growth for live or six years seemed to promise
stability.
Immediately after luncheon the young man set forth,
and did not reappear uutil the evening of the next day.
His spirits had not benefited by the excursion; at dinner
he was noticeably silent, and instead of going to the
drawing-room afterwards he betook himself to the studio
up on the roof, and smoked in solitude. There, towards
ten o'clock, Sidwell sought him. Heavy rain was beating
upon the glass, and a high wind blended its bluster with
the cheerless sound.
' Don't you lind it rather cold here ? ' she asked, after
observing her brother's countenance of gloom.
' Yes ; I'm coming down. — Why don't you keep up your
painting ? '
' I have lost interest in it, I'm afraid.'
' That's very weak, you know. It seems to me that
nothing interests you permanently.'
Sidwell thought it better to make no reply.
'The characteristic of women,' Buckland pursued, with
some asperity, throwing away the stump of his cigar. ' It
comes, I suppose, of their ridiculous education — their
minds are never trained to fixity of purpose. They
never understand themselves, and scarcely ever make
an effort to understand any one else. Their life is a
succession of inconsistencies.'
'This generalising is so easy,' said Sidwell, with a
laugh, 'and so w^orthless. I wonder you should be so
far behind the times.
'What light have the times thrown on the subject ?'
'There's no longer such a thing as voman in the
abstract. We are individuals.'
' Don't imagine it ! That may come to pass three or
four generations hence, but as yet the best of you can
only vary the type in unimportant particulars. By the
way, what is Peak's address ? '
' Longbrook Street ; but I don't know the number.
Father can give it you, I think.'
' I shall have to drop him a note. I must get back to
town early in the morning.'
BORN IN KXILK 2 .SO
' Really ? We huped tu have you fnr a week.'
' Longer next time.'
They descended together. Now that Ixmis no longer
abode here (he had decided at length for medicine, a^id
was at w^ork in London), the family as a rule spent very
([uiet evenings. V>y ten o'clock Mrs. AVarncond)e and
Fanny liad retired, and Sidwell was left either to talk
with her father, or to pursue the calm meditations whii !
seemed to make her independent of comj)anionship a.-
often as she chose.
'Are they all gone?' lUickland asked, finding a vacant
room.
' Father is no doubt in the study.'
* It occurs to me . iJo you feel satisfied with this
dead-alive existence ? '
' Satisfied ? No life could suit me better.'
* You really think of living here indefinitely ? '
* As far as I am concerned, I liope nothing may evei-
disturb us.'
'And to the end of your life you will scent your-
self with sweet - V)rier / Do try a l)it of mint for a
change.'
' Certainly, if it will jjlease you.'
'Seriously,! think you might all come to town f».r
next winter. You are rusting, all of you. Father was
never so dull, and motlier doesn't seem to know how
to pass the days. It wouldn't Ije bad fur I.ouis to 1 •
living with you instead of in lodgings. Do ju.st tliinl,
of it. It's ages since you heard a concert, or saw a
picture.'
Sidwell mused, and her l)rotlier watched her askance.
'I don't know whether the otliers would care f«»r
it,' she said, 'but I am not tempted Ity a winter of
fog.'
'Fog? Touh ! Well, there is an occasional fog, ju.<t
now and then, but it's much exaggerated. Who ever
thinks of the weather in J^ngland ? Fanny might have
a time at liedford College or some such place — she learns
nothing here. Tliink it over. Fatlier would be delighted
to get among the societies, and so on.'
240 BORN IX EXILE
He repeated his arguments in many forms, and Sidwell
listened patientl}^ until tliey were joined by Mr. AYarri-
combe, whereupon the subject dropped; to be resumed,
however, in correspondence, with a persistency whicli
Ijuckland seldom exhil>ited in anything which affected
the interests of his relatives. As the summer drew on,
Mrs. Warricombe began to lend serious ear to this
suggestion of change, and Martin was at all events
moved to discuss the pros and cons of half a year in
London. Sidwell preserved neutrality, seldom making
an allusion to the project ; but Fanny supported her
brother's proposal with sprightly zeal, declaring on one
occasion that she began distinctly to feel the need
of ' a higher culture,' such as London only could
supply.
In the meantime there had been occasional interchange
of visits between the family and their friends at Budleigh
Salterton. (3ne evening, when Mrs. Moorhouse and Sylvia
were at the Warricombes', three or four Exeter people
came to dine, and among the guests was Godwin Peak
— his invitation being due in this instance to Sylvia's
express wish to meet him again.
' I am studying men,' she had said to Sidwell not long
before, when the latter was at the seaside with her. ' In
our day this is the proper study of womankind. Hitherto
we have given serious attention only to one another. Mr.
Peak remains in my memory as a type worth observing ;
let me have a chance of talking to him when I come
next.'
She did not neglect her opportunity, and Mrs. Moor-
house, who also conversed with the theologian and found
liim interesting, was so good as to hope that he would
call upon her if ever his steps turned towards Budleigh
Salterton.
After breakfast next morning, Sidwell found her friend
sitting with a book beneath one of the great trees of the
garden. At that moment Sylvia was overcome with
laughter, evidently occasioned by her reading.
' Oh,' she exclaimed, ' if this man isn't a great humorist !
I don't think T ever read anything more irresistible.'
liORN IN KXILK 241
The book was Hugh Miller's Testimony of the BocL<^, a
richly bound copy l)elonging to Mrs. AVarricombe.
' I daresay you know it very well ; it's the chai^tor
in whicli he discusses, with perfect gravity, whether
it would have been possible for Noah to collect
examples of all living creatures in tlie ark. He decides
that it wouldn't — that the deluge mt'sf liave spared a
portion of the earth; but the details of his argument
are delicious, especially this place where lie says tliat
all the insects could Iiave been brought togetlier only
" at enormous expense of miracle " ! I suspected a secret
smile ; but no — that's out of the (juestion. " At enormous
expense of miracle " ! '
Sylvia's eyes winked as she laughed, a peculiarity
which enhanced the charm of her frank mirth. Her dark,
pure complexion, strongly-marked eyebrows, subtle lips,
were shadowed beneath a great garden hat, and a loose
white gown, with no oppressive moulding at the waist,
made her a refreshing picture in the glare of mid-
summer.
' The phrase is ridiculous enough,' assented Sid well.
' ]\Iiracle can be but miracle, however great or small its
extent.'
' Isn't it strange, reading a book of this kind nowa-
days ? What a leap we have made ! I should think
there's hardly a country curate who would be ca})able of
brim^dng this argument into a sermon.'
*I don't know,' returned Sidwell, smiling. 'One still
hears remarkal)le sermons.'
' What will ]\rr. Peak's be like ? '
They exchanged glances. Sylvia wore a look of
retlective curiosity, and her friend answered with some
hesitation, as if the thought were new to her :
' They won't deal with Noah, we may take that for
granted.'
'Most likely not with miracles, however little expensive.'
' Perhaps not. 1 suppose he will deal chiefly with the
moral teaching of Christianity.'
' ])o you think him strong as a moralist.^' inquired
Svlvia.
i6
242 BORN IN EXILE
' He has very decided opinions about the present state
of our civilisation.'
' So I tind. But is there any distinctly moral force
in him ? '
' Father thinks so/ Sidwell replied, ' and so do our
friends the Lilywhites.'
Miss Moorhouse pondered awhile.
' He is a great problem to me/ she declared at length,
knitting her brows with a hint of humorous exaggera-
tion. ' I wonder whether he believes in the dogmas of
Christianity.'
Sidwell was startled.
* Would he think of becoming a clergyman ? '
' Oh, why not ? Don't they recognise nowadays that
the spirit is enough ? '
There was silence. Sidwell let her eyes wander over
the sunny grass to the red-flowering creeper on the
nearest side of the house.
* That would involve a great deal of dissimulation/ she
said at length. ' I can't reconcile it with what I know of
Mr. Peak.'
' And I can't reconcile anything else/ rejoined the other.
' He impresses you as a rationalist ? '
' You not ? '
' I confess I have taken his belief for granted. Oh,
think ! He couldn't keep up such a pretence. However
you justify it, it implies conscious deception. It would
be dishonourable. I am sure he would think it so.'
' How does your brother regard him ? ' Sylvia asked,
smiling very slightly, but with direct eyes.
* Buckland can't credit anyone with sincerity except
an aggressive agnostic'
' But I think he allows honest credulity.'
Sidwell had no answer to this. After musing a little,
she put a question which indicated how her thoughts had
travelled.
' Have you met many women who declared themselves
agnostics ? '
' Several.'
Sylvia removed her hat, and began to fan herself gently
BORN IN KXII.K 24-;
with the brim. Here, in the sliade, bees were hiiiniuinL,' ;
from the house came faint notes of a piano — Fanny
practising a mazurka of Chopin.
' ]>ut never, I suppose, one who found a i)k'asurc in
attacking Christianity / '
* A girl who was at school with me in London,' Sylvia
replied, with an air of amused reminiscence. • ^JjH TpIbi
Moxey. Didn't I ever speak to you of her ? '
' I think not.'
' She was bitter against religion of every kind.'
' Because lier mother made her learn collects, I dare
say ? ' suggested Sidwell, in a tone of gentle satire.
* No, no. ]\Iarcella was about eighteen then, and had
neither father nor mother. — (How Fanny's touch im-
proves 1) — She was a born atheist, in the fullest sense
of the word.'
' And detestable ? '
' Xot to me — 1 rather liked her. She was remarkaldy
honest, and I have sometimes thought that in morals,
on the whole, she stood far above most women. Slie
hated falsehood — hated it with all her heart, and a story
of injustice maddened her. AX^TcrUL think of Marcellu
it helps me to picture the Tiussian girls who propagate
Nihilism.'
' You have lost sight of her ? '
'She went abroad, I think. I should like to have
known her fate. I rather think there will have to be
many like lier before women are civilised.'
' How 1 sliould like to ask her,' said Sidwell, ' on what
she supported lier morality ?'
' Put the problem to Mr. Peak,' suggested the other,
gaily. * I fancy he wouldn't find it insoluble.'
Mrs. AVarricombe and ]\Irs. ^loorhouse ap]»cared in the
distance, walking hither under parasols. The girls rose to
meet them, and were i)resently engaged in less interesting
colloquy.
IV
This summer Peak became a semi-graduate of London
University. To avoid the risk of a casual meeting with
acquaintances, he did not go to London, but sat for his
examination at the nearest provincial centre. The
revival of boyish tremors at the successive stages of
tliis business was anything but agreeable ; it reminded
him, with humiliating force, how far he had strayed
from the path indicated to his self-respecting manliood.
Defeat would have strengthened in overwhelming re-
volt all the impulses which from time to time urged
him to abandon his servile course. But there was no
chance of his failing to satisfy the examiners. With
' Honours ' he had now nothing to do ; enough for his
purpose that in another year's time he would write
himself Bachelor of Arts, and thus simplify the clerical
preliminaries. In what quarter he was to look for
a curacy remained uncertain. Meanwhile his enter-
prise seemed to prosper, and success emboldened his
liopes.
Hopes which were no longer vague, but had defined
themselves in a way which circumstances made inevitable.
Though he had consistently guarded himself against the
obvious suggestions arising out of his intercourse with
the Warricombe family, though he still emphasised every
discouraging fact, and strove to regard it as axiomatic
that nothing could be more perilous to his future than
a liint of presumption or self-interest in word or deed
beneath that friendly roof, it was coming to pass that he
thought of Sidwell not only as the type of woman pursued
244
BORN IN EXILE 2-45
by his imagination, bnt as herself tlie object of liis cmi-
vergin;4 desires. Comparison of lier with otliers liad no
result but the deepening of that impression she had at
tirst made upon him. Sidwell exliibited all the qualities
which most appealed to liim in her class; in addition,
slie had the charms of a personality wliicli he could not
think of common occurrence. lie was yet far from
understanding her ; she exercised his powers of observa-
tion, analysis, conjecture, as no other person had ever
done ; each time he saw her (were it but for a moment)
he came away with some new perception of her excel-
lence, some hitlierto unmarked grace of person or mind
whereon to meditate. He had never approached a
woman who possessed this powder at once of fascinat-
ing his senses and controlling his intellect to a glad
reverence. Whether in her presence or musing upon her
in solitude, he found that the unsparing naturalism of
his scrutiny was powerless to degrade that sweet, })ure
bein£[.
Eare, under any circumstances, is the passionate love
which controls every motive of heart and mind; rarer
still that form of it which, with no assurance of recipro-
cation, devotes exclusive ardour to an object only
approachable through declared obstacles. Godwin Peak
was not framed for romantic languishment. In general,
the more complex a man's mechanism, and the more
pronounced his habit of introspection, the less capable is
he of loving with vehemence and constancy. Heroes of
passion are for the most part primitive natures, nobly
tempered ; in our time they tend to extinction. Growing
vulgarism on the one hand, and on the other a develop-
ment of the ])sychological conscience, are unfavourable to
any relation l)etween the sexes, save those which originate
in pure animalism, or in reasoning less or more generous.
Never having experienced any feeliiig- whicL Jia could
dignify with tlie ntime of love, Godwin had no criterion
in himself wdiereljy to test the euKjtions now besetting
him. In a man of his age this was an miusual state of
things, for when the ardour whicli will licar analysis has
at length declared itself, it is wont to be moderated by
246 BORN m EXILE
the regretful memory of that fugacious essence which
gave to the first frenzy of youth its irrecoverable delight.
He could not say in reply to his impulses : If that was
love which overmastered me, tliis must be something
eitlier more or less exalted. What he did say was
something of this kind : If desire and tenderness, if
frequency of dreaming rapture, if the calmest approval of
the mind and the heart's most exquisite, most painful
throb]:)ing, constitute love, — then assuredly I love Sidwell.
But if to love is to be possessed with madness, to lose all
taste of life when hope refuses itself, to meditate frantic
follies, to deem it inconceivable that this woman should
ever lose her dominion over me, or another reign in
her stead, — then my passion falls short of the true
oestrum, and I am only dallying with fancies which might
spring up as often as I encountered a charming girl.
All things considered, to encourage this amorous pre-
occupation was probably the height of unwisdom. The
lover is ready at deluding himself, but Peak never lost
siofht of the extreme unlikelihood that he should ever
become Martin Warricombe's son-in-law, of the thousand
respects which forbade his hoping that Sidwell would
ever lay her hand in his. That deep-rooted sense of class
which had so much influence on his speculative and
practical life asserted itself, with rigid consistency, even
against his own aspirations ; he attributed to the Warri-
combes more prejudice on this subject than really existed
in them. He, it was true, belonged to no class whatever,
acknowledged no subordination save that of the hierarchy
of intelligence; l)ut this could not obscure the fact that
his brother sold seeds across a counter, that his sister
had married a haberdasher, that his uncle (notoriously)
was somew^here or other supplying the public with cheap
repasts. (Jirls of Sidwell's delicacy do not misally
themselves, for they take into account the fact that
such misalliance is fraught with elements of unhappiness,
aftectinsf husband as much as wife. No need to dwell
upon the scruples suggested by his moral attitude; he
would never be called upon to combat them with reference
to Sidwell's future.
BOHX IN KXII,K 247
What, then, was he about ? For wliat advantage was
he i)layini^' the liypocritc i \N'()ul(l he, after all, be
satisfied with some such wile as the avera^^^e curate may
liope to marry ?
A hundred times he reviewed the ])ruad ([uesti(jn, by
the light of his six months' ex])erience. Was Sidwell
AVarricombe his ideal woman, absolutely speaking ? Why,
no; not with all his glow of feeling could he persuade I
himself to declare her that. Satisfied u]) to a certain point,
admitted to the sphere of wealthy refinement, he now had
leisure to think of yet higher grades, of the women who
are not only exquisite creatures by social comparison but
rank by divine right among the foremost of their race.
Sidwell was far from intolerant, and held her faiths in
a sincerely ethical spirit. She judged nobly, she often
saw with clear vision. But must not something of kindly
condescension always blend with his admiring devoted-^
ness ? Were it but possible to win the love of a woman '
who looked forth with eyes thoroughly purged from all , ^j
mist of tradition and conventionalism, who was at home|
among arts and sciences, who>slike himself, acknowledged
no class and bowed to no authority but that of the supreme.^
human mind 1
Such women are to be found in every age, but how
many of them shine with the distinctive ray of woman-
hood ? These are so rare that they havt' a place in the
pages of history. The truly emancipated woman — it was
(Jodwin's conviction — is almost always asexual ;_ to him,
therefore, utterly repugnant. If, then, hewefe not content
to waste his life in a vain search for the priceless jewel,
which is won and worn only by fortune's supremo
favourites, he must acquiesce in the imperfect marriage
commonly the lot of men whose intellect allows them but
little companionship even among their own sex: for
that matter, the lot of most men, and necessarily so
until the new ellbrts in female education shall have
overcome the vice of wedlock as hitherto sanctioned.
Xature provides the hallucination which flings a lover
at liis mistress's feet. For the chill which follows u]»on
attainment she cares nothing — let society and individuals
248 BORN IN EXILE
1 make their account with that as best they may. Even
'. with a wife such as Sidwell the process of disillusion
would doubtless have to be faced, however liberal one's
allowances in the forecast.
Eeiiections of this colour were useful ; tliey helped to
keep within limits the growth of agitating desire. But
there were seasons when Godwin surrendered himself to
luxurious reverie, hours of summer twilight which forbade
analysis and listened only to the harmonies of passion.
Then was Sidwell's image glorified, and all the delights
promised by such love as hers fired his imagination to
intolerable ecstasy. heaven ! to see tlie smile softened
by rosy warmth wdiich would confess that she had given
her heart — to feel her supple fingers intertwined with his
that clasped them — to hear the words in which a mind
so admirable, instincts so delicate, would make expression
of their tenderness ! To live with Sidwell — to breathe
the fragrance of that flower of womanhood in wedded
intimacy — to prove the devotion of a nature so profoundly
chaste ! The visionary transport was too poignant ; in
the end it drove him to a fierce outbreak of despairing
wrath. How could he dream that such bliss would be
the reward of despical^le artifice, of calculated dishonour ?
Born a rebel, how could his be the fate of those happy
men who are at one with the order of thinos ? The
prophecy of a heart wrung with anguish foretold too
surely that for him was no rapturous love, no joy of noble
wedlock. Solitude, now and for ever, or perchance some
base alliance of the flesh, which would involve his later
days in sordid misery.
In moods of discouragement he thought with envy of
his old self, his life in London lodgings, his freedom in
obscurity. It belongs to the pathos of human nature
that only in looking back can one appreciate the true
value of those long tracts of monotonous ease which,
when we are living through them, seem of no account
save in relation to past or future ; only at a distance do
we perceive that the exemption from painful shock was
in itself a happiness, to be rated highly in comparison
with most of tliose disturbances known as moments of
BORN IN EXILE 240
joy. A wise man would have entertained no wisli but
that lie might grow old in that same succession of days
and weeks and years. Without anxiety concerning his
material needs (certainly the most substantial of eartldy
blessings), his leisure not inadequate to the gratification
of a moderate studiousness, with friends who otVered him
an ever-ready welcome, — was it not much? If he were
condemned to bachelorhood, his philosophy was surely
capable of teaching him that the sorrows and anxieties
he thus escaped made more than an ofiset against the
satisfactions he must forego, lieason had no part in the
fantastic change to which his life liad .sul»mitted, nor was
lie ever supported by a hope which would bear his cooler
investigation.
And yet hope had her periods of control, for there are
times when the mind wearies of rationality, and, as it
were in self-defence, in obedience to the instinct of
progressive life, craves a specious comfort. It seemed
undeniable that Mr. Warricombe regarded him with
growth of interest, invited his conversation more un-
reservedly. He began to understand Martin's position
with regard to religion and science, and thus could utter
himself more securely. At length he ventured to dis-
course with some amplitude on his own convictions —
the views, that is to say, which he thought fit to adopt
in his character of a liberal Christian. It was on an
afternoon of early August that this opportunity pre-
sented itself. They sat together in the study, and
Martin was in a graver mood than usual, not much
disposed to talk, but a willing listener. There had been
mention of a sermon at the Cathedral, in which the
preacher declared his faith that the maturity of science
would dispel all antagonisms between it and revelation.
' The dilHculties of the unbeliever,' said Peak, endeav-
ouring to avoid a sermonising formality, though with
indifferent success, 'are, of course, of two kinds; there's
the theory of evolution, and there's modern bililical
criticism. The more I study these objections, the less
able I am to see how they come in conflict with belief
in Christianitv as a revealed religion.'
250 BORN IN EXILE
' Yet you probably had your time of doubt ? ' remarked
the other, touching for the "first time on this personal
matter.
' Oh, yes ; that was inevitable. It only means that
one's development is imperfect. Most men who confirm
themselves in agnosticism are kept at that point by
arrested moral activity. They give up tlie intellectual
question as wearisome, and accept the point of view which
Hatters their prejudices : thereupon follows a l)lunting of
the sensil)ilities on the religious side.'
'There are men constitutionally unfitted for the
reception of spiritual truth,' said Martin, in a troubled
tone. He was playing with a piece of string, and did not
raise his eyes.
' I quite believe that. There's our difficulty when we
come to evidences. The evidences of science are wholly
different in Jcind from those of religion. Faith cannot
spring from any observation of phenomena, or scrutiny
of authorities, but from the declaration made to us by
the spiritual faculty. The man of science can only
l)ecome a Christian by the way of humility — and that
a kind of humility he finds it diiiicult even to conceive.
(3ne wishes to impress upon him the harmony of
this faith with the spiritual voice that is in every
man. He replies : I know nothing of that spiritual
voice. And if that be true, one can't help him l)y
argument.'
Peak had constructed for himself, out of his reading, a
plausible system which on demand he could set fortli
with fluency. The tone of current apologetics tauglit him
that, by men even of cultivated intellect, such a position
as he was now sketcliing was deemed tenable ; yet to
liimself it sounded so futile, so nuoatorv, that he had to
harden his forehead as he spoke. Trial more severe to
liis conscience lay in the perceptible solicitude with
which Mr. Warricombe v/eighed these disingenuous
arguments. It was a hateful thing to practise such
deception on one who probal)ly yearned for si)iritual
support.' But he had committed himself to tliis course,
and must brave it out.
BORN IX KXII,K 251
' Christianity,' he was saying presently — appropriat-
ing a passage of which lie had once made careful note
— ' is an organism of sucli vital energy tliat it ])erforce
assimilates whatever is good and true in tlie culture of
eacli successive age. To understand this is to learn
that we must depend rather on ronstructir<\ than on
defensive, apology. That is to say, we must draw
evidence of our faith from its latent capacities, its
unsuspected affinities, its previsions, its a(la])tal)ility,
compreliensiveness, sympathy, adequacy to Imman needs.'
' Tliat puts very well what I liave always felt,' rejdied
^Ir. AVarricombe. ' Yet tliere will remain the objection
that such a faith may be of purely human origin.
If evolution and biblical criticism seem to overthrow
all the historic evidences of Christianity, how con-
vince the oltjectors that tlie faith itself was divinely
given ? '
' But 1 cannot liold for a moment,' exclaimed Peak, in
the words which he knew his interlocutor desired to hear,
' that all the historic evidences have been destroyed.
Tiiat indeed would shake our position.'
He enlarged on the point, with display of learning, yet
studiously avoiding the tone of pedantry.
' Evolution,' he remarked, when the dialogue had again
extended its scope, ' does not touch the evidence of design
in the universe; at most it can correct our imperfect
views (handed down from an age which had no scientific
teaching because it was not ripe for it) of the mode in
which that design was executed, or rather is still being
executed. Evolutionists have not succeeded in explain-
ing life ; they have merely discovered a new law relating
to life. If we must have an ex])lanation, there is no-
thing for it but to accei»t the notion of a Deity. Indeed,
how can there l)e religion without a divine author <*
lieligion is based on the idea of a divine mind which
reveals itself to us for moral (MuIs. The Christian re-
velation, we liold, has been developed gradually, much
of it in connection with secondary causes and human
events. It has come down to ns in anything but
absolute purity — like a stream whidi \\{\< been made
252 BORN IN EXILE
turbid by its earthly channel. The lower serves its
purpose as a stage to the higher, then it falls away, the
higlier surviving. Hitherto, the final outcome of evolu-
tion is the soul in a bodily tenement. May it not be
that the perfected soul alone survives in the last step of
the struggle for existence ? '
Peak had been talking for more than a quarter of an
hour. Under stress of shame and intellectual self-
criticism (for he could not help confuting every position
as he stated it) his mind often wandered. When he
ceased speaking there came upon him an uncomfortable
dreaminess which he had already once or twice experi-
enced when in colloquy with Mr. Warricombe ; a tor-
menting metaphysical doubt of his own identity strangely
beset him. With involuntary attempt to recover the
familiar self he grasped his own wrist, and then, before
lie was aware, a laugh escaped him, an all but mocking
laugh, unsuitable enough to the spirit of the moment.
Mr. Warricombe was startled, but looked up with a
friendly smile.
' You fear,' he said, ' that this last speculation may seem
rather fanciful to me ? '
Godwin was biting his lip fiercely, and could not com-
mand liimself to utterance of a w^ord.
' By no means, I assure you,' added the other. ' It
appeals to me very strongly.'
Peak rose from his chair.
' It struck me,' he said, ' that I had been preaching a
sermon ratlier than taking part in a conversation. I'm
afraid it is the habit of men who live a good deal alone
to indulge in monologues.'
On his return home, the sight of Bihcl unci Natxr and
his sheets of laborious manuscript filled him with disgust.
It was two or three days before he could again apply
himself to the translation. Yet this expedient had un-
doubtedly been of great service to him in the matter of
his relations with Mr. Warricombe. Witliout the aid of
Reusch he would have found it difficult to speak naturally
on the theme which drew Martin into confidences and
established an intimacy between tliem.
BORN IN KXILH 253
Already they had discussed in detail tlie lirst lialf of
the book. How a man of ]\Ir. AVarricoiiibe's intelligi'iice
could take grave interest in an arid exe<,^esis of tlie first
cliapter of (genesis, Godwin strove in vain to conipreliend.
Often enough the debates were perilously suggestive of
burlesque, and, when alone, he relieved himself of the
laughter he had scarce restrained. For instance, there
was that terrible thoJin wahohc of tlie second verse, a
phrase preserved from the original, and tossed into all
the corners of controversy. Was fhohi' waholw the first
condition of the earth, or was it merely a period of
division between a previous state of things and creation
as established by the Hexa.'meron ? Did light exist or
not, previous to the tlwlm waholni? Then, again, what
kind of 'days' were the three which passed before the
birth of the sun ? Special interest, of course, attached
to the successive theories of theology on the origin of
geologic strata. First came the ' theory of restitution,'
which explained unbiblical antiquity by declaring that
the strata belonged to a world before the Hexiemeron,
a world which had been destroyed, and succeeded by the
new creation. Less objectional)le was the ' concordistic
theory,' which interprets tlie ' six days ' as so many vast
periods of creative activity. But Eeusch himself gave
preference to the ' ideal theory,' tlie supporters whereof
(diligently adapting themselves to the progress of science)
hold that the six days are not to be understood as
consecutive periods at all, but merely as six phases of
tiie Creator's work.
By the exercise of watchfulness and dexterity. Peak
managed for the most part to avoid expression of definite
opinions. His attitude was that of a reverent (not yet
reverend) student. ^Ir. A\\arricombe was less guarded,
and sometimes allowed himself to profess that he saw
nothing but vain ingenuity in lieusch's argument : as,
for example, where the theologian, convinced that the
patriarchs did really live to an abnormal age, suggests
that man's life was subsequently shortened in order that
' sin might not flourish with such exuberance.' This
passage caused Martin to smile.
254 BORN IN EXILE
' It won't do, it won't do,' he said, quietly. ' Far
better apply his rationalism here as elsewhere. These
are wonderful old stories, not to be understood
literally. Nothing depends upon them — nothing essen-
tial.'
Thereupon Peak mused anxiously. Not for the first
time there occurred to him a thought which suited only
too well with his ironic habits of mind. What if this
hypocritic comedy were altogether superfluous ? What
if Mr. Warricombe would have received him no less
cordially had he avowed his sincere position, and con-
tented himself with guarding against ofl'ensiveness ?
Buckland, it was true, had suffered in his father's
esteem on account of his unorthodoxy, but that young
man had been too aggressive, too scornful. With prud-
ence, would it not have been possible to win Martin's
regard by fortifying the scientific rather than the dog-
matic side of his intellect ? If so, what a hopeless error
had he committed ! — But Sidwell ? AYas she liberal
enough to take a personal interest in one who had re-
nounced faith in revelation ? He could not decide this
question, for of Sidwell he knew much less than of her
father. And it was idle to torment himself with sucli
debate of the irreversible.
And, indeed, there seemed much reason for believing
that Martin, whatever the extent of his secret doubts,
was by temperament armed against agnosticism. Dis-
tinctly it comforted him to hear the unl)elievers assailed
— the friends of whom he spoke most heartily were
all on the orthodox side ; if ever a hint of gentle malice
occurred in his conversation, it was when he spoke of
a fallacy, a precipitate conclusion, detected in works
of science. Probably he was too old to overcome this
bias.
His view of the Bible appeared to liarmonise with that
which Peak put forth in one of their dialogues. ' The
Scriptures were meant to be literally understood in
primitive ages, and spiritually when the growth of science
made it possible. Genesis was never intended to teach
the facts of natural history; it takes phenomena as
BORN IX KXIIJ-: 2.)^
they appear to iiniiistructed people, and uses tlicin only
for the incnleation of moral lessons ; it j)resenls to the
childhood of the world a few Ljreat elementary trnths.
And the way in which phenomena are spoken (jf in the
Old Testament is never really incompatible with the
facts as we know them nowadays. Take the miracle
of the sun standing still, which is supposed to be a
safe subject of ridicule. A\'hy, it merely means that
light was miraculously prolonged ; the words used are
those which common people woidd at all times under-
stand.'
(Was it necessary to have admitted the miracle ?
Godwin asked himself. At all events ^Ir. Warricombe
nodded approvingly.)
' Then the narrative of the creation of man : that's not
at all incompatible with his slow development through
ages. To teach the scientific fact — if we yet really know
it — would have been worse than useless. The story is
meant to express that spirit, and not matter, is the source
of all existence. Indeed, our knowledge of the true
meaning of the Bible has increased with the growth of
science, and naturally that must have been intended from
the first. Things which do not concern man's relation
to the spiritual have no place in this book ; they are not
within its province. Such things were discoverable by
human reason, and the knowledge which achieves has
nothing to do with a divine revelation.'
To Godwin it was a grinding of the air, but the listener
appeared to think it profitable.
With his clerical friend, Mr. Lilywhite, he rarely
touched on matters of religion. The vicar of St. Ethel-
reda's was a man well suited to support the social
dignity of his Church. A gentleman before everything,
he seemed inca])able of prying into the state of a
parishioner's soul ; you saw in him the ollicial representa-
tive of a Divinity characterised by well-bred tolerance.
He had written a pleasant little book on the by-ways of
Devon and Cornwall, which brought about his intimacy
with the AVarricombe household. Peak liked him more
the better he knew him, and in the course of the summer
256 BORN IN EXILE
they had one or two long walks together, conversing
exclusively of the ■ things of earth. Mr. Lilywhite
troubled himself little about evolution ; he spoke of trees
and plants, of birds and animals, in a loving spirit, like
the old simple naturalists. Geology did not come within
his sphere.
' I'm very sorry,' he said, ' that I could never care
much for it. Don't think I'm afraid of it — not I ! I feel
the grandeur of its scope, just as I do in the case of
astronomy; but I have never brought myself to study
either science. A narrowness of mind, no doubt. I
can't go into such remote times and regions. I love
tlie sunlight and the green fields of this little corner
of the world — too well, perhaps : yes, perhaps too well.'
After one of these walks, he remarked to Mrs.
Lilywhite :
' It's my impression that Mr. Peak has somehow been
misled in his choice of a vocation. I don't think he'll do
as a churchman.'
' Why not, Henry ? ' asked his wife, with gentle
concern, for she still spoke of Peak's 'quiet moral
force.'
'There's something too restless about him. I doubt
whether he lias really made up his mind on any subject
whatever. AVell, it's not easy to explain what 1 feel, but
I don't think he will take Orders.'
Calling at the vicarage one afternoon in September,
Godwin found Mrs. Lilywhite alone. She startled him by
saying at once :
' An old acquaintance of yours was with us yesterday,
Mv. Peak.'
' Who could that be, I wonder ? '
He smiled softly, controlling his impulse to show quite
another expression.
' You remember Mr. Bruno Chilvers ? '
' Oh, yes 1 '
There was a constriction in his throat. Struggling to
overcome it, he added :
'But I should have thought he had no recollection
of me.'
BORN IN EXILE 257
'Quite the contrary, I assure you. II(; is to succeed
^Ir. Jlell of St. Margaret's, at Cliristnias ; lie was down
here only for a day or two, and called upon my liushaiid
with a message from an old friend of ours. It appears
he used to know the Warricombes, wh'en they lived at
Kingsmill, and he had been to see them before visiting
us: it was there your name was mentioned to him.'
(lodwin had seated himself, and leaned forward, his
hands grasping the glove he had drawn oil".
'We were contemporaries at Whitelaw College,' he
observed.
' So we learnt from lum. He spoke of you with the
greatest interest ; he was delighted to hear that you
contemplated taking Orders. Of course we knew^ Mr.
Chilvers by reputation, but my husband had no idea that
he was coming to Exeter. What an energetic man he is !
In a few hours he seemed to have met everyone, and to
have learnt everything. My husband says he felt quite
rebuked by such a display of vigour ! '
Even in his discomposure, graver tlian any that had
affected hiui since his talks with Buckland Warricombe,
Peak was able to notice that the Eev. Bruno had not
made a wholly favourable impression upon the Lilywhites.
There was an amiable causticity in that mention of
his ' display of vigour,' such as did not often charac-
terise Mrs. Lilywhite's comments. Finding that the
vicar would be away till evening, CJodwin stayed for
only a quarter of an hour, and when he had escaped
it irritated and alarmed him to reflect how un-
usual his behaviour must liave appeared to the good
lady.
The blow was aimed at his self-possession from such
an unlikely quarter. In Church |)apers he had frequently
come across Chilvers' name, and the sight of it caused
him a twofold disturbance: it was hateful to have
memories of humiliation revived, and perhaps still more
harassing to be forced upon acknowledgment of tlie fact
that he stood as an ol)scure aspirant at the foot of the
ladder which his old rival was triumi)h;intly ascending.
Bad enough to be classed in any way with such a man
17
258 BORN IN EXILE
as Chilvers ; but to be regarded as at one with him in
reh'gious faitli, to l)e forbidden the utterance of scorn
when Chilvers was extolled, stnng him so keenly that
he rushed into any distraction to elude the thought.
When he was suffering shame under the gaze of Buckland
Warricombe he remembered Chilvers, and shrank as
before a merited scoff. But the sensation had not been
abiding enough to affect his conduct. He had said to
himself that he should never come in contact with
the fellow, and that, after all, community of religious
profession meant no more, under their respective circum-
stances, than if both were following law or physic.
But the unforeseen had happened. In a few months,
the Eev. Bruno Chilvers would be a prominent figure
about the streets of Exeter; would be frequently seen
at the Warricombes', at the Lilywhites', at the houses of
their friends. His sermons at St. Margaret's would
doubtless attract, and form a staple topic of conversation.
Worse than all, his expressions of ' interest ' and * delight '
made it probable that he would seek out his College
competitor and offer the hand of brotherhood. These
things were not to be avoided — save by abandonment
of hopes, save by retreat, by yielding to a hostile
destiny.
That Chilvers might talk here and there of Whitelaw
stories was comparatively unimportant. The Warri-
combes must already know all that could be told, and
what other people heard did not much matter. It was
the man himself that Peak could not endure. Dis-
sembling had liitherto been no light task. The burden
had more than once pressed so gallingly that its
permanent support seemed impossible ; but to stand
Ijefore Bruno Chilvers in the attitude of humble emula-
tion, to give respectful ear whilst the popular cleric
advised or encouraged, or bestowed pontifical praise, was
comparable only to a searing of the flesh with red irons.
Even with assured prospect of recompense in the shape
of Sidwell Warricombe's heart and hand, he could hardly
submit to such an ordeal. As it was, reason having so
often convinced him that he clung to a visionary hope,
HORN IN KXII.K 2. "9
the torture l)ecanie »,Matuitous, and its mere suggestion
inspired him with a lierce resentment destructive of all
his purposes.
For several days he scarcely left the house. To wratli
and dread had succeeded a wretched torpor, during whicli
liis mind kept revolving the thoughts ])rom[)ted ])y Ids
situation, turbidly and to no issue. He tasted all the
bitterness of the solitude to which he had condemned
himseli'; there was not a living soul with whom he could
commune." At moments he was possessed with the desire
of going straightway to London, and making Earwaker
the confidant of all his folly. But that demanded an
exertion of which he was physically incapable. He
tliought of the old home at Twybridge, and was tempted
also in that direction. His mother would welcome him
with human kindness ; beneath her roof he could lie
dormant until fate should again point his course. He
even wrote a letter saying that in all probability lie
should pay a visit to Twybridge before long. Ijut tlie
impulse was only of an hour's duration, for he re-
membered that to talk with his mother would necessitate
all manner of new falsehoods, a thickennig of the
atmosphere of lies which already oppressed hini. No ; if
he quitted Exeter, it must be on a longer journey. He
must resume his purpose of seeking some distant country,
where new conditions of life would allow him to try his
fortune at least as an honest adventurer. In many parts
of colonial England his technical knowledge would have
a value, and were there not women to be won beneath
other skies — women perhaps of subtler charm than the
old hidebound civilisation produced ? lieminiscences of
scenes and figures in novels he had read nourished the
illusion. He pictured some thriving little town at the
ends of the earth, where a young Englishman of good
manners and unusual culture would easily be admitted
to tlie intimacy of the richest families ; he saw the ideal
colonist (a man of good birth, l)ut a sower of wild oats in
his youth) with two or three daughters about him —
beautiful girls, wondrously self-instructed — living amid
romantic dreams of the old world, and of the lover who
260 BORN IN EXILE
would some day carry them off (with a substantial share
of papa's wealth) to Europe and the scenes of their
imagination.
The mind has marvellous methods of self-defence
against creeping lethargy of despair. At the point to
which he had been reduced by several days of blank
despondency, Peak was able to find genuine encourage-
ment in visions such as tliis. He indulged his fancy
until the vital force began to stir once more within him,
and then, with one angry sweep, all his theological books
and manuscripts were flung out of sight. Away with
this detestable mummery ! Now let Bruno Chilvers,pour
his eloquence from the pulpit of St. Margaret's, and rear
to what heights he could the edifice of his social glory ;
men of that stamp were alone fitted to thrive in England.
Was not he almost certainly a hypocrite, masking his
brains (for brains he had) under a show of broadest
Anglicanism ? But his career was throughout consistent.
He trod in the footsteps of his father, and with inherited
aptitude moulded antique traditions into harmony with
the taste of the times. Compared with such a inan, Peak
felt himself a bungler. The wonder was that his clumsy
lying had escaped detection.
Another day, and he had done nothing whatever, but
was still buoyed up by the reaction of visionary hope.
His need now was of communicating his change of
purpose to some friendly hearer. A week liad passed
since he had exchanged a word with anyone but Mrs.
Ptoots, and converse he must. Why not with Mr. Warri-
combe ? That was plainly the next step : to see Martin
and make known to him that after all he could not
become a clergyman. No need of hinting a conscientious
reason. At all events, nothing more definite than a sense
of personal unfitness, a growing perception of difficulties
inherent in his character. It would be very interesting
to hear Mr. Warricombe's replies.
A few minutes after this decision was taken, he set off'
towards the Old Tiverton Eoad, walking at great speed,
flourishing his stick — symptoms of the nervous cramp
(so to speak) which he was dispelling. He reached the
BORN IN KXILK 2G1
liousc, and his liaiul was on tlie lu'll, wlicn an nncxi)octed
opening of the door presented T.ouis Warriconibe just
coming forth for a walk. They exchanged amiabilities,
and Louis made known that his father and mother were
away on a visit to friends in Cornwall.
* But pray come in/ he added, offering to re-enter.
Peak excused himself, for it was evident that Louis
made a sacrifice to courtesy. But at that moment there
approached from the garden Fanny Warricombe and
her friend Bertha Lilywhite, eldest daughter of the
genial vicar; they shook hands with (Jodwin, Fanny
exclaiming :
* Don't go away, Mr. Peak. Have a cup of tea
with us — Sidwell is at home. I want to show you a
strange sort of spleenwort that I gathered this morning.'
' In that case,' said her brother, smiling, ' I may
confess that I have an appointment. Pray forgive me
for hurryins: off, j\Ir. Peak.'
Godwin was embarrassed, but the sprightly girl
repeated her summons, and he followed into the
house.
Having led the way to the drawing-room, Fanny retired
again for a few moments, to fetch the fern of which she
had spoken, leaving Peak in conversation with little Miss
Lilywhite. Bertha was a rather shy girl of fifteen, not
easily induced, under circumstances such as these, to
utter more than monosyllables, and Godwin, occupied
with the unforeseen results of his call, talked about the
weather. With half-conscious absurdity he had begun
to sketch a theory of his own regarding rain-clouds and
estuaries (Bertha listening with an air of the gravest
attention) when Fanny reappeared, followed by Sidwell.
Peak searched the latter's face for indications of her
mood, but could discover nothing save a spirit of gracious
welcome. Such aspect was a matter of course, and he
knew it. None the less, his nervousness and the state of
;nind engendered by a week's miserable solitude, tempted
him to believe that Sidwell did not always wear that
smile in greeting a casual caller. This was the first time
that she had received him without the countenance of
Mrs. Warricombe. Observing her perfect manner, as she
sat down and began to talk, he asked himself what her
age really was. The question had never engaged his
thoughts. Eleven years ago, when he saw her at the
house near Kingsmill and again at Whitelaw College, she
looked a very young girl, but whether of thirteen or
sixteen he could not at the time have determined, and
such a margin of possibility allowed her now to have
reached — it might be — her twenty - seventh summer.
But twenty - seven drew perilously near to thirty ;
iiu, iio,^idwL'll could not be iiioic than twenty - live.
Her eyes still had the dewy freslmess of flowering
maidenhood ; her cheek, lier tlnoat, were so exijuisitely
young
In liow divine a calm mu>it ihis i^irl have lived to
show, even at Hve-and-twenty, features as little marked
by inward perturbation as those of an infant! Herj
position in the world considered, one could forgive her'
for having borne so lightly the inevitable sorrows of life,
for having dismissed so readily the spiritual doubts which
were the heritage of her time ; but was she a total
stranger to passion ? Did not the fact of her still remain-
ing unmarried make probable such a deficiency in her
nature ^ Had she a place among the women wliom
coldness of temperament preserves in a bloom like that
of youth, until fading hair and sinking cheek betray
them ?
Whilst he thought thus, Godwin was in appearance
busy with the fern Fanny had brought for his inspection.
He talked al)Out it, l.)ut in snatches, witli intervals of
abstractedness.
Yet mifTjht he not be altoi^ether wrong ? Last vear,
when he observed Sidwell in the Cathedral and subse-
quently at home, his impression had been that her face
was of rather pallid and dreamy cast; he recollected that
distinctly. Had she changed, or did familiarity make
him less sensible of her finer traits ? Possibly she
enjoyed better health nowadays, and, if so, it miglit
result from influences other tlian physical. Her air of
(|uiet happiness seemed to him especially noticeable
this afternoon, and as he brooded there came upon
him a dread which, under the circumstances, was
quite irrational, but for all that troubled his views.
Perhaps Sidwell was betrothed to some one ? He
knew of but one likely person — Miss Moorhouse's
Ijrother. About a month ago the Warricombes had
l)een on a visit at Pudleigh Salterton, and something
might then have happened. Pangs of jealousy smote him,
nor could he assuage them by reminding liimself that lie
had no concern whatever in Sidwell's future.
264 BORN IN EXILE
' Will Mr. Warricombe be long away ? ' he asked,
coldly.
* A day or two. I hope you didn't wish particularly
to see him to-day ? '
' Oh, no.'
' Do you know, Mr. Peak,' put in Fanny, ' that we are
all going to London next month, to live there for half
a year ? '
Godwin exhibited surprise. He looked from the
speaker to her sister, and Sid well, as she smiled confirma-
tion, bent very slightly towards him.
' We have made up our minds, after much uncertainty,'
she said. ' My brother Buckland seems to think that we
are falling behind in civilisation.'
' So we are,' affirmed Fanny, ' as Mr. Peak would admit,
if only he could be sincere.'
'Am I never sincere then, Miss Fanny?' Godwin
asked.
' I only meant to say that nobody can be when the
rules of politeness interfere. Don't you think it's a
pity ? We might tell one another the truth in a pleasant
w^ay.'
' I agree with you. But then we must be civilised
indeed. How do you think of London, Miss Warricombe?
Which of its aspects most impresses you ? '
Sidwell answered rather indefinitely, and ended by
mentioning that in VillcUe, which she had just re-read,
Charlotte Bronte makes a contrast between the City and
the West End, and greatly prefers the former.
• Do you agree with her, Mr. Peak ? '
' No, I can't. One understands the mood in which she
wrote that ; but a little more experience would liave led
her to see the contrast in a different light. That term,
the West End, includes much that is despicable, but it
means also the best results of civilisation. Tlie City is
hateful to me, and for a reason which I only understood
after many an hour of depression in walking about its
streets. It represents the ascendency of the average
man.'
Sidwell waited for fuller explanation.
7/
BORN IX EXILE 265
'A liberal mind,' Peak continued, 'is rev(jlted by the
triumphal j)rucession that roars ])erpetually throu,i;h the
City highways. AVith myriad voices the City bellows
its brutal scorn of everything but material advantage.
There every humanising intluence is contemptuously
disregarded. I know, of course, that the trader may
have his quiet home, where art and science and humanity
are the hrst considerations; but the '))iass of traders,
corporate and victorious, crush nil such things beneath
their heels. Take your stand (or try to do so) anywhere
near the Exchange ; the hustling and jolting to which
you. are exposed represents the very spirit of the life
about you. Whatever is gentle and kindly and medita-
tive must here go to the wall — trampled, spattered,
ridiculed. Here the average man has it all his own way
— a gross utilitarian power.'
*Yes, I can see that,' Sidwell replied, thoughtfully.
' And perhaps it also represents the triumphant forces of
our time.'
Pie looked keenly at her, with a smile of delight.
' That also 1 The power which centres in the world's
money-markets— plutocr acy.'
In conversing with Hidwell, he had never before
found an opportunity of uttering his vehement preju-
dices. The gentler side of his character had sometimes
expressed itself, but those impulses which were vastly
more significant lay hidden beneath the dissimulation he
consistently practised. For the first time lie w\as al>le to
look into Sidwell's face with honest directness, and what
he saw there strengthened his determination to talk on
with the same freedom.
'You don't believe, then,' said Sidwell, 'that democracy
is the proper name for the state into which we arc
passing ? '
* Only if one can understand democracy as the opening
of social })rivileges to free competition amongst men of
trade. And social privilege is everything; home politics
refer to nothing else.'
Fanny, true to the ingenuous ]»rinci})lL' <>f her years,
put a direct (|uestion :
266 BORN IX EXILE
' Do you approve of real democracy, Mr. Peak ? '
He answered witli another question :
' Have you read the " Life of Phokion " in Thitarch ? '
' Xo, I'm sorry to say.'
' There's a story about him which I have enjoyed since
1 was your age. Phokion was once delivering a public
speech, and at a certain point the majority of his
hearers broke into applause ; whereupon he turned to
certain of his friends who stood near and asked, "What
have I said amiss ? " '
Fanny laughed.
* Then you despise public opinion ? '
' With heart and soul ! '
It was to Sidwell that he directed the reply. Though
overcome by the joy of such an utterance, he felt that,
considering the opinions and position of Buckland
Warricombe, he was perhaps guilty of ill manners.
But Sidwell manifested no disapproval.
' Did you know that story ? ' Fanny asked of her.
' It's quite new to me.'
' Then I'm sure you'll read the " Life of Phokion " as
soon as possible. He will just suit you, Sidwell.'
Peak heard this with a shock of surprise which thrilled
in him deliciously. He had the strongest desire to look
again at Sidwell but refrained. As no one spoke, he
turned to Bertha Lilywhite and put a commonplace
question.
A servant entered with the tea - tray, and placed it
on a small table near Fanny. Godwiiu looked at the
younger girl ; it seemed to him that there was an excess
of colour in her cheeks. Had a glance from Sidwell
rebuked her ? With his usual rapidity of observation
and inference'^he made much of this trifle.
Contrary to what he expected, Sidwell's next remark
was in a tone of cheerfulness, almost of gaiety.
' One advantage of our stay in London will be that
home will seem more deli*]jhtful than ever when we
return.'
' I suppose you won't be back till next summer ? '
' I am afraid not.'
B()IL\' IN KXILK 207
'Shall you \k' liviiii; here then .■' ' Fanny inipiiird.
' It's very doubtful.'
He wished to answer with a deeided nei^ative, lait liis
touL^ue refused. Sidwell was rejj;arding him with calm l)Ut
earnest eyes, and ho knew, without caring to reflect, that
his latest projects were crumbling.
' Have you been to see our friends at Dudleigh Salterton
yet ? ' she asked.
* Not yet. r hope to in a few days.'
Pursuing the subject, he was able to examine her
face as she spoke of Mr. Moorhouse. His conjecture
was assuredly baseless.
Fanny and Bertha began to talk together of domestic
affairs, and presently, when tea -cups were laid aside,
the two girls went to another part of the room ; then
they withdrew altogether, l^eak was monologising on
p]nglish art as represented at the Academy, but find-
ing himself alone with Sidwell (it had never before
happened) he became silent. Ought he to take his
leave ? He must already have been sitting here more
than half-an-hour. liut the temptation of trte-a-tctc was
irresistible.
' You had a visit from Mr. Chilvers the otlier day ? ' he
remarked, abruptly.
' Yes ; did he call to see you ? '
Her tone gave evidence that she would not have intro-
duced this topic.
' No ; I heard from Mrs. Lilywhite. He had been to
tlie vicarage. Has he changeil much since he was at
AYhitelaw ? '
' So many years must make a difference at that time
of life,' Sidwell answered, smiling.
' lUit does he show the same peculiarities of manner V
He tried to put tlie question without insistency, in
a tone quite compatible with friendliness. Her answer,
given with a look of amusement, satisfied him that there
was no fear of her taking ]\Ir. Chilvers too seriously.
' Yes. I think he speaks in much the same way.*
' Have you read any of his publications ? '
* One or two. AYe have his lecture on Altruism.'
268 BORN m KXILE
' I happen to know it. There are good things in it, I
think. But I dislike his modern interpretation of old
principles.'
' You think it dangerous ? '
He no longer regarded her frankly, and in the con-
sciousness of her look upon liim he knit his brows.
' I think it both dangerous and offensive. Not a few
clergymen nowadays, who imagine themselves free from
the letter and wholly devoted to spirit, are doing their
best in the cause of materialism. They surrender the
very points at issue between religion and worldliness.
They are so blinded by a vague humanitarian impulse
as to make the New Testament an oracle of popular
Radicalism.'
Sidwell looked up.
' I never quite understood, Mr. Peak, how you le-
gard Eadicalism. You think it opposed to all true
progress ? '
* Utterly, as concerns any reasonable limit of time.'
' Buckland, as you know, maintains tliat spiritual pro-
gress is only possible by this way.'
' I can't venture to contradict him,' said Godwin ;
' for it may be that advance is destined only to come
after long retrogression and anarchy. Perhaps the way
docs lie through such miseries. But we can't foresee
that with certainty, and those of us who hate the present
tendency of things must needs assert their hatred as
strongly as possible, seeing that we rnai/ have a more
hopeful part to play than seems likely.'
' I like that view,' replied Sidwell, in an undertone.
' My belief,' pursued Godwin, with an earnestness
very agreeable to himself, for he had reached the
subject on which he could speak honestly, ' is that an
instructed man can only hold views such as your
brother's — hopeful views of the immediate future — if
he has never been brouglit into close contact witli the
lower classes. Buckland doesn't know tlie people for
whom he pleads.'*
' You think them so degraded ? '
' It is impossible, without seeming inhumanly scornful,
4J
BORX IN EXILE 269
to give a just account of their ignorance and baseness.
The two things, speaking generally, go together. Of
the ignorant, tliere are very few indeed wlio can think
purely or aspiringly. You, of course, oliject the teach-
ing of Christianity; but the lowly and the humble of
whom it speaks scarcely exist, scarcely can exist, in
our day and country. A ludicrous pretence of education
is banishing every form of native simplicity. In the
large towns, the populace sink deeper and deeper into
a vicious vulgarity, and every rural district is Ijeing
affected by the spread of contagion. To flatter the
proletariat is to fight against all the good that still
characterises educated England — against reverence for
the beautiful, against magnanimity, against enthusiasm
of mind, heart, and soul.'
He quivered with vehemence of feeling, and the flush
which rose to his hearer's cheek, the swimming bright-
ness of her eye, proved that a strong sympathy stirred
within her.
' I know nothing of the uneducated in towns,' she said,
'l)ut the little I have seen of them in country places
certainly supports your opinion. I could point to two
or three families who have suffered distinct degradation
owing to what most people call an improvement in their
circumstances. Fatlier often speaks of such instances,
comparing tlie state of tilings now with what he can
remember.'
'My own experience,' pursued Godwin, * has been
among the lower classes in London. I don't mean the
very poorest, of whom one hears so much nowadays ;
I never went among them because I liad no power of
helping them, and the sight of their vileness would only
have moved me to unjust hatred. Rut the people who
earn enough for their needs, and wliose. spii-itucLLjgiude.
is the Sundav newspa ner — T know them, because for
a long time I was oljliged to lodge in their houses.
Only a consuming fire could jiurify the places where
they dwell. Don't misunderstand me ; I am not charging
them with what are commonly held vices and crimes, but
with the consistent love of everything that is ign''
7^
270 BORN IN EXILE
with utter deadness to generous impulse, with the fatal
habit of low mockery. And these are the people who
really direct the democratic movement. They set the
tone in politics ; they are debasing art and literature ;
even the homes of wealthy people begin to show the
effects of their influence. One hears men and women
of gentle birth using phrases which originate with
shopboys; one sees them reading print which is ad-
dressed to the coarsest million. They crowd to enter-
tainments which are deliberately adapted to the lowest
order of mind. When commercial interest is supreme,
how can the tastes of the majority fail to lead and
control ? '
Though he spoke from the depths of his conviction,
and was so moved that his voice rose and fell in tones
such as a drawing-room seldom hears, he yet kept anxious
watch upon Sidwell's countenance. That hint afforded
him by Fanny was invaluable ; it had enabled him to
appeal to Sidwell's nature by the ardent expression of
what was sincerest in his own. She too, he at length
understood, had the aristocratic temperament. This ex-
plained her to him, supplied the key of doubts and
difficulties which had troubled him in her presence.
It justified, moreover, the feelings with which she had
inspired him — feelings which this hour of intimate con-
verse had exalted to passion. His heart thrilled with
hope. Where sympathies so profound existed, wdiat
did it matter that there was variance on a few points
between his intellect and hers ? He felt the power to
win her, and to defy every passing humiliation that lay
in his course.
Sidwell raised her eyes with a look which signified that
she was shaping a question diffidently.
' Have you always thought so hopelessly of our
times ? '
' Oh, 1 had my stage of optimism,' he answered, smiling.
' Though I never put faith in the masses, I once believed
that the conversion of the educated to a purely human
religion* would set things moving in the right way. It
was ignorance of the world.'
vj)bwv V c^ tn^'^y^ ^ ^'
KOIJX IN KXILK 271
^ He paused a iiioiiu'iit, then addctl :
/ ' 111 youth one marvels tliat men remain at so low a
/ stage of civilisation. Later in life, one is astonished tliat
(^hey have advanced so far.'
Sidwell met his look with appreciative intelligence and
murmured :
' In spite of myself, I believe that expresses a
trutli.'
Peak was about to reply, when Fanny and licr friend
reappeared. I5ertha approached for the purpose of taking
leave, and for a minute or two Sidwell talked witli her.
The young girls withdrew again together.
By the clock on the mantelpiece it was nearly six.
Godwin did not resume his seat, though Sidwell had
done so. He looked towards the window, and was all
but lost in abstraction, when the soft voice again
addressed him :
•But you have not clioseii your life's work without
some hope of doing good ? '
'Do you think,' lie asked, gently, ' tliat 1 shall be out of
place in the Christian Church ? '
'Xo — no, I certainly don't think that. But will you
tell me what you have set before yourself ? '
He drew nearer and leaned upon the back of a
chair.
' I hope for what I shall perhaps never attain. What-
ever my first steps may be — I am not independent; I
must take the work that offers — it is my ambition to
become the teacher of some rural ])arish which is still
unpolluted by the inliuences of which we have been
speaking — or, at all events, is still capable of being
rescued. For work in crowded centres, I am altogetlier
unfit; my prejudices are too strong; I should do far more
harm than good. But among a few simple peo{)le I
think my efforts mightn't be useless. 1 can't pretend to
care for anything but individuals. The few wliom I
know and love are of more importance to me than all the
blind multitude rushing to destruction. I hate the wor d.
^majority; it is the few, the very few, that have always,
ke])t aHv<' whatever of effectual good we see in the human.
272 BORN IN EXILE
race. There are individuals who outvveigk, in CALei^/kiiid
--■y_ of vahie, generations of ordinary people. To some remote
little community I hope to give the best energies of my
life. My teaching will avoid doctrine and controversy.
I shall take the spirit of the Gospels, and labour to make
it a practical guide. iSTo doubt you find inconsistencies
in me ; but remember that I shall not declare myself to
those I instruct as I have done to you. I have been
laying stress on my antipathies. In the future it will be
a duty and a pleasure to forget these and foster my
sympathies, which also are strong when opportunity is
given them.'
Sidwell listened, her face bent downwards but not
hidden from the speaker.
' My nature is intolerant,' he went on, ' and I am easily
roused to an antagonism which destroys my peace.
It is only by living apart, amid friendly circum-
j stances, that I can cultivate the qualities useful to
[myself and others. The sense that my life was being
wasted determined me a year ago to escape the world's
uproar and prepare myself in quietness for this task. Tlie
resolve was taken here, in your house,'
' Are you quite sure,' asked Sidwell, ' that such simple
duties and satisfactions'
The sentence remained incomplete, or rather was
finished in the timid glance she gave him.
' Such a life wouldn't be possible to me,' he replied,
with unsteady voice, * if I were condemned to intellectual
solitude. But I have dared to liope that I shall not
always be alone.'
A parched throat would have stayed his utterance,
even if words had oftered themselves. But sudden
confusion beset his mind — a sense of having been
guilty of monstrous presumption — a panic wdiich threw
darkness about him and made him grasp the chair
convulsively. When he recovered himself and looked
at Sidwell there was a faint smile on her lips, inex-
pressibly gentle.
'That's the rough outline of my projects,' lie said, in
his ordinary voice, moving a few steps away. ' You see
iioiLN IN i;\iij-: 273
that I count iniK'li on t'ortiuiL' : at lliu best, il may I'u
N'cars before I can get my country living.'
With a laugh, he came towards her and otteri'il liis
hand for good-bye. Sidvvell rose.
* You have interested me very much. Whatever
assistance it may be in my father's power to oiler you,
I am sure you may count upon.'
'I am already much indel.)ted to Mr. Warricombc's
kindness.'
They shook hands without further speech, and Peak
went his way.
For an hour or two he was powerless to collect his
thoughts. All he had said repeated itself again and
again, mixed up with turbid comments, with deadly
fears and frantic bursts of confidence, with tumult of
passion and merciless logic of self-criticism. Did Sidwell
understand that sentence : ' I have dared to hope that I
shall not always be alone ' / Was it not possible that she
might interpret it as referring to some unknown woman
whom he loved ? If not, if his voice and features had
betrayed him, what could her behaviour mean, except
distinct encouragement ? * You have interested me very
much.' l]ut could she have used such words if his
meaning had been plain to her? Far more likely that
her frank kindness came of misconception. She imagined
him the lover of some girl of his own * station ' — a toil-
ing governess, or some such person ; it could not enter
into her mind that he ' dared ' so recklessly as the truth
implied.
JUit the glow of sympathy with which she heard his
immeasurable scorn : there was the spirit that defies
artificial distances. Why had he not been bolder ? At
this rate he must spend a lifetime in preparing i'or the
decisive moment. AVlien would another such occasion
olfer itself ?
Women are won by audacity ; the poets have rejieatcd
it from age to age, and some truth there luust be in tlie
saying. Suspicion of self-interest could not l)ut attach to
him; that was inherent in the circumstances, lie must
iS
274 BORN IN EXILE
rely upon the sincerity of his passion, which indeed was
beginning to rack and rend him. A woman is sensitive
to that, especially a woman of Sidwell's refinement. In
matters of the intellect she may be misled, but she cannot
mistake quivering ardour for design simulating love. If
it were impossible to see her again in i)rivate beibre she
left Exeter, then he must write to her. Half a year of
complete uncertainty, and of counterfeiting face to iace
with Bruno Chilvers, would overtax his resolution.
The evening went by he knew not how. Long after
nightfall he was returning from an aimless ramble by
way of the Old Tiverton Eoad. At least he would pass
the house, and soothe or iuflame his emotions by resting
for a moment thus near to Sidwell.
What ? He had believed himself incapable of erotic
madness ? And he pressed his forehead against the stones
of the wall to relieve his sick dizziness.
It was Sidwell or death. Into what a void of hideous
futility would his life be cast, if this desire proved vain,
and he were left to combat alone with the memory of his
dishonour ! With Sidwell the reproach could be out-
lived. She would understand him, pardon him — and there-
after a glorified existence, rivalling that of whosoever has
been most exultant anionff the sons of men !
rART THE FOURTH
J
PATJT THE FOUETIT
I
Earwakeu^^s struggle with the editor-iu-cliicf of 'Hu'
Wcelhf Pmt and tlie journalist Kenyon came to its
natural close about a month after Godwin Teak's dis-
appearance. Only a vein of ol)stinacy in his character
had kept him so long in a position he knew to he
untenable. From the first his sympathy with ^Mr.
Kuncorn's politics had been doubtful, and experience of
tjie working of a Sunday newspaper, which appealed to^
f f liP iVnnhly restive, could not encourage his adhesion _
1 to this form of liadicalism. He anticipated dismissal
by retirement, and Kenyon, a man of coarsely vigorous
fibre, at once stepped into his place.
Now that he had leisure to review the conflict, Ear-
waker understood that circumstances had but hastened his
transition from a moderate ardour in the parliamentary
cause of the people, to a regretful neutrality regarding
all political movements. lUrth allied him with the prole-
tarian class, and his sentiment in favour of democracy
was unendangered by the disillusions which must c<mie
upon every intellectual man brouglit into close contact
with public aflairs. The course of an education essen-
tjally aristocratic (Greek and Latin can have no othei:^'^
tendency so long as they are the privilege of the few)
had not affected his natural l)ent, nor was he the man to
be driven into refaction because of obstacles to his faith
278 BORN m EXILE
inseparable from human weakness. He had learnt that
the emancipation of the poor and untaught must proceed
more slowly than he once hoped — that was all. Eestored
to generous calm, he could admit that such men as
Euncorn and Kenyon — the one with his polyarchic
commercialism, the other with his demagogic violence —
had possibly a useful part to play at the present stage
of things. He, however, could have no place in that
camp. Too indiscreetly he had hoisted his standard of
idealism, and by stubborn resistance of insuperable
forces he had merely brought forward the least satis-
factory elements of his own character. ' Hold on ! '
cried Malkin. ' Fight the grovellers to the end ! ' But
Earwaker had begun to see himself in a light of ridicule.
There w^as just time to save his self-respect.
He was in no concern for his daily bread. With
narrower resources in the world of print, he might have
been compelled, like many another journalist, to swallow
his objections and write as Euncorn dictated; for the
humble folks at home could not starve to allow him
the luxury of conscientiousness, whatever he might
have been disposed to do on his own account. Happily,
his pen had a scope beyond politics, and by working
steadily for reviews, with which he was already con-
nected, he would be able to keep his finances in reason-
able order until, perchance, some hopeful appointment
offered itself. In a mood of much cheerfulness he
turned for ever from party uproar, and focussed his
mind upon those interests of humanity which so rarely
coincide with the aims of any league among men.
Half a year went by, and at length he granted himself
a short holiday, the first in a twelvemonth. It took the
form of a voyage to Marseilles, and thence of a leisurely
ramble up the Ehone. Before returning, he spent a day
or two in Paris, for the most part beneath cafe awnings, or
on garden seats — an indulgence of contented laziness.
On the day of his departure, he climbed the towers
of Notre Dame, and lingered for half-an-hour in pleasant
solitude among tlie stone monsters. His reverie was
broken bv nn Englisli voice, loud and animated :
BORN IN EXILE 279
'Come and look at this old demon of a bird; lie has
always been a favourite of mine. — Sure you're not tired,
Miss Bella ? When you want to rest, Miss Lily, mind
you say so at once. What a day ! — Wliat a sky ! — When
1 was last up here I had my hat blown away. I watched
it as far as Montmartre. A fact ! Never knew such
a wind in my lile — unless it was that tornado I told
you about Hollo! ])y the powers, if that isn't Ear-
waker ! Confound you, old fellow ! How the deuce do
you do ? What a glorious meeting ! Hadn't the least
idea where you were ! — Let me have the pleasure of
introducing you to ]\Irs. Jacox — and to Miss Jacox —
and to ^liss Lily. They ail know you thoroughly well.
Now who would have thought of our meeting up here !
Glorious ! '
It was with some curiosity that Earwaker regarded
the companions of his friend Malkin — whose proximity
was the last thing he could have imagined, as only a
few weeks ago he liad heard of the restless fellow's
departing, on business unknown, for ])nston, U.S. ^Frs.
Jacox, the widow whose wrongs had made sucli an im-
pression on Malkin, announced herself, in a thin, mealy
face and rag - doll figure, as not less than forty, though
her irresponsible look made it evident that years profited
lier nothing, and suggested an explanation of the success
with which she had been victimised. She was stylishly
dressed, and had the air of enjoying an unusual treat.
Her children were of more promising type, though Ear-
waker would hardly have supposed them so old as he
knew them to be. Bella, just beyond her fourteenth
year, had an intelligent prettiness, but was excessively
shy ; in giving her hand to the stranger slie Huslied
over face and neck, and her bosom palpitated visibly.
Her sister, two years younger, was a mere cliild, rather
self-conscious, but of laughing temper. Their toilet
suited ill with that of their mother; its plainness an<l
negligence might have passed muster in London, l)ut
here, under tlie lucent sky, it seemed n wrong to tlieir
])udding maidenliood.
'Mr'^. daoox i>^ on the point ot returning to England,'
280 BORN IN EXILE
Malkin explained. ' I happened to meet her, by chance
— I'm always meeting my friends by chance ; you, for
instance, Earwaker. She is so good as to allow me
to guide her and the young ladies to a few of the
sights of Paris.'
' Mr. Malkin ! ' exclaimed the widow, with a
stress on the exclamation peculiar to herself — two notes
of deprecating falsetto. ' How can you say it is good
of me, when I'm sure there are no words for your
kindness to us all ! If only you knew our debt to
your friend, Mr. Earwaker! To our dying day we
must all remember it. It is entirely through Mr.
Malkin that we are able to leave that most disagree-
able Itouen — a place I shall never cease to think of
with horror. Mr. Earwaker ! you have only to
tliink of that wretched railway station, stuck between
two black tunnels ! Mr. Malkin ! '
' What are you doing ? ' Malkin inquired of the
journalist. ' How long shall you be here ? Why haven't
I heard from you ? '
' I go to London to-nio'ht.'
* And we to-morrow. On Friday I'll look you up.
Stay, can't you dine with me this evening ? Anywhere
you like. These ladies will be glad to be rid of me,
and to dine in peace at their hotel.'
* Mr. Malkin ! ' piped the widow, * you know how-
very far that is from the truth. But we shall be very
glad indeed to know that you are enjoying yourself
with Mr. Earwaker.'
The friends made an appointment to meet near the
iVIadeleine, and Earwaker hastened to escape the sound
of Mrs. Jacox's voice.
Punctual at the rendezvous, Malkin talked with his
wonted effusiveness as he led towards the Cah'
Anglais.
' I've managed it, my boy ! The most complete success !
I had to run over to Boston to get hold of a scoundrelly
relative of that poor woman. You should have seen
how I came over him — partly dignified sternness, partly
justifiable cajolery. The affair only wanted some one
BOILN IN KXILK L>S1
to take it up in earnest. T have secured her ahout a
couple of hundred a year — witlilield on the most i)altry
and transparent pretences. They're going to live at
AV rot ham, in Kent, where Mrs. Jacox has friends. I
never thought myself so much of a man of business. ( )f
course old Haliburton, the lawyer, had a hand in it,
but without my personal energy it would have taken
liim a year longer. What do you tliink of tlic girls ?
I Tow do you like Bella ? '
' A pretty child.'
' Child ? Well, yes, yes — immature of course ; but
I'm rather in the habit of thinking of her as a young
lady. In three years she'll be seventeen, you know.
Of course you couldn't form a judgment of her character.
She's quite remarkably mature for her age ; and, what
delights me most of all, a sturdy liadical ! She takes
the most intelligent interest in all political and social
movements, I assure you ! There's a great deal of
democratic fire in her.'
' You're sure it isn't reflected from your own fervour ? '
* Not a bit of it ! You should have seen her excite-
ment when we were at the Bastille Column yesterday.
She'll make a splendid woman, I assure you. Lily's
very interesting, too — profoundly interesting. But then
she is certainly very young, so I can't feel so sure
of her on the great questions. She hasn't her sister's
earnestness, I fancy.'
In the after-glow of dinner, Malkin became still more
confidential.
' You remember what I said to you long since ? My
mind is made up — practically made up. I shall devote
myself to Bella's education, in the hope — you understand
me ? Impossible to have found a girl who suited better
with my aspirations. She has known the hardships
of poverty, poor thing, and that will kee^) her for ever
in sympathy with the downtrodden classes. She has
a splendid intelligence, and it shall l»o cultivated to the
utmost.'
' One word,' said Earwaker, soberly. * We liave heard
before of men who waited for girls to grow up. Be
2s'62 BORN IN EXILE
cautious, my dear fellow, both on your own account
and hers.'
' My dear Earwaker ! Don't imagine for a moment
that I take it for granted she will get to be fond of
me. My attitude is one of the most absolute discretion.
You must have observed how I behaved to them all
— scrupulous courtesy, I trust ; no more familiarity than
any friend might be permitted. I should never dream of
addressing the girls without ceremonious prefix — never !
I talk of Bella's education, but be assured that I regard
my own as a matter of quite as much importance. I
mean, that I shall strive incessantly to make myself
worthy of her. No laxity ! For these next three years
I shall live as becomes a man who has his eyes constantly
on a high ideal — the pure and beautiful girl whom he
humbly hopes to win for a wife.'
The listener was moved. He raised his wine-^lass
to conceal the smile whicli mi^ht have been misunder-
stood. In his heart he felt more admiration than had
yet mingled with his liking for this strange fellow.
' And jVIrs. Jacox herself,' pursued Malkin ; ' she has
her weaknesses, as we all have. I don't think her a
very strong-minded woman, to tell the truth. But
there's a great deal of goodness in her. If there's one
thing I desire in people, it is the virtue of gratitude,
and Mrs. Jacox is grateful almost to excess for the
paltry exertions I have made on her behalf. You know
that kind of thing costs me nothing ; you know I like
running about and getting things done. But the poor
woman imagines that I have laid her under an eternal
oblio-ation. Of course I shall show her in time that it
was nothing at all ; that she might have done just as
much for herself if she had known how to go about
it.'
Earwaker was nnising, a wrinkle of uneasiness at the
corner of his eye.
' She isn't the kind of woman, you know, one
can regard as a mother. But we are the best pos-
sible friends. She maif, perhaps, think of me as a
])ossible son-in-law. Boor thing; I hope she does,
BORN IN KXILH 2 S3
Perhaps it will help to put her mind at rest iihuiit the
girls.'
'Then shall you often be down at Wrothani ?' incpiired
the journalist, abstractedly.
' Oh, not often — that is to say, only once a month
or so, just to look in. I wanted to ask you : do you
think I might venture to begin a correspondence with
Bella?'
' M — m — m ! I can't say.'
' It would be so valuable, you know. I could suggest
books for her reading ; I could help her in her study
of politics, and so on.'
' Well, think about it. But be cautious, I beg of you.
Now I must be off. Only just time enough to get my
traps to the station.'
• I'll come with you. Clare du Nord ? Oh, plenty
of time, plenty of time ! Nothing so abominable as
waiting for trains. I make a point of never getting to
the station more than three minutes before time.
Astonishing what one can do in tliree minutes ! I
want to tell you about an adventure I had in Boston.
Met a fellow so devilish like Peak that I coiild/it believe
it wasn't he himself. I spoke to him, but he swore
that he knew not the man. Never saw such a
likeness ! '
' Curious. It may have been Peak.'
' By all that's suspicious, I can't help thinking tlie
same ! He had an English accent, too.'
' Queer business, this of Peak's. I hope I may live
to hear the end of the story.'
They left tlie restaurant, and in a few liouvs Kaiwaker
was again on English soil.
At Staple Inn a pile of letters awaited him, among
tliem a note from Cliristian Moxey, asking for an appoint-
ment as soon as possible after tlie journalist's return.
Rirwaker at once sent an invitation, and on the next
evening ^Moxey came. An intimacy had grown up
between the two, since tlie mysterious retreat of their
common friend. Christian was at iirst lost without the
companionship of (Jodwiii IVak : he forsook ln> studies,
284 BORN IN EXILE
and fell into a state of complete idleness which naturally
fostered his tendency to find solace in the decanter.
With Earwaker, he could not talk as unreservedly as with
Peak, but on the other hand there was a tonic influence
in the journalist's personality which he recognised as
l)eneficial. Earwaker was steadily making his way in
the world, lived a life of dignified independence. What
was the secret of these strong, calm natures ? Miglit it
not be learnt by studious inspection ?
' How well you look ! ' Christian exclaimed, on entering.
' We enjoyed your Provencal letter enormously. That's a
raml)le I have always meant to do. Next year perhaps.'
' Why not this ? Haven't you got into a dangerous
liabit of postponement ? '
' Yes, I'm afraid I have. But, by-the-bye, no news of
Peak, I suppose ? '
Earwaker related the story he had heard from ^lalkin,
adding :
' You must remember that they met only once in
London ; Malkin might very well mistake anotlier man
for Peak.'
' Yes,' replied the other musingly. * Yet it isn't im-
possible that Peak has gone over there. If so, what on
earth can he be up to ? Why should he hide from his
friends ? '
* Chcrchez la femme,' said the journalist, with a smile.
' I can devise no other explanation.'
* But I can't see that it would be an explanation at all.
Grant even — something unavowable, you know — are we
Puritans ? How could it harm him, at all events, to let
us know his whereabouts ? No such mystery ever came
into my experience. It is too bad of Peak ; it's con-
foundedly unkind.'
'Suppose he has found it necessary to assume a
character wholly fictitious — or, let us say, quite in-
consistent with his life and opinions as known to
us ? '
This was a fruitful suggestion, long in Earwaker's mind,
but not hitherto communicated. Christian did not at
once grasp its significance.
noRS IN EXILK 285
'How'cuuM that be necessary/ I'l-ak is no swindler.
Yon don't imply that he is engaged in some fraud T
' Xot in the ordinary sense, decidedly. Jlut pii'lurc
some girl or woman of conventional oi)inions and
surroundings. What if he resolved to win such a wifi%
at the expense of disguising his true self .<''
'But what an extraordinary idea!' cried Moxey.
' Why Peak is all but a woman-hater ! '
The journalist uttered croakin^' laughter.
'Havel totally misunderstood him?' asked Christian,
confused and abashed.
* I think it not impossible.'
'You amaze me! — But no, no: you arc wrong. Ear-
M'aker. Wrong in your suggestion, I mean. Peak
could never sink to that. He is too uncompromis-
ing'
' Well, it will be explained some day, 1 supi)Ose.'
And with a shrug of impatience, the journalist turned
to another sul)ject. He^ too, regretted his old friend's
disappearance, and in a measure resented it. Godwin
Peak was not a man to slip out of one's life and
leave no appreciable vacancy. Neither of these men
admired him, in the true sense of the word, yet
had his voice sounded at the door both would have
sprung up with eager welcome. He was a force —
and how many such beings does one encounter in a
lifetime ?
II
In different ways, Christian and Marcella Moxey had
both been lonely since their childhood. As a schoolgirl,
Marcella seemed to her companions conceited and
repellent ; only as the result of reflection in after years
did Sylvia Moorhouse express so favourable an opinion of
her. In all things she affected singularity ; especially it
was her delight to utter democratic and revolutionary
sentiments among hearers wlio, belonging to a rigidly
conservative order, held such opinions impious. Arrived
at womanhood, she affected scorn of tlie beliefs and haljits
cherished l)y her own sex, and shrank from association
with the other. Godwin Peak was the first man with
whom she conversed in the tone of friendship, and it took
a year or more before that point was reached. As her
intimacy with him established itself, she was observed to
undergo changes which seemed very significant in tlie
eyes of her few acquaintances. Disregard of costume
had been one of her characteristics, but now she moved
gradually towards the opposite extreme, till her dresses
were occasionally more noticeable for richness tlian for
i^ood taste.
Christian, for kindred reasons, was equally debarred
from the pleasures and profits of society. At school, his
teachers considered him clever, his fellows for the most
part looked down upon him as a sentimental weakling.
The death of his parents, when he was still a lad, left
him to the indifferent care of a guardian nothing akin
to him. He began life in an uncongenial position, and
had not courage to oppose the drift of circumstances.
BORN IN KXILE 1^87
The romantic attachment wliich absorbed his best years
naturally had a debilitating efl'ect, for love was never yet
a supporter of tlie strenuous virtues, ^jiye'When it has
survived fruition and been blessed 1>y reason. In most
men a fit of amorous mooning works its own cure ;
energetic rebound is soon inevitable. But Christian was
so constituted that a decade of years could not exhause
his capacity for sentimental languishment. He made it a
point of honour to seek no female companionshi}) which
could imperil his faith. Unfortunately, this avoidance
of the society which would soon have made him a hajipy
renegade, was but too easy. Marcella and he practically
encouraged each other in a life of isolation, though to
both of them such an existence was anything but congenial.
Their diliiculties were of the same nature as those which
had always beset Godwin Peak : they had no relatives
with whom they cared to associate, and none of the
domestic friends who, ni the progress of time, establish
and extend a sphere of genuine intimacy.
Most people who are capable of independent thought
rapidly outgrow the stage when compromise is al)]iorred ;
they accept, at first reluctantly, but ere long with satis
faction, that code of polite intercourse which, as Steele
says, is ' an expedient to make fools and wise men ecpial.'
It was Marcella's ill-fate that she could neither learn
tolerance nor persuade herself to atiect it. The emanci-
pated woman has fewer opportunities of relieving her
mind than a man in corresponding pcjsition ; if her
temper be aggressive she must renounce general society,
and, if not content to live alone, ally herself with some
group of declared militants. By correspondence, or
otherwise, Marcella might have brought herself into
connection with women of a sympathetic type, but this
eflbrt she had never made. And chietly l)e('ause of her
ac([uaintance with Godwin Beak. In him she concen-
trated her interests ; he was the man to wliom her heart
went forth with every kind of fervour. So long as there
remained a hope of moving him to recii)rocal feeling she
did not care to go in search of female companions. Year
after year she sustained herself in solitude by this faint
288 BORN IN EXILE
hope. She had lost sight of the two or three school-
fellows who, though not so zealous as herself, would have
welcomed her as an interesting acquaintance ; and the
only woman who assiduously sought her was Mrs. Morton,
the wife of one of Christian's friends, a good-natured but
silly person bent on making known that she followed the
' higher law.'
Godwin's disappearance sank her in profound melan-
choly. Through the black weeks of January and February
she scarcely left the house, and on the plea of illness
refused to see any one but her brother. Between
Christian and her there was no avowed confidence, but
each knew the other's secret ; their mutual affection never
spoke itself in words, yet none the less it was indis-
pensable to their lives. Deprived of his sister's company,
Christian must have yielded to the vice w^hich had already
too strong a hold upon him, and have become a maudlin
drunkard. Left to herself, Marcella had but slender
support against a grim temptation already beckoning her
in nights of sleeplessness. Of the two, her nature was
the more tragic. Circumstances aiding. Christian might
still forget his melancholy, abandon the whisky bottle,
and pass a lifetime of amiable uxoriousness, varied with
scientific enthusiasm. But for Marcella, frustrate in the
desire with which every impulse of her being had identi-
fied itself, what future could be imagined ?
When a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a
semi-opaque atmosphere wliich London has to accept
with gratitude) had announced that the seven-months'
winter was overcome, and when the newspapers began to
speak, after their fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny.
Christian exerted himself to rouse his sister from her
growing indolence. He succeeded in taking her to the
Academy. Among the works of sculpture, set apart for
the indifference of the public, was a female head, catalogued
as ' A Nihilist ' — in itself interesting, and specially so to
Marcella, because it was executed by an artist whose
name she reco^inised as that of a schoolmate, Asjatha Wal-
worth. She spoke of the circumstance to Christian, and
added :
KOKN IX HXILK 280
' 1 should like to have that. Let ii.s ^o ami see tlie
price.'
The work was already sold. Christian, happy that his
sister could be aroused to this interest, suggested that a
cast might be obtainable.
' Write to ^liss Walworth,' he urged. ' Bring yourself
to her recollection. — 1 should think she must i)e the
right kind of woman.'
Though at the time she shook her head, Marcella was
presently temi)ted to address a letter to the artist, who
responded with friendly invitation. In this way a new
house was opened to her ; but, simultaneously, one more
illusion was destroyed. Knowing little of life, and much
of literature, she pictured Miss Walworth as inhabiting
a delightful liohemian world, where the rules of con-
ventionalism had no existence, and everything was
judged by the brain -standard. Modern French bio-
graphies supplied all her ideas of studio society. She
prepared herself for the first visit with a joyous tremor,
wondering whether she would be deemed worth v to
associate with the men and women who lived for art.
The reality was a shock. In a large house at Chiswick
she found a gathering of most respectable English people,
chatting over the regulation tea-cup ; not one of them
inclined to disregard the dictates of Mrs. Grundv in
dress, demeanour, or dialogue. Agatha Walworth lived
with her parents and her sisters like any other irreproach-
able young woman. She had a nice little studio, and
worked at modelling with a good deal of aptitude ; but
of Bohemia she knew nothing whatever, save l)y hear-
say. Her 'Nihilist' was no indication of a rel)ellious
spirit; some friend had happened to suggest that a
certain female model, a Russian, would do very well foi-
such a character, and the hint was tolerably well carried
out — nothing more. Marcella returned in a mood of
contemptuous disappointment. The cast she had desired
to have was shortly sent to her as a gift, but she could
take no pleasure in it.
Still, she saw more of the AVal wort lis and found them
not illiberal. Agatha was intelligent, and fairly well
19
290 BORN IN EXILE
read in modern authors ; no need to conceal one's opinions
in conversation with her. Marcella happened to be
spending the evening with these acquaintances whilst
her brother was having his chat at Staple Inn ; on her
return, she mentioned to Christian that she had been
invited to visit the Walworth s in Devonshire a few weeks
hence.
' Go, by all means,' urged her brother.
' I don't think I shall. They are too respectable.'
* Nonsense ! They seem very open-minded ; you really
can't expect absolute unconventionality. Is it desiralde ?
Keally is it, now ? — Suppose I were to marry some day,
Marcella ; do you think my household would be uncon-
ventional ? '
His voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted.
Marcella, to whom her brother's romance was anything
but an agreeable su1)ject, — the slight acquaintance she
had with the modern Laura did not encourage her to
hope for that lady's widowhood, — gave no heed to tlie
question.
' They are going to have a house at Budleigli Salterton ;
do you know of the place ? Somewhere near the mouth
of the Exe. Miss Walworth tells me that one of our
old school friends is living there — Sylvia Moorhouse.
Did I ever mention Sylvia ? She had gleams of sense,
I remember ; but no douljt society has drilled all that
out of her.'
Christian sighed.
' Why ? ' he urged. ' Society is getting more tolerant
than you are disposed to think. Very few well-educated
people would nowadays object to an acquaintance on
speculative grounds. Some one — who was it ? — was
telling me of a recent marriage between the daughter of
some well-known Church people and a man who made
no secret of his agnosticism ; the parents acquiescing
cheerfully. The one thing still insisted on is decency of
behaviour.'
Marcella's eyes Hashed.
' How can you say tliat ? You know quite well that
most kinds of immorality are far more readily forgiven
BORN IN KXILK 291
by people of tlie world than sincere heterodoxy on moral
subjects.'
' Well, well, I meant decency from their point of view.
And there really must be such restrictions, you know.
How very few people are capable of what you call sincere
heterodoxy, in morals or religion ! Your position is
iinphilosophical ; indeed it is. Take the world as you
find it, and make friends with kind, worthy people. You
have suii'ered from a needless isolation. Do accept this
opportunity of adding to your acquaintances ! — Do,
Marcella ! I shall take it as a great kindness, dear girl.'
His sister let her head lie back against the chair, her
face averted. A stranger seated in Christian's ])lace,
regarding Marcella whilst her features were thus hidden,
would liave thought it prol)able that she was a woman
of no little beauty. Her masses of tawny hair, her
arms and hands, the pose and outline of her figure,
certainly suggested a countenance of corresponding
charm, and the ornate richness of her attire aided such
an impression. This tliought came to Christian as he
gazed at her ; his eyes, always so gentle, softened to
a tender compassion. As the silence continued, he
looked uneasily about him ; when at length he spoke,
it was as though a matter of trifling moment had occurred
to him.
'By -the -bye, I am told that Malkin (Earwaker's
friend, you know) saw Peak not long ago — in America.'
Marcella did not change her position, but at the sound
of l*eak's name she stirred, as if with an intention, at
once checked, of bending eagerly forward.
* In America ? ' she asked, incredulously.
'At Boston. He met him in the street — or thinks he
did. There's a doubt. When Malkin spoke to the man,
he declared that he was not l*eak at all — said there was
a mistake.'
Marcella moved so as to show her face ; endeavouring
to express an unemotional interest, she looked coldly
scornful.
'That ridiculous man can't be dei)en(lcd u})(»n,' she
said.
292 BORN IN EXILE
There had been one meeting ))etween Marcella and
Mr. Malkin, with the result that eacli thoroughly dis-
liked the other — an antipathy which could have been
foreseen.
' Well, there's no saying,' replied Christian. ' But
of one thing I feel pretty sure : we have seen the last
of Peak. He'll never come back to us.'
* Why not ? '
* I can only say that I feel convinced he has broken
finally with all his old friends. — We must think no more
of him, Marcella.'
His sister rose slowly, affected to glance at a book,
and in a few moments said good - night. For another
hour Christian sat by himself in gloomy thought.
At breakfast next morning Marcella announced that
slie would be from home the whole day; she might
return in time for dinner, but it was uncertain. Her
Ijrother asked no questions, but said that he would
lunch in town. About ten o'clock a cab was summoned,
and Marcella, without leave-taking, drove away.
Christian lingered as long as possible over the morning
paper, unable to determine how he sliould waste tlie
weary liours that lay before him. Tliere was no reason
for his remainino' in London throuoli this brief season
of summer giov/. Means and leisure were his, he could
go whither he would. But the effort of decision and
departure seemed too much for him. Worst of all, this
lassitude (not for the first time) was affecting his im-
agination ; he thought with a dull discontent of the ideal
love to which he had bound himself. Could he but
escape from it, and begin a new life ! But he was the
slave of his airy obligation ; for very shame's sake his
ten years' consistency must l)e that of a lifetime.
There was but one place away from London to which
he felt himself drawn, and tliat v/as the one place he
miolit not visit. This mornino^'s sunshine carried him
back to that day when he had lain in the meadow near
Tvvyl)ridge and talked with Godwin Peak. How dis-
tinctly he remembered his mood ! ' Be practical — don't
be led astray after ideals — concentrate yourself;' — yes,
BORN IN EXILE 1^93
it was he who had given that advice tu Teak : and had
he but recked liis own rede ! Poor little Janet ! was
she married ? If so, her liusl)and must be a happy
man.
Why should he not <^o down to Twyltridge { His
uncle, undoul)tedly still living, must l»y this time have
Ibrgotten the old resentment, perhaps would be glad to
see him. In any case he might stroll about the town
and somehow obtain news of the Moxey family.
With vague half-purpose he left the house and walked
westward. The stream of traffic in P^dgware lioad
brought him to a pause ; he stood for hve nunutes in
miserable indecision, all but resolving to go on as far
as Euston and look for the next northward train. But
the vice in his will prevailed ; automaton-like he turned
in another direction, and presently came out into Sussex
Square. Here was the house to whicli his thoughts
had perpetually gone forth ever since that day when
Constance gave her liand to a thriving City man, and
became ^Irs. Palmer. At present, he knew, it was
inhabited only by domestics : Mr. Palmer, recovering
from illness that threatened to l)e fatal, had gone to
Bournemouth, where Constance of course tended him.
But he would walk past and look up at the windows.
.Vll the blinds were down — naturally. Thrice he went
by and retraced his steps. Then, still automaton-like,
he a})proached the door, rang the bell. The appearance
of the servant choked liis voice for an instant, but he
succeeded in shaping an in(|uii'y after ^Ir. Palmer's
health.
'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the rei)ly, 'that ]\lr. Palmer
died last night. We received the news only an hour or
two ago.'
Christian tottered on liis feet and turned so pale that
the servant regarded him with anxiety. For a minute or
two he stared vacantly into the gloomy hall ; then, with-
out a word, he turned abru])tly and walked away.
Unconscious of the intervening distance, he found
himself at home, in his library. The parlour-maid was
asking him whether lie would have luncheon. Scarcely
294 BORN IN EXILE
understanding the question, he muttered a refusal and
sat down.
So, it had come at last. Constance was a widow. In
a year or so she might think of marrying again.
He remained in the library for three or four hours.
At first incapable of rejoicing, then ashamed to do so, he
at length suffered from such a throbbing of the heart
that apprehension of illness recalled him to a normal state
of mind. The favourite decanter was within reacli, and
it gave him the wonted support. Then at length did
heart and brain c^low witli exultinof fervour.
Poor Constance ! Noble woman ! Most patient of
martyrs ! The hour of her redemption had struck. The
fetters had fallen from her tender, suffering body. Of
Jmii she could not yet think. He did not wish it. Her
womanhood must pay its debt to nature before slie
could gladden in the prospect of a new life. Months
nmst go by before he could approach her, or even
remind her of his existence. But at last his rew^ard was
sure.
And he had thought of Twybridge, of his cousin Janet !
unworthy lapse !
He shed tears of tenderness. Dear, noble Constance !
It was now nearly twelve years since he first looked upon
her face. In those days he mingled freely with all the
society within his reacli. It was not very select, and
Constance Markham shone to him like a divinitv amomr
o
creatures of indifferent clay. They said she was
coquettish, that she played at the game of love with every
presentable young man — envious calumny ! No, she was
single-hearted, inexperienced, a lovely and joyous girl of
not yet twenty. It is so difficult for such a girl to under-
stand her own emotions. Her parents persuaded her into
wedding Palmer. That was all gone into the past, and
now his concern — their concern — was only with the
blessed future.
At three o'clock he began to feel a healthy appetite.
He sent for a cab and drove towards the region of
restaurants.
Had he yielded to the impulse which this morning
BORN IN EXILK 295
directed him to T\vyl)ridne, lie would have airived in tlial
town not very long after iiis sister.
For that was the aim of Marcella's Journey. On
reaching the station, she dropped a light veil over her face
and set forth on foot to discover the ahode of Mrs. Teak.
Xo iidiahitant of Twybridge save her uncle and his
daughters could possibly recognise her, but she shrank
from walking through the streets with exposed counte-
nance. Whether she would succeed in her quest was
uncertain. Godwin Peak's mother still dwelt here, she
knew, for less than a year ago she had asked the
question of Godwin himself; but a woman in humble
circumstances might not have a house of her own, and
her name was probably unknown save to a few
Iriends.
However, the first natural step was to inquire for a
directory. A stationer supplied her with one, informing
her, with pride, that he himself was the author of it —
that this was only the second year of its issue, and that
its success was ' very encouraging.' lietiring to a quiet
street, Marcella examined her purchase, and came upon
'Peak, Oliver; seedsman' — the sole entry of the name.
This was probably a relative of Godwin's. AVithout
difficulty she found Mr. Peak's shop ; behind the counter
stood (3liver himself, rul>l)ing his hands. AVas tliere
indeed a family likeness between this fresh-looking young
shopkeeper and the stern, ambitious, intellectual man
whose lineaments were ever before her mind ? Though
with fear and repulsion, ]\Iarcella was constrained to
recognise something in the commoni)lace visage. With
an uncertain voice, she made known her business.
'1 wish to find Mrs. Peak — a widow — an elderly
lady'
' Oh yes, madam ! My UKjther, no doubt. She lives
with her sister, i\Iiss Cadman — the milliner's shop in the
first street to the left. Let me ])oint it out.'
With a sinking of the heart, Marcella murmured thanks
and walked away. She found the milliner's shop — and
went past it.
Why should discoveries such as these be so distasteful
29G BORN IN EXILE
to her ? Her own origin was not so exalted tliat she
must needs look down on trades-folk. Still, for the
moment she all l)ut abandoned her undertaking. Was
Godwin Peak in trutli of so much account to her ?
Would not the shock of meeting liis mother be final ?
Having come thus far, she must go tlirough with it. If
the experience cured her of a hopeless passion, why, what
more desirable ?
She entered the shop. A young female assistant came
forward wdth respectful smile, and waited her commands.
* 1 wish, if you please, to see Mrs. Peak.'
' Oh yes, madam ! AVill you have the goodness to w\alk
tliis way?'
Too late Marcella remembered that she ought to have
o-one to the liouse-entrance. The girl led her out of the
shop into a dark passage, and thence into a sitting-room
which smelt of lavender. Here she waited for a few
moments ; then the door opened softly, and Mrs. Peak
presented lierself.
There was no shock. The widow had the air of a
gentlewoman — walked with elderly grace — and spoke
with propriety. She resembled CJodwin, and this time it
was not painful to remark the likeness.
' I have come to Twybridge,' began Marcella, gently
and respectfully, ' that is to say, I have stopped in passing
— to ask for the address of Mr. Godwin Peak. A letter
has failed to reach him.'
it was her wish to manage without either disclosing
tlie truth about herself or elaborating fictions, but after
tlie first words she felt it impossible not to olfer some
explanation. Mrs. Peak showed a slight surprise. With
the courage of cowardice, Marcella continued more rapidly :
' My name is Mrs. Ward. My husband used to knov;
Mr. Peak, in London, a few years ago, but we have been
abroad, and unfortunately have lost sight of liim. We
remembered that Mr. Peak's relatives lived at Twybridge,
and, as we wish very much to renew the old acquaint-
ance, I took the opportunity — passing by rail. I made
iufjuiries in the town, and was directed to you — 1 hope
riglitly '
BORN IN KXILK 297
The widow's face changed to satislaction. Evidently
her .straightforward mind accepted the story as perfectly
credible. Marcella, with bitterness, knew herself far
from comely enough to suggest perils. She looked old
enough for tlie part slie was ])laying, and the glove upon
her hand might conceal a wedding-ring.
' Yes, you were directed rightly,' Mrs. Teak made
quiet answer. * I shall be very glad to give you my
son's address. He left London about last Christmas, and
went to live at Exeter.'
'Exeter ? We thought he mij^ht be out of England.'
' Xo ; he has lived all the time at Exeter. The address
is Longbrook Street ' — she added the number. ' He is
studying, and finds that part of the country pleasant. I
am hoping to see him here before very long.'
Marcella did not extend the conversation. She spoke
of having to catch a train, and veiled as well as she could
beneath ordinary courtesies her perplexity at the informa-
tion she had received.
When she again reached the house at Notting Hill,
Christian was absent. He came home about nine in the
evening. It was impossible not to remark his strange
mood of repressed excitement; but Marcella did not
(piestion him, and Christian had resolved to conceal the
day's event until he could speak of it witliout agitation.
Before they parted for the night, Marcella said
carelessly :
' I have decided to go down to Budleigh Salterton
when the time comes,'
* That's right ! ' exclaimed her brother, with satisfaction.
' You couldn't do better— couldn't possibly. It will be a
very good thing for you in several ways.'
And each withdrew to brood over a })erturbing secret.
Ill
Three or four years ago, wheii already he had conceived
the idea of trying his fortune in some provincial town,
l^eak persuaded himself tliat it would not be difficult to
make acquaintances among educated people, even though
he had no credentials to offer. He indulged his fancy
and pictured all manner of pleasant accidents which
surely, sooner or later, must bring him into contact
with families of the better sort. One does hear of such
occurrences, no doubt. In every town there is some one
or other whom a stranger may approach : a medical man
— a local antiquary — a librarian — a philanthropist ; and
with moderate advantages of mind and address, such
casual connections may at times be the preface to
intimacy, with all resulting benefits. But experience of
Exeter had taught him how slight would have been his
chance of getting on friendly terms with any mortal if
he had depended solely on his personal qualities. After
a nine months' residence, and with the friendship of such
])eople as the Warricombes, he was daily oppressed by
his isolation amid this community of English folk. He
had done his utmost to adopt the tone of average polished
life. He had sat at the tables of worthy men, and
conversed freely with their sons and daughters ; he
exchanged greetings in the highways : but this availed
him nothing. Now, as on the day of his arrival, he was
au alien — a lodger. What else had he ever been, since
boyliood ? A lodger in Kingsmill, a lodger in London,
a lodger in Exeter. Nay, even as a boy he could scarcely
have been said to * live at home,' for from the dawn of
298
BORN IN EXILK 290
conscious intelligence he felt liiniself out of place among
familiar things and people, at issue with prevalent
opinions. AVas he never to win a right of citizenship,
never to have a recognised place among men associated in
the duties and pleasures of lile /
Sunday was always a d.iy of weariness and despond-
ency, and at present he sullered from the excitement of
his conversation Avith Sidwell, followed as it had been
by a night of fever. Extravagant hope had given place
to a depression which could see nothing beyond the
immediate gloom. Until mid-day he lay in bed. After
dinner, finding the solitude of his little room intolerable,
he vrent out to walk in the streets.
Not far from his door some chihlren had gathered in a
quiet corner, and were playing at a game on the pavement
with pieces of chalk. As he drew near, a policeman,
observing the little group, called out to them in a
stern voice :
' Now then ! what are you doing tliere ? Don't you
know vjhat day it is ? '
The youngsters fled, conscious of shameful delinquency.
There it was ! There spoke tlie civic voice, the social
rule, the public sentiment! Godwin felt that the police-
man had rebuked him, and in doing so had severely
indicated the cause of that isolation which he was con-
demned to suffer. Yes, all his life he had desired to
play games on Sunday ; he had never been able to under-
stand why games on Sunday should be forbidden. And
the angry laugh which escaped him as he went by the
guardian of public morals, declared the impossibility of
his ever beiu" at one with communities which made this
o
point the prime test of worthiness.
He walked on at a great speed, chafing, talking to
himself. His way took him through Heavitree (when
Hooker saw^ the light here, how easy to believe that the
Anglican Church was the noblest outcome of human
progress !) and on and on, until by a lane with red banks
of sandstone, thick witli ferns, shadowed with noble
boughs, he came to a hamlet which had always been one
of Ids favourite resorts, so peacefully it lay amid the
300 BORN IN EXILE
ex(|uisite rural landscape. The cottages were all closed
and silent ; hark for the reason ! From the old churcli
sounded an organ prelude, then the voice of the congrega-
tion, joining in one of the familiar hymns.
A signiticant feature of Godwin's idiosyncrasy. Not-
withstanding his profound hatred and contempt of
multitudes, he could never hear the union of many voices
in sonfij but his l)reast heaved and a chokim^ warmth
rose in his throat. Even where prejudice wrought most
strongly with him, it had to give way before this rush of
emotion ; he often hurried out of earshot when a group
of Salvationists were singing, lest the involuntary
sympathy of his senses -should agitate and enrage him.
At present he had no wish to draw away. He entered
the churcliyard, and found the leafy nook with a tomb-
stone where he had often rested. And as he listened to
the rude chanting of verse after verse, tears fell upon
his cheeks.
This sensibility was quite distinct from religious feeling.
If the note of devotion sounding in that simple strain
had any effect upon him at all, it merely intensified his
consciousness of pathos as he thought of the many
generations that had worshipped here, living and dying
in a faith which was at best a helpful delusion. He
could apprecia:Le the beautiful aspects of Christianity as
a legend, its nobility as a humanising })Ower, its rich
results in literature, its grandeur in historic retrospect.
But at no moment in his life had he felt it as a spiritual
influence. So far from tending in that direction, as he sat
and brooded here in the churchyard, he owed to his fit of
tearfulness a courage which determined him to abandon
all religious pretences, and henceforth trust only to what
was sincere in him — his human passion. The future he
had sketched to Sidwell was impossible ; the rural
pastorate, the life of moral endeavour which in his excite-
ment had seemed so nearly a genuine aspiration that it
might perchance become reality — dreams, dreams ! He
must woo as a man, and trust to fortune for liis escape
from a false position. Sidwell should hear nothing more
I if clerical projects. He was by tliis time convinced tliat
lioKX IN KXII.K :50l
she held far less tenaciously than lie had supposed to the
special doctrines of the Church ; and, if he had not
deceived himself in interju-eting her l)ehaviour, a mutual
avowal of love would involve ready consent on her part
10 his abandoning a career which — as he would represent
it — had been adopted under a mistaken impulse. He
returned to the point which he liad reached when he
set forth with the intention of l»idding good-bye to the
Warricombes — except that in flinging away hypocrisy he
no longer needed to trample his desires. The change
need not be declared till after a lapse of time. For tlie
])resent his task was to obtain one more i)rivate inter-
Niew with Sidwell ere she went to London, or, if that
could not be, somehow to address her in unmistakable
lan2,uaQ,e.
The fumes were dispelled from his ])rain, and as he
walked homeward he plotted and planned with hopeful
energy. Sylvia Moorhouse came into his mind ; could he
not in some way make use of her f* He had never yet
been to see her at Budleigh Salterton. That he would do
forthwith, and percliance the visit might supply him with
suggestions.
On the morrow he set forth, going by train to Exmouth,
and thence by the coach which runs twice a day to the
little seaside town. The delightful drive, up hill and
down dale, with its magnificent views over the estuary,
and its ever-changing wayside beauties, put him into the
best of spirits. About noon, he ahghted at the Rolle
Arms, the hotel to which the coach conducts its
passengers, and entered to take a meal. He would call
upon the Moorhouses at the conventional hour. The
intervening time was spent pleasantly enough in loitering
about the pebbled beach. A south-west breeze which had
begun to gather clouds drove on the rising tide. r)y
four o'clock there was an end of sunshine, and spurts of
rain mingled with Hying foam. Peak turned inland,
pursued the leafy street up the close-sheltered valley,
and came to the house where liis friends dwelt.
In crossing the garden he caught sight of a lady who
sat in a room on the ground Hoor; her l)ack was turned
302 BORN IN EXILE
to the window, and before lie could draw near enough to
see her better she had moved away, but the glimpse he
had obtained of her head and shoulders affected him with
so distinct an alarm that his steps were checked. It
seemed to him that he had recognised tlie figure, and if
he were right. — But the supposition was ridiculous ; at
all events so vastly improbable, that he would not
entertain it. And now he descried another face, that of
Miss Moorhouse herself, and it gave him a reassurincj
smile. He rang the door bell.
How happy — he said to himself — those men who go to
call upon their friends without a tremor ! Even if lie had
not received that shock a moment ago, he would still
have needed to struggle against the treacherous beating of
his heart as he waited for admission. It was alwaj'S so
when he visited the Warricombes, or any other family in
Exeter. Not merely in consecpience of the dishonest part
he w^as playing, but because he had not quite overcome
the nervousness which so anguished him in earlier days.
The first moment after his entering a drawing-room cost
him pangs of complex origin.
His eyes fell first of all upon Mrs. Moorhouse, who
advanced to welcome him. He was aware of three other
persons in the room. The nearest, he could perceive
without regarding her, was Sidwell's friend ; the other
two, on whom he did not yet venture to cast a glance,
sat — or rather had just risen — in a dim background. As
he shook hands with Sylvia, they drew nearer; one of
them was a man, and, as his voice at once declared, no
other than Buckland Warricombe. Peak returned his
greeting-, and, in the same moment, gazed at the last of
the party. Mrs. Moorhouse was speaking.
' Mr. Peak — Miss Moxey.'
A compression of the lips was the only sign of disturb-
ance that anyone could have perceived on Godwin's
countenance. Already he had strung himself against his
wonted agitation, and the added trial did not sensibly
enhance what he suffered. In discovering that he had
rightly identified the figure at the window^ he experienced
no renewal of the dread which brought him to a stand-
BORN IN KXIJ.K 80o
still. Already half prepared for tliis stroke of late, he
felt a satisfaction in being al)le to meet it so steadily.
Tumult of thought was his only trouble ; it seemed as if
his brain must burst with the stress of its lightning
operations. In three seconds, he re-lived the })ast, made
several distinct antici|)ations of the future, and still
discussed with himself how he should behave this
moment. He noted that ]\rarcella's face was bloodless;
that her attempt to smile resulted in a very painful
distortion of brow and lips. And he had leisure to pity
her. This emotion prevailed. With a sense of magna-
nimity, which alterwards excited his wonder, he pressed
the cold hand and said in a cheerful tone :
' Our introduction took place long ago, if I'm not
mistaken. I had no idea. Miss Moxey, that you were
among Mrs. Moorhouse's friends.'
' Nor I that you were, Mr. Peak,' came the answer, in a
steadier voice than Godwin had expected.
Mrs. Moorhouse and her daughter made the pleasant
exclamations that were called for. Buckland Warri-
combe, with a doubtful smile on his lips, kept glancing
from Miss Moxey to her acquaintance and back again.
Peak at length faced him.
' I hoped we should meet down here this autunni.'
' I should have looked you up in a day or two,' ]>uck-
land replied, seating himself. ' Do you propose to stay in
Exeter through the winter ? '
* I'm not quite sure — but 1 think it likely.'
Godwin turned to the neighbour of whose presence he
was most conscious.
' I ho])e your brother is well, IMiss Moxey ? '
Their eyes encountered steadil3\
' Yes, he is quite well, tliank you. He often says that
it seems very long since lie heard from you.'
' Pm a bad correspondent. — Is he also in Devonshire ? '
' Xo. In London.*
' What a storm we are going to have ! ' exclaime<l
Sylvia, looking to the window. ' They predictetl it
yesterday. I should like to be on the top of Westdown
Beacon — wouldn't you, ]\Iiss Moxey ? '
304 BORN IN EXILE
' I am quite willing to go with you.'
' And what pleasure do you look for up there ? ' asked
Warriconibe, in a blunt, matter-of-fact tone.
' Now^ there's a question ! ' cried Sylvia, appealing to
I he rest of the company.
' I agree with Mr. AVarricombe,' remarked lier motliei-.
' It's better to be in a comfortable room.'
' Oh, you Eadicals ! What a world you will make of
it in time ! '
Sylvia affected to turn away in disgust, and happening
to glance through tlie window she saw two young ladies
approaching from the road.
' The Walworths — struggling desperately with their
umbrellas.'
' I shouldn't wonder if you think it unworthy of an
artist to carry an umbreHa,' said Buckland.
' Now you suggest it, T certainly do. They should get
nobly drenched.'
She went out into the hall, and soon returned with
her friends — Miss Walworth the artist. Miss Muriel
Walworth, and a youth, their 1)rother. In the course
of conversation Peak learnt that Miss Moxey was the
guest of this family, and that she had been at Budleigli
Salterton with them only a day or two. For a time lie
listened and observed, endeavouring to postpone con-
sideration of the dangers into which he had suddenly
fallen. Marcella had made herself his accomplice, thus
far, in disguising the real significance of their meeting,
and whether she would betray him in her subsequent
talk with the Moorhouses remained a matter of doubt.
Of course he must have assurance of her disposition —
but the issues involved were too desperate for instant
scrutiny. He felt the gambler's excitement, an irrational
pleasure in the consciousness that his whole future was
at stake. Buckland Warriconibe had a keen eye upon
him, and doubtless was eager to strike a train of sus-
])icious circumstances. His face, at all events, should give
no sign of discomposure. Indeed, he found so much enjoy-
ment in the bright gossip of this assembly of ladies that
the smile he wore was perfectly natural.
BORN IN \:\ILK 305
The AValwortlis, he j^^atliered, were to returii to London
in a week's time. This meant, in all probability, that
Marcella's stay here would not be prolonged beyond that
date. Perhaps he could find an opportunity of seeing
her apart from her friends. In reply to a question from
]Mrs. Moorhouse, he made known that he proposed
staying at the Kolle Arms for several days, and when
he had spoken he glanced at Marcella. She understood
him, he felt sure. An invitation to lunch here on the
morrow was of course accepted.
Before leaving, he exchanged a few words with lUick-
land.
'Your relatives will be going to town very soon, I
understand.'
Warricombe nodded.
' Shall I see you at Exeter ? ' CJodwin continued.
'I'm not sure. I shall go over to-morrow, but
it's uncertain whether I shall still be there when you
return.'
The lladical was distinctly less amical)le than even on
the last occasion of their meeting. They shook hands in
rather a perfunctory way.
Early in the evening there was a temporary lull in the
storm ; rain no longer fell, and in spaces of the rushing
sky a few stars showed themselves. Unal^le to rest at
the hotel, Peak set out for a walk towards the clili"
summit called Westdown Beacon ; he could see little more
than black vacancies, but a struggle with the wind suited
his temper, and he enjoyed the incessant roar of suif in
the darkness. After an hour of this buffeting he returned
to tlie beach, and stood as close as possible to the fierce
breakers. Xo person was in sight. But when he began
to move towards the upper shore, three female figures
detached themselves from the gloom and advanced in
his direction. They came so near that their voices were
audible, and thereupon he stepped up to them.
' Are you going to the Beacon after all, Miss Moor-
house ? '
Sylvia was accompanied by Agatha Walworth and
Miss Moxey. She explained laughingly that they had
20
306 BORN IN EXILE
stolen out, by agreement, whilst the males of their
respective households still lingered at the dinner-
table.
* But Mr. Warricombe was right after all. We shall
be blown to pieces. A very little of the romantic goes a
long way, nowadays.'
Godwin was determined to draw Marcella aside.
Seemingly she met his wish, for as all turned to regain
the shelter of houses she fell behind her female com-
panions, and stood close by him.
' I want to see you before you go back to London,' he
said, l^ending his head near to hers.
*I wrote a letter to you this morning,' was her
reply.
' A letter ? To what address ? '
'Your address at Exeter.'
' But how did you know it ? '
' I'll explain afterwards.'
' When can I see you ? '
' Not here. It's impossible. I shall go to Exeter, and
there wTite to you again.'
' Very well. You promise to do tliis ? '
' Yes, I promise.'
There was danger even in the exchange of these
hurried sentences. Miss Walworth had glanced back,
and might possibly have caught a phrase that aroused
curiosity. Having accompanied the girls to within view
of their destination, Peak said good -night, and went
home to spend the rest of tlie evening in thought which
was sufticiently absorl)ing.
The next day he had no sight of Marcella. At
luncheon the Moorhouses were alone. Afterwards God-
win accepted a proposal of the mathematician (who was
generally invisible amid his formulae) for a walk up the
btter valley. Naturally they talked of Coleridge, whose
metaphysical side appealed to Moorhouse. Peak dwelt
on the human and poetical, and was led by that peculiar
recklessness of mood, which at times relieved his nervous
tension, to defend opium eating, as a source of pleasurable
experience.
BORN IN HXTLH 307
'You will hardly venture ou that paradox in the
pulpit,' remarked his companion, witli laughter.
* Perhaps not. JUit I have heard arguments from tliat
place decidedly more innnoral.'
' No doubt.'
Godwin corrected the impression he perhaps had made
by turning with sudden seriousness to another subject.
The ironic temptation was terribly strong in him just
now. One is occasionally possessed by a desire to
shout in the midst of a silent assembly ; an impulse
of the same kind kept urging him to utter words
which would irretrievably ruin his prospects. The sense
that life is an intolera])le mummery can witli difliculty
be controlled by certain minds, even when circumstances
offer no keen incitement to rebellion. But I'eak's
position to-day demanded an incessant effort to refrain
from self-betrayal. What a joy to declare himself a
hypocrite, and snap mocking fingers in the world's face !
As a safeguard, he fixed his mind upon Sidwell, recalled
her features and her voice as clearly as possible, stami)ed
into his heart the conviction that she half loved him.
"When he was alone again, he of a sudden determined
to go to Exeter. He could no longer endure uncertainty
as to the contents of Marcella's letter. As it was too
late for the coach, he set off and walked five miles to
Ex mouth, where he caught a train.
The letter lay on his table, and with it one on which
he recognised his mother's handwriting.
^larcella wrote in the simplest way, quite as if their
intercourse had never been disturbed. As she happened
to be staying with friends at Budleigli Salterton, it seemed
possilde for her to meet him. Might she hope that
he would call at the hotel in Exeter, if she wrote again
to make an appointment ?
Well, that needed no re[)ly. But liuw had she dis-
covered the address ? Was his story known in London ^
In a paroxysm of fury, he crushed the letter into a
ball and Hung it away. The veins of his forehead
swelled ; he walked al)out the room with senseless
violence, striking his fist against furniture and walls. It
308 BORN IN EXILE
would have relieved him to sob and cry like a thwarted
child, but only a harsh sound, half-groan, half-laughter,
burst from his throat.
The lit passed, and he was able to open the letter
from Twybridge, the first he had received from his mother
for more than a month. He expected to find nothing of
interest, but his attention was soon caught by a passage,
which ran thus :
'Have you heard from some friends of yours, called
Ward ? Some time ago a lady called here to ask for
your address. Slie said her name was Mrs. Ward, and
that her husband, who had been abroad for a long time,
very much wished to find you again. Of course I told
]ier where you were to be found. It was just after I
liad written, or I should have let you know about it
before.'
Ward ? He knew no one of that name. Could it be
Marcella who had done this ? It looked more than
likely ; he believed her capable of strange proceed-
ings.
In the morning he returned to tlie seaside. Prospect
of pleasure tliere was none, but by moving about he made
the time pass more quickly. Wandering in the lanes
(which would have delighted him with their autumnal
beauties had his mind been at rest), he came upon Miss
Walworth, busy with a water-colour sketch. Though
their acquaintance was so slight, he stopped for con-
versation, and the artist's manner appeared to testify
that Marcella had as yet made no unfavourable report of
him. By mentioning that he would return home on the
morrow, he made sure that Marcella would be apprised
of this. Perhaps she might shorten her stay, and his
suspense.
Back in Longbrook Street once more, he found another
letter. It was from Mrs. Warricombe, who wrote to tell
liim of their coming removal to London, and added an
invitation to dine four days hence. Then at all events
he would speak again with Sidwell. But to what
purpose ? Could he let her go away for months, and
l)erhaps all but forget him among the many new faces
BORN IN EXILE 309
that would surround her. He saw no feasilde way of
being with her in private. To write was to run tlie
gravest risk; things were not ripe for that. To take
Martin into his confidence ? That asked too much
couraiie. Deliberate avowals of this kind seemed to him
o
ludicrous and humiliating, and untler the circumstances
— no, no ; what force of sincerity couM make him n]»pear
other than a scheming adventurer ?
He lived in tumult of mind and senses. When at
length, on the day before his engagement with the
Warricombes, there came a note from ]\larcella, summon-
ing him to the interview agreed upon, he could scarcely
endure the hour or two until it was time to set forth ;
every minute cost him a throb of pain. The torment
must have told upon his visage, for on entering the room
where Marcella waited he saw that she looked at him
with a changing expression, as if something surprised
her.
They shook hands, but without a word. Marcella
pointed to a chair, yet remained standing. She was
endeavouring to smile ; her eyes fell, and she coloured.
* Don't let us make each other uncomfortable,' Peak
exclaimed suddenly, in the off-hand tone of friendly
intimacy. 'There's nothing tragic in this all'air, after
all. Let us talk quietly.'
Marcella seated herself.
' I had reasons,' he went on, ' for going away from my
old acquaintances for a time. Why not, if I chose ?
You have found me out. Very well ; let us talk it over
as we have discussed many another moral or i)sychologi-
cal question.'
He did not meditate these sentences. Something must
of necessity be said, and words shaped tliemselves for
him. His impulse was to avoid the emotional, to talk
with this problematic woman as with an intellectual
friend of his own sex.
* Forgive me,' were the first sounds that came from
^larcella's lips. She spoke with bent head, and almost
in a whisper.
'What have I to forgive?' He sat down and leaned
310 BORN IN EXILE
sideways in the easy chair. 'You were curious about
my doings ? What more natural ? '
' Do you know how I learnt where you were ? '
She looked up for an instant.
' I have a suspicion. You went to Twybridge ? '
' Yes.'
' But not in your own name ? '
' I can hardly tell why not.'
Peak laughed. He was physically and mentally at
rest in comparison witli his state for the past few days.
Things had a simpler aspect all at once. After all, who
would wish to interfere maliciously with him ? Women
like to be in secrets, and probably Marcella would pre-
serve his.
'What conjectures had you made about me ?' he asked,
with an air of amusement.
'Many, of course. But I heard something not long
ago which seemed so unlikely, yet was told so con-
fidently, that at last I couldn't overcome my wish to
make hiquiries.'
' And what was that ? '
' Mr. Malkin has been to America, and he declared that
he had met you in the streets of Boston — and that you
refused to admit you were yourself.'
Peak laughed still more buoyantly. His mood was
eager to seize on any point that afforded subject for jest.
' Malkin seems to have come across my Doppclgdnger.
One mustn't pretend to certainty in anything, but I am
disposed to think I never was in Boston.'
' He was of course mistaken.'
' Marcella's voice had an indistinctness very unlike her
ordinary tone. As a rule she spoke with that clearness
and decision which corresponds to qualities of mind not
commonly found in women. But confidence seemed to
have utterly deserted her; she had lost lier individuality,
and was weakly feminine.
' I have been here since last Cliristmas,' said Godwin,
after a pause.
' Yes. I know.'
Their eyes met.
BORN IN K\I1,K 311
*No doul)t your friends have told you as iiiucli as tliey
know of me ? '
' Yes — they liave spoken of you.'
* And wliat does it amount to ? '
He regarded her steadily, with a smile of indifference.
' They say ' — she gazeil at him as if constrained to do
so — 'that you are going into the Church.' And as soon
as she uttered the last word, a painful laugh escaped
her.
' Nothing else ? No comments ? '
*I think ]\liss Moorhouse finds it difVicult In under-
stand.'
'Miss iMoorhouse ? ' He reflected, still smiling. 'I
shouldn't wonder. She has a sceptical mind, and she
doesn't know me well enough to understand me.'
* Doesn't know you well enough ? '
She repeated the words mechanically. Teak gave her
a keen glance.
' Has she led you to suppose,' he asked, ' that we are
on intimate terms ? '
' No.' The word fell from her, absently, despondently.
' Miss Moxey, would anything be gained by our dis-
cussing my position ? If you think it a mystery, hadn't
we better leave it so ? '
She made no answer.
'But perhaps,' he went on, 'you have told them — the
Walworths and the Moorhouses — that 1 owe my friends
an explanation ? When I see them again, perhaps I shall
])e confronted with cold, questioning faces ?'
' I haven't said a word that could injure you,' Marcella
replied, with something of her usual self-possession,
])assing her eyes distantly over his face as she spoke.
' I knew the suggestion was unjust, when 1 made it.'
' Then why should you refuse me your confidence ^ '
She bent forward slightly, but with her eyes cast down.
I'one and features intimated a sense of shame, due
partly to the feeling that she otVeit'd complicity in
deceit.
' Wliat can 1 tell you more than you know '. ' said
(lodwin, coldly. ' I pro])Ose to become a clergyman, an»l
312 BORN IN EXILE
I have acknowledged to you that my motive is ambition.
As the matter concerns my conscience, that must rest
with myself ; I have spoken of it to no one. But you
may depend upon it that I am prepared for every diffi-
culty that may spring up. I knew, of course, that sooner
or later some one would discover me here. Well, I have
changed my opinions, that's all ; who can demand more
than that ? '
Marcella answered in a tone of forced composure.
'You owe me no explanation at all. Yet we have
known each other for a long time, and it pains me that
— to be suddenly told that we are no more to each other
than strangers.'
' Are we talking like strangers, Marcella ? '
She flushed, and her eyes gleamed as they fixed them-
selves upon him for an instant. He had never before
dreamt of addressing her so familiarly, and least of all in
this moment was she prepared for it. Godwin despised
himself for the impulse to which he had yielded, but its
policy was justified. He had taken one more step in
disingenuousness — a small matter.
' Let it be one of those things on which even friends
don't open their minds to each other,' he pursued. ' I am
living in solitude, and perhaps must do so for several
years yet. If I succeed in my purposes, you will see me
again on the old terms; if I fail, then too we shall be
friends — if you are willing.'
' You won't tell me what those purposes are ? '
' Surely you can imagine them.'
'Will you let me ask you — do you look for help to
anyone that I have seen here ? ' She spoke with effort
and with shame.
' To no one that you have met,' he answered, shortly.
'Then to some one in Exeter? T have been told that
you have friends.'
He was irritated by her persistency, and his own
inability to decide upon the most prudent way of
answering.
' You mean the Warricombe family, T suppose ? '
'Yes.'
BORN IN KXILE r> 1 :'
'I tliink it very likely that Mi-. AVairicuiiilx; may be
able to hel}) me substantially.'
Marcella kept silence. Then, witliout raisiii.i; her eyes,
slie nnirniured :
' Vou will tell me no more ?'
* There is notliing more to tell.'
She bit her lips, as if to compel them to muteness.
Her breath came quickly; she glanced this way and that,
like one who sought an escape. After eyeing her askance
for a moment, Peak rose.
' You are j^oins: ? ' she said.
'Yes; but surely there is no reason why we shouldn't
say good-bye in a natural and friendly way ^ '
' Can you forgive me for that deceit I })ractised ? '
Peak laughed.
' What does it matter ? We should in any case have
met at Budleigh Salterton.'
'No. I had no serious thought of accepting their
invitation.'
She stood looking away from him, endeavouring to
speak as though the denial had but slight significance,
(lodwin stirred impatiently.
' I should never have gone to Twy bridge,' ^larcella
continued, 'but for Mr. Midkin's story.'
He turned to her.
' You mean that his story had a disagreeable sound ? '
Marcella kept silence, her fingers workhig together.
' And is your mind relieved ?' he added.
' 1 wish you were back in London. I wish this cliange
had never conu' to ])ass.'
' I wish that several things in my lii'e had never come
to pass.. But I am here, and my resolve is unalterable.
One thing 1 must ask you — how shall you represent my
])Osition to your brother ? '
For a moment Marcella hesitated. Then, meeting his
look, she answered with nervous haste :
' I shall not mention you to him.'
Ashamed to give any sign of satisfaction, and oppressed
by the feeling that he owed lier gratitude. Peak stood
gazing towards the windows with an air of half-indifferent
314 BORN IN EXILE
abstractedness. It was better to let tlie interview end
til us, without comment or further question ; so he turned
abruptly, and offered his hand.
'Good-bye. You will hear of me, or from me.'
' Good-bye ! '
He tried to smile ; but Marcella liad a cold face,
expressive of more dignity than she had hitlierto shown.
As lie closed the door she was still looking towards
him.
He knew what the look meant. In his position, a
man of ordinary fil^re would long ago have nursed the
llatternig conviction that Marcella loved him. Godwin
had suspected it, but in a vague, unemotional way, never
attaching importance to the matter. What he had
clearly understood was, that Christian wished to inspire
him with interest in Marcella, and on that account, when
in her company, he sometimes set himself to display a
deliberate negligence. No difficult midertaking, for he
was distinctly repelled by the thought of any relations
with her more intimate than had been brought about by
his cold intellectual sympathy. Her person was still as
disagreeable to him as wdien he tii'st met her in her
uncle's house at Twybridgc. If a man sincerely hopes
that a woman does not love him (which can seldom be
the case where a suggestion of such feeling ever arises),
he will find it easy to believe that she does not. Peak
not only had the benefit of this principle ; the constitu-
tion of his mind made it the opposite of natural for him
to credit himself with having inspired affection. That
his male friends held him in any warm esteem always
appeared to him improbable, and as regards women his
modesty was profound. The simplest explanation, that
he was himself incapable of pure devotedness, perhaps
hits the truth. Unsympathetic, however, he could with
no justice be called, and now that the reality of ^larcella's
love was forced upon his consciousness he thought of
her with sincere pity, — the emotion which had already
])Ossessed him (though he did not then analyse it) when
he unsuspectingly looked into her troubled face a few days
BORN IN ?:XII.K oln
It was so hard to believe, that, on reaching home, he sat
for a long time occupied with the thought of it, to the
exclusion of his own anxieties. What ! this woman had
made of him an ideal such as he himself sought among
tlie most exquisite of her sex ? How was that possible ?
What quality of his, personal, psychical, had such magnetic
force ? What sort of being was he in Marcella's eyes ?
Itetiective men nmst often enough marvel at the success
of whiskered and trousered mortals in wooing the women
of their desire, for only by a specific imagination can a
person of one sex assume the emotions of the other.
Godwin had neither that endowment nor the peculiar
self-esteem which makes love-winning a matter of cour.se
to some intelligent males. His native arrogance signified
a low estimate of mankind at larj^e, rather than an over-
weening appreciation of his own ([ualities, and in his
most presumptuous moments he had never clahned the
sexual prefulgence which many a commonplace fellow so
gloriously exhibits. At most, he liad hoped that some
woman might find him i nf crest huj, and so be led on to like
him well enough for the venture of matrimony. Passion
at length constrained him to believe that his ardour miglit
1)6 genuinely reciprocated, Imt even now it was only in
paroxysms that he held this assurance ; the hours of
ordinary life still exposed him to the familiar self-criticism,
sometimes more scathing than ever. He dreaded the
looking-glass, consciously avoided it ; and a like disparage-
ment of his inner being tortured him through the endless
lal)3'rinths of erotic reverie.
Yet here was a woman who so loved him that not even
a proud temper and his candid indiflerence could impose
restraint upon her emotions. As he listened to the most
significant of her words he was distres.sed with shame,
and now, in recalling them, he felt that he should have
said sometliing, done something, to disillusion lier. Could
he not easily show himself in a contemptible light ? But
reflection taught him that the shame he had experienced
on Marcella's behalf was blended with a gratification
which forbade him at the moment to be altogether
unamiable. It was not self-interest alone that prompted
316 BORN IN EXILE
his use of her faniihar name. In the secret places of his
heart he was tliankful to her for a most effective
encouragement. She had confirmed him in the hope that
he was loved by Sidwell.
And now that he no longer feared her, Marcella was
gradually dismissed from mind. For a day or two he
avoided the main streets of the town, lest a chance
meeting with her should revive disquietude ; but, by the
time that Mrs. Warricombe's invitation permitted him
once more to follow his desire, he felt assured that
Marcella was back in London, and the sense of distance
helped to banish her among unrealities.
The hours had never pressed upon him with such
demand for resolution. In the look with which Sidwell
greeted him when he met her in the drawing-room, he
seemed to read much more than wonted friendliness ; it
was as though a half secret already existed between them.
But no occasion offered for a word other than trivial.
The dinner-party consisted of about a score of people, and
throughout the evening Peak found himself hopelessly
severed from the one person v/hose presence was anything
but an importunity to him. He maddened with jealousy,
with fear, with ceaseless mental manoeuvring. More than
one young man of agreeable aspect appeared to be on
dangerous terms with Sidwell, approaching her with that
air of easy, well-bred intimacy which Godwin knew too
well he would never be able to assume in perfection.
Again he was humiliated by self-comparison with social
superiors, and again reminded that in this circle he had a
place merely on sufferance. Mrs. Warricombe, when he
chanced to speak with her, betrayed the slight regard in
whicli she really held him, and Martin devoted himself
to more important people. The evening was worse than
lost.
Yet in two more days Sidwell would be beyond reach.
He writhed upon Ids bed as the image of her loveliness
returned again and again, — her face as she conversed at
table, her dignity as she rose with the other ladies, her
smile wdien he said good-night. A smile tliat meant more
than civility ; he was convinced of it. But memory would
BURN IX KXILK .'517
not support him through hulf-a-year of solitude and ill-
divining passion.
He would write to her, and risk all. Two o'clock in
the morning saw him sitting half-dressed at the table,
raging over the dilliculties of a composition which should
express his highest self. Four o'clock saw the blotched
letter torn into fragments. He could not write as he
wished, could not hit the tone of manly appeal. At five
o'clock he turned wretchedly into bed again.
A day of racking headache ; then the long restful sleep
which brings good counsel. It was well that he had not
sent a letter, nor in any other way committed himself.
If Sid well were ever to be his wife, the end could onl}^ be
won by heroic caution and patience. Thus far he had
achieved notable results ; to rush upon his aim would be
the most absurd departure from a hopeful scheme gravely
devised and pursued. To wait, to establish himself in the
confidence of this family, to make sure his progress step
by step, — that was the course indicated from the first by
his calm reason. Other men might triumph by sudden
audacity ; for him was no hope save in slow, persevering
energy of will. Passion had all but ruined him ; now he
had recovered self-control.
Sidwell's six months in London might banish him from
her mind, might substitute some rival against whom it
would be hopeless to contend. Yes ; but a thousand
])ossibilities stood with menace in the front of every
great enterprise. Before next spring he might be dead.
Defiance, then, of every foreboding, of every shame ;
and a life that moulded itself in the ardour of unchangeable
resolve.
IV
Martin Warricombe was reconciled to the prospect of a
metropolitan winter by the fact that his old friend Thomas
Gale, formerly Geological Professor at Whitelaw College,
had of late returned from a three years' sojourn in North
America, and now dwelt in London. The breezy man of
science was welcomed back among his brethren with two-
fold felicitation ; his book on the Appalachians would
have given no insufficient proof of activity abroad, but
evidence more generally interesting accompanied him in
the shape of a young and beautiful wife. Not every
geologist whose years have entered the fifties can go forth
and capture in second marriage a charming New England
girl, thirty years his junior. Yet those who knew Mr.
Gale — his splendid physique, his bluff cordiality, the
vigour of his various talk — were scarcely surprised. The
young lady was no heiress ; she had, in fact, been a school
teacher, and might have wearied through her best years in
Lliat uncongenial pursuit. Transplanted to the richest
English soil, she developed remarkable aptitudes. A
month or two of London exhibited her as a type of all
that is most attractive in American womanhood.
Between Mrs. Gale and the AVarricombes intimacy was
soon established. Sidwell saw much of her, and liked her.
To this meditative English girl the young American
offered an engrossing problem, for she avowed her indiffer-
ence to all religious dogmas, yet was singularly tolerant
and displayed a moral fervour whicli Sidwell had believed
inseparable from Christian faith. At the Gales' house
assembled a great variety of intellectual people, and with
her father's express approval (Martin liad his reasons)
318
1U)KN IN KXILK ;jl9
Sidwell niaile tlie most of this opportunity of studying
the modern world. Only a lew days after her arrival in
London, she became acquainted witli a Mr. Walsh, a
l>rother of that heresiarch, the Wliitelaw Professor, whuse
name was still obnoxious to her mother. He was a well-
favoured man of something between thirty and forty,
brilliant in conversation, pers(mally engaging, and kn(nvn
by his literary productions, which found small favour with
conservative readers. With surprise. Sidwell in a short
time became aware that i\Ir. Walsh had a frank likiu'^ for
her society. He was often to be seen in Mrs. AVarri-
combe's drawing-room, and at Mrs. Gale's he yet more
frequently obtained occasions of talking with her. The
candour with which he expressed himself on most sub-
j'ects enal)led her to observe a type of mind which at
present had peculiar interest for her. Discretion often
put restraint upon her curiosity, but none the less ]\Ir.
Walsh had plausible grounds for believing that his
advances were not unwelcome. He saw that Sidwell's
gaze occasionally rested upon him with a pleasant gravity,
and noted the mood of meditation which sometimes came
upon her when he had drawn apart. The frequency of
tliese dialogues was observed by Mrs. Warricombe, and
one evening she broached the subject to her daughter
rather abruptly.
' I am surprised that you have taken such a liking to
Mr. Walsh.'
Sidwell coloured, and made answer in the quiet tone
which her mother had come to understand as a reproof, a
hint of defective delicacy :
' I don't think I have behaved in a way that should
cause you surprise.'
* It seemed to me that you were really very — friendly
with him.'
* Yes, 1 am always friendly. But nothing more.'
* Don't you tliink there's a danger of his misunder-
standing you, Sidwell ? '
' T don't, mother. ^Ir. Walsh understands that we
differ irreconcilaldy on sul)jects of the first importance. I
have never allowed him to lose sight of that,'
320 BORN IN EXILE
Intellectual difierences were of much less account to
Mrs. Warricombe than to her daughter, and her judgment
in a matter such as this was consequently far more
practical.
'If I may advise you, dear, you oughtn't to depend
much on that. I am not the only one who has noticed
something — I only mention it, you know.'
Sidwell mused gravely. In a minute or two slie looked
up and said in her gentlest voice :
' Thank you, mother. I will be more careful.'
Perhaps she had lost sight of prudence, forgetting
that Mr. Walsh could not divine her thoughts. Her
interest in him was impersonal ; when he spoke she was
profoundly attentive, only because her mind would have
been affected in the same way had she been reading his
words instead of listening to them. She could not let
him know that another face was often more distinct to
her imagination than his to her actual sight, and that her
thoughts were frequently more busy with a remembered
dialogue than with this in which she was engaged.
She had abundantly safe-guarded herself against serious
misconstruction, but if gossip were making her its
subject, it would be inconsiderate not to regard the
warning.
It came, indeed, at a moment when she was very
willing to rest from social activity. At the time of her
last stay in London, three years ago, she had not been ripe
for reflection on what she saw. Now^ her mind was kept
so incessantly at strain, and her emotions answered so
intensely to every appeal, that at length she felt the
need of repose. It was not with her as with the young
women who seek only to make the most of their
time in agreeable ways. Sidwell's vital forces were
concentrated in an effort of profound spiritual significance.
The critical hour of her life was at hand, and she
exerted every faculty in the endeavour to direct herself
aright.
Having heard from his brother that Sidwell liad not
been out for several days, Buckland took an opportunity
of calling at the house early one morning. He found her
BORN IX KX11J<: 321
iiloiie ill a small drawing-ruoiu, and .sat duwii with an
expression of weary discontent. This mood had been
frequent in the young man of late. Sidwell remarked a
change that was coming over him, a gloominess unnatural
to his character.
'Seen the Walworths lately?' he osked, when his
sister had assured him that she was not seriously
ailing,
* We called a few days ago.'
' Meet anyone there ? '
' Two or three people. Xo one that interested
me.'
* You haven't come across some friends of theirs called
Moxey ? '
' Oh yes ! Miss Moxey was there one afternoon about
a fortnight ago.'
* Did you talk to her at all ? ' Buckland asked.
* Yes ; we hadn't much to say to each other, though.
How do you know of her ? Through Sylvia, 1 dare-
say.'
* Met her wdien 1 was last down yonder.'
Sidwell had long since heard from her friend of Miss
]\loxey's visit to Budleigh Salterton, but she was not
aware that Buckland had been there at the same time.
Sylvia had told her, however, of the acquaintance existing
between Miss Moxey and Peak, a point of much interest
to her, though it remained a mere unconnected fact.
In her short conversation with Marcella, she had not
ventured to refer to it.
* Do you know anything of the family ? '
* I was going to ask you the same,' returned Buckland.
'I thought you might have heard sometliing from the
^Val worths.'
Sidwell had in fact sought information, but, as her
relations with the Walworths were formal, such inquiry
as she could make from them elicited nothing more than
she already knew from Sylvia.
'Are you anxious to discover who they are .^ ' she
asked.
' Oh, not particularly.'
322 BORN IN EXILE
Buckland moved uneasily, ;ind became silent.
* I dined with Walsh yesterday,' he said, at length,
strui^fjlini:^ to shake off the obvious dreariness that
oppressed him. ' He suits me ; wc can get on together.
' No doubt.'
* But you don't dislike him, I think ? '
' Implying that I dislike you' said Sidwell, light-
somely.
' You have no affection for my opinions. — Walsh is an
honest man.'
* I hope so.'
' He says what he thinks. No compromise with
fashionable hypocrisy.'
* I despise that kind of thing quite as much as
you do.'
They looked at each other. Buckland had a sullen
air.
' Yes, in your own way,' he replied, ' you are sincere
enough, I have no doubt. I wish all women were so.'
' What exception have you in mind ? '
He did not seem inclined to answer.
'Perhaps it is your understanding of them that's at
fault,' added Sidwell, gently.
' Not in one case, at all events,' he exclaimed.
' Suppose you were asked to define Miss Moorhousc's
religious opinions, how would you do it ? '
*I am not well enough acquainted with them.'
' Do you imagine for a moment that she has any more
faith in the supernatural than I have ? '
' I think there is a great difference Ijetween her position
and yours.'
' Because she is hypocritical 1 ' cried Buckland, angrily.
' She deceives you. She hasn't the courage to be honest.'
Sidwell wore a pained expression.
' You judge her,' she replied, ' far too coarsely. No one
is called upon to make an elaborate declaration of faith as
often as such sul)jects are spoken of Sylvia thinks so
differently from you about almost everything that, when
she happens to agree with you, you are misled and
misinterpret her whole position.'
BORN IX FA'TLK 'S'2'o
' I luulerstaiid her perfectly,' Biickhiiul went on, in
the same irritated voice. 'Tliere are plenty of women
like her — with brains enough, but utter and contemptible
cowards. Cowards even to themselves, perliaps. What
can you expect, when society is based on rotten shams { '
For several minutes he pursued this vein of invective,
then took an abrupt leave. Sidwell had a ])iece of grave
counsel ready to otier him, but he was clearly in no mood
to listen, so she postponed it.
A day or two after tliis, she received a letter from
.Sylvia. Miss Moorhouse was anything l)ut a good
correspondent ; she often confessed lier inability to
compose anything l)ut the briefest and driest statement
of facts. With no little surprise, therefore, .Sidwell found
tliat the envelope contained two sheets all but covered
with her friend's cramped handwriting. The letter began
with apology for long delay in acknowledging two
conmiunications.
* But you know well enough my dihitory disposition.
I have written to you mentally at least once a day, and I
hope you have mentally received the results — that is to
say, have assured yourself of my goodwill to you, and I
had nothing else to send.'
.Vt tliis point Sylvia had carefully olditerated two
lines, blackening the page into unsightliness. In vain
Sidwell i)ored over the effaced passage, led to do so by
a fancy that she could discern a capital P, which looked
like the first letter of a name. The writer continued :
'Don't trouble yourself so much about insoluble
questions. Try to be more positive — I don't say become
a Positivist. Keep a receptive mind, and wait for time
to shape your views of things. I see that T^)ndon has
agitated and confused you ; you have lost your bearings
amid tlie maze of contradictory finger-posts. If you were
here I could sootlie you with Sylvian (much the same
as sylvan) philosophy, but I can't write.'
Here the letter was to Iiave ended, for on the line
l)eneath was legible '(live my love to Fanny,' but this
again liad been crossed out, and there followed a long
paragraph :
324 BORN IN EXILE
' 1 have been reading a book about ants. Perhaps you
know all the wonderful things about them, but I had
neglected that branch of natural history. Their doings
are astonishingly like those of an animal called man, and
it seems to me that I have discovered one point of re-
semblance which perhaps has never Ijeen noted. Are
you aware that at an early stage of their existence ants
have wings ? They fly — how shall I express it ? — only
for the brief time of their courtship and marriage, and
when these important affairs are satisfactorily done with
their wings wither away, and thenceforth they have to
content themselves with running about on the earth.
Xow isn't this a remarkaljle parallel to one stage of
human life ? Do not men and women also soar and
flutter — at a certain time ^ And don't their wings mani-
festly drop off as soon as the end of that skyward
movement has been achieved ? If the gods had made me
poetical, I would sonnetise on this idea. Do you know
any poet with a fondness for the ant-philosophy ( If so,
offer him this suggestion with liberty to " make any use
of it he likes."
' But the fact of tlie matter is that some human beings
are never winged at all. I am decidedly coming to the
conclusion that I am one of those. Think of me hence-
forth as an apteryx — you have a dictionary at hand ?
Like the tailless fox, I might naturally maintain that my
state is the more gracious, but honestly I am not assured
of that. It may be (I half believe it is) a good thing to
soar and flutter, and at times I regret that nature has
forbidden me that experience. Decidedly I would never
try to iKTSuade anyone else to forego the use of wings.
Bear this in mind, my dear girl. But I suspect that in
time to come there will be an increasing number of
female human creatures who from their birth are content
with walking. Not long ago, I had occasion to hint
that — though under another figure — to your brother
Buckland. I liope he understood me — I think he did
— and that he wasn't offended.
'I had something to tell you. I have forgotten it —
never mind.'
BORN IN EX ILK 325
And therewith the odd epistle was couchuled. Sidwell
perused the latter part several times. Of coui-se she was
at no loss to interpret it. IJiickland's demeanour for the
past two montlis liad led hor to surmise that his latest
visit to JUidleigli Salterton liad finally extinguished the
liopes whicli drew him in that direction. His recent
censure of Sylvia might be thus explained. She grieved
that her brother's suit should be discouraged, but could
not persuade herself tliat Sylvia's decision was final.
The idea of a match between those two was very pleasant
to her. For Buckland slie imagined it would be fraui^ht
with good results, and for Sylvia, on tlie whole, it might
be the best thing.
Before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed,
and Christmas was at hand. Again she had been much
in society. Mr. Walsh had renewed his unmistakable
attentions, and, when her manner of meeting them began
to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the air by
making a formal offer of marriage. Sidwell's negative
was absolute, much to her mother's relief. On the day of
that event, slie wrote rather a long letter to Sylvia, but
Mr. Walsh's name was not mentioned in it.
* Mother tells me,' it began, ' that }/(nir mother has
written to her from Salisbury, and that you yourself are
going there for a stay of some weeks. I am sorry, for
on the Monday after Christmas Day I shall be in
Exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you. We —
mother and I — are going to run down together, to see
after certain domestic affairs ; only for tliree days at
most.
* Your ant - letter was very anmsing, but it saddened
me, dear Sylvia. 1 can't make any answer. On these
subjects it is very dilticult even for the closest friends
to open their minds to each other. 1 don't — and don't
wish to — believe in the aptrrifx profession ; tlial's all
I must say.
' My health has been indifferent since I last wrote.
AVe live in all but continuous darkness, and very seldom
indeed breathe anything that can be called air. No
doubt this state of things has its effect on me. I look
326 BORN IN EXILE
forwards, not to the coming of spring, for liere we shall
see nothing of its beauties, but to the month which will
release us from London. I want to smell the pines again,
and to see the golden gorse in our road.
' By way of being more " positive," I have read much
iu the newspapers, supplementing from them my own
experience of London society. The result is that I am
more and more confirmed in the fears with which I have
already worried you. Two movements are plainly going
on in the life of our day. The decay of religious belief is
undermining morality, and the progress of Radicalism in
politics is working to the same end by overthrowing
social distinctions. Evidence stares one in the face from
every colunm of the papers. Of course you have read
more or less about the recent "scandal" — I mean the
most recent. — It isn't the kind of thing one cares to
discuss, but we can't help knowing about it, and does it
not strongly support what I say ? Here is materialism
sinking into brutal immorality, and high social rank
degrading itself by intimacy with the corrupt vulgar.
There are newspapers that make political capital out of
these "revelations." I have read some of them, and
they make me so fiercely aristocratic that I find it
hard to care anything at all even for the humanitarian
eftbrts of people I respect. You will tell me, I know,
that this is quite the wrong way of looking at it. But
the evils are so monstrous that it is hard to fix one's
mind on the good that may long hence result from
them.
I ' I cling to the essential (that is the spinfued) truths
of Christianity as the only absolute good left in our
time. I would say that I care nothing for forms, but
, some form there must be, else one's faith evaporates.
i It has V)ecome very easy for me to understand how
j men and women who know the world refuse to believe
I any longer in a directing Providence. A week ago 1
i again met Miss Moxey at the Walworths', and talked
i with her more freely than before. This conversation
! showed me that I have become much more tolerant
towards individuals. But though this or that person
HORN IX Kxirj-: 1)27
may be supported by luonil seiisf aloiu', the world
cannot dispense with religion. If it tries to — and it
vnll — there are dreadful times before us.
* I wish I were a man ! I would do something, how-
ever ineffectual. 1 would stand on the side of those
who are tigliting against mob-rule and mob-morals. How
would you like to sec^ Exciter Catliedral converted into
a"^' coffee music-hail '' '. And that will coniL'."
" lieadnig tins, hyivia had the sense of listening to
an echo. Some of the phrases recalled to her quite
a diff"erent voice from Sidwell's. She smiled and
nuised.
On the morning appointed for her journey to Exeter
Sidwell rose early, and in unusually good spirits. ^Irs.
Warricombe was less animated by the prospect of
five hours in a railway carriage, for London had a
covering of black snow, and it seemed likely that more
would fall. ]\Iartin suggested postponement, but cir-
cumstances made this undesirable.
* Let Fanny go with me/ proposed Sidwell, just after
breakfast. * I can see to everything perfectly well,
mother.'
But Fanny liastened to decline. She was engaged for
a dance on the morrow.
' Then I'll run down with you myself, Sidwell,' said her
father.
Mrs. Warricombe looked at the weather and hesitated.
There were strong reasons why she should go, and they
determined her to brave discomforts.
It chanced that the morning post had brought j\Ir.
Warricombe a letter from Godwin Peak. It was a
reply to one that he had written with Christmas greet-
ings ; a kindness natural in him, for he had remembered
that the young man was probably hard at work in his
lonely lodgings. He spoke of it privately to his wife.
' A very good letter — thoughtful and cheerful. You're
not likely to see him, but if you happen to, say a ])leasant
word.'
' I shouldn't have written, if I were you,' remarked Mrs.
AVarricombe.
328 BORN IN EXILE
' Why not ? 1 was only thinking the other day that
he contrasted very favourably with the younger genera-
tion as we observe it here. Yes, I have faith in Peak.
There's the right stuff in him.'
' Oh, I daresay. But still '
And Mrs. Warricombe went away with an air of
In volunteering a promise not to inform her brother of
Peak's singiiLar position, Marcella spoke with sincerity.
She was prompted by incongruous feelings — a desire
to compel Godwin's gratitude, and disdain of the cir-
cumstances in which she had discovered him. There
seemed to be little likelihood of Christian's learning
from any other person that she had met with Peak
at Pudleigh Salterton ; he had, indeed, dined with her
at the "Walworths', and might improve his acquaintance
with that family, but it was improbable that they
would ever mention in his hearing the stranger who
had casually been presented to them, or indeed ever
again think of him. If she held her peace, the secret
of Godwin's retirement must still remain impenetrable.
He would pursue his ends as hitherto, thinking of
her, if at all, as a weak woman who liad immodestly
betrayed a hopeless passion, and wlio could be trusted
never to wish him harm.
That was ]\Iarcella's way of reading a man's thoughts.
She did not attri])ute to Peak the penetration which
would make liim uneasy. In spite of masculine proverbs,
it is tlie liabit of women to suppose tliat the other sex
regards them confidingly, ingenuously. Marcella was
unusually endowed with analytic intelligence, but in
tliis case she believed what shi' hoped. Siie knew that
Peak's confidence in her must be coloured with con-
tempt, l»ut this mattered little so long as lie paid her
tlie compliment of feeling sure tliat she was superior to
ignoble temptations. Many a woman would behave witli
330 BORN IN EXILE
treacherous malice. It was in her power to expose liiiii,
to confound all his schemes, for she knew the authorship
of that remarkable paper in lite Critical Review. Before
receiving Peak's injunction of secrecy, Earwaker had
talked of * The New Sophistry ' with Moxey and with
Malkin ; the request came too late. In her interview
with Godwin at the Exeter hotel, she had not even
hinted at this knowledge, partly because she was un-
conscious that Peak imagined the affair a secret between
himself and Earwaker, partly because she thought it
unworthy of her even to seem to threaten. It gratified
her, however, to feel that he was at her mercy, and the
thought preoccupied her for many days.
Passion which has the intellect on its side is more
easily endured than that which offers sensual defiance
to all reasoning, but on the other hand it lasts much
longer. Marcella was not consumed by her emotions ;
she often thought calmly, coldly, of the man she loved.
Yet he was seldom long out of her mind, and the instiga-
tion of circumstances at times made her suffering intense.
Such an occasion was her first meeting with Sidwell
Warricombe, which took place at the Walworths', in
London. Down in Devonshire she had learnt that a
family named Warricombe were Peak's intimate friends ;
nothing more than this, for indeed no one was in a
position to tell her more. Wakeful jealousy caused her
to fix upon the fact as one of significance; Godwin's
evasive manner when she questioned him confirmed her
suspicions ; and as soon as she was brought face to
face with Sidwell, suspicion became certainty. She
knew at once that Miss Warricombe was the very
person who would V)e supremely attractive to Godwin
Peak.
An interval of weeks, and again she saw the face
that in tlie menntime had been as present to her
imagination as Godwin's own features. This time she
conversed at some length with Miss Warricombe. AYas
it merely a fancy that the beautiful woman looked at
her, spoke to her, with some exceptional interest ? By
now she had learnt that the Moorhouses and the
BORN IX KXILK 331
Warriconil)e« weru cuimected in clusc iiiciulship ; il,
was all but certain, then, that Miss Mooiliouse had
told Miss Wairiconibe of Peak's visit to Budleigli Sal-
terton, and its inci<lents. Could this in any way be
explanatory of the steady, searching look in those soft
eyes ?
Marcelhi had always regarded tlie emotion of jealousy
as characteristic of a vulgar nature. Now that it
possessed her, she endeavoured to call it by otlier names ;
to persuade lierself that she was indignant on abstract
grounds, or anxious only with reference to Teak's true
interests. She could not affect surprise. So intensely
sympathetic was lier reading of Godwin's character that
she understood — or at all events recognised — the power
Sidwell would possess over him. He did not care for
enlightenment in a woman ; he was sensual — though in
a subtle way ; the aristocratic vein in his temper made
him subject to strong impressions from trivialities of
personal demeanour, of social tone.
Yet all was mere conjecture. She had not dared to
utter Peak's name, lest in doing so she should betray
herself. Constantly planning to make further dis-
coveries, she as constantly tried to dismiss all thought
of the matter — to learn indifference. Already she had
debased herself, and her nature must be contemptible
indeed if anything could lure her forward on such a
path.
None the less, she was assiduous in maintaining
friendly relations with the Wal worths. Christian, too,
had got into the habit of calling there ; it was significant
of the noticeable change which was come upon liim —
u change his sister was at no loss to understand from
the moment that he informed her (gravely, but with-
out expressiveness) of ]\Ir. Palmer's deatli. Instead of
shunning ordinary society, he seemed bent on extending
the circle of his acquaintance. He urged Marcella to
invite friendly calls, to have guests at dinner. There
seemed to be a general revival of his energies, exhil)ited
in the sphere of study as well as of amusement. Not
a day went by without his purchasing books or scientific
332 BORN IN EXILE
apparatus, and the house was brightened with works
of art chosen in the studios which ^liss Walworth advised
him to visit. All the amiabilities of his character came
into free play ; with Marcella he was mirthful, aftection-
ate, even caressing. He grew" scrupulous about liis neck-
ties, his gloves, and was careful to guard his fingers
against corroding acids when he worked in the laboratory.
Such indications of hopefulness caused Marcella more
misgiving than pleasure ; she made no remark, but
waited with anxiety for some light on the course of
events.
Just before dinner, one evening, as she sat alone in
the drawing-room, Christian entered with a look which
portended some strange announcement. He spoke
abruptly :
' I have heard something astonishing.'
' What is that ? '
' This afternoon I went to the matinee at the A^aude-
ville, and found myself among a lot of our friends — the
Walwortlis and the Hunters and the Mortons. Between
the acts I was talking to Hunter, when a man came up
to us, spoke to Hunter, and was introduced to me — a Mr.
Warricombe. What do you think he said ? " I believe
you know my friend Peak, Mr. Moxey?" "Peak? To
be sure ! Can you tell me what has become of him ? "
He gave me an odd look. " AYhy, I met liim last, some
two months ago, in Devonshire." At that moment we
were obliged to go to our places, and I couldn't get hold
of the fellow again. Hunter told me something about
him; he knows the Walworths, it seems — belongs to a
good Devonshire family. What on eartli can Peak l)e
doing over there ? '
Marcella kept silence. The event she had judged
improbable had come to pass. The chance of its doing
so had of course increased since Christian began to
associate freely with the Walworths and their circle.
Yet, considering the slightness of the connection between
that group of people and the Warricombe family, there
had seemed no great likelihood of Christian's getting
acquainted with the latter. She debated rapidly in her
HORN IN KXII.K o33
troubled mind how to meet this disclo.siire. Curiosity
would, of course, impel her l)rother to follow up the clue ;
lie would again encounter AVarricombe, and must then
learn all the facts of Peak's position. To what purpose
should she dissemble her own knowledge ?
Did she desire that Godwin should remain in security ?
A tremor more akin to gladness than its opposite impeded
her utterance. If AVarricombe became aware of all that
was involved in (Jodwin Peak's withdrawal from among
liis friends — if (as must follow) he imparted the discovery
to his sister
The necessity of s])eaking enabled her to ignore these
turbulent speculations, which yet were anything but new
to her.
'They met at Budleigh Salterton,' she said, quietlv.
* Who did ? Warricombe and l*eak ? '
'Yes. At the Moorhouses'. It was when I was
tliere.'
Christian stared at her.
* When you were there ^ But — you met l*eak ? '
His sister smiled, turning from tlie astonished
iiaze.
' Yes, r met him.'
' P>ut, why the deuce '. AVhy didn't you tell me,
iMarcella ? '
* Ke asked me not to speak of it. He didn't wish you
to know that — that he lias decided to become a clergy-
man.'
Christian was stricken dumb. In spite of his sister's
obvious agitation, he could not believe what she told
him ; her smile gave him an excuse for supposing that
she jested.
' Peak a clergyman ? ' He l)urst out laughing. ' What's
the meaning of all this ? — Do speak intelligibly ! What's
the fellow up to ? '
* I am quite serious. He is st^idying for Orders — has
been for this last year.'
In desperation. Christian turned to another phase of
the subject.
' Then Malkin icas mistaken ? '
334 BORN IN KXILK
' Plainly.'
' And you mean to tell me that Peak ? Give me
more details. Where's he living ? How lias he got to
know people like these Warricombes ? '
Marcella told all that she knew, and without in-
junction of secrecy. The afiair had passed out of her
hands ; destiny must fulfil itself. And again the tremor
that resembled an uneasy joy went througli her
frame.
'But how/ asked Christian, 'did this fellow Warri-
combe come to know that I was a friend of Peak's ? '
* That's a puzzle to me. I shouldn't have thought he
would have remembered my name ; and, even if he had,
how could he conclude ?'
She broke off, pondering. Warricombe must have
made inquiries, possibly suggested by suspicions.
' I scarcely spoke of Mr. Peak to anyone,' she added.
* People saw, of course, that we were acquaintances, but
it couldn't have seemed a thing of any importance.'
' You spoke with him in private, it seems ? '
' Yes, I saw him for a few minutes — in Exeter.'
' And you hadn't said anything to the AValworths that
— that would surprise them ? '
' Purposely not. — Why should I injure him ? '
Christian knit his brows. He understood too well why
his sister should refrain from such injury.
' You would have behaved in the same way,' ^larcella
added.
' Why really — yes, perhaps so. Yet I don't know. —
In plain English, Peak is a wolf in sheep's clothing ! '
'I don't know anything about that,' she replied, with
gloomy evasion.
'Nonsense, my dear girl!— Had he tlie impudence to
pretend to you tliat he was sincere ? '
' He made no declaration.'
'But you are convinced he is acting the hypocrite,
Marcella. You spoke of the risk of injuring him. — What
are his motives ? What does he aim at ? '
* Scarcely a bishopric, I should think,' she replied,
l)itterly.
HORN IN KXILK ooO
* Then, l)y Jove ! Earwaker iimy be right ! '
jMarcella darted an inquiring louk at him.
* AVhat has he thought { '
' I'm ashamed to si)eak of il. He suggested once tliat
Teak miglit disguise himself for the sake of — of making
a good marriage.'
The reply was a nervous laugh.
'Look here, Marcella.' He caught her hand. 'This
is a very awkward business. I'eak is disgracing him-
self; he will be unmasked; there'll be a scandal. It
was kind of you to kee]) silence— when don't you behave
kindly, dear girl ^ — but think of the possible results to
i(s. AVe shall be sometliing very like accomplices.'
'How?' Marcella exclaimed, impatiently. 'AYho need
know that we were so intimate with him ? '
' Warricombe seems to know it.'
* Who can prove that he isn't sincere { '
'No one, perhaps. lUit it will seem a very odd tiling
that he hid away from all his old friends. You re-
member, I betrayed that to Warricombe, before I knew
that it mattered.'
Yes, and Mr. Warricombe could hardly forget the
circumstance. He would press his investigation — know-
ing already, perhaps, of Teak's approaches to his sister
Sidwell.
' Marcella, a man plays games like that at his own
peril. 1 don't like this kind of thing. Perhaps he has
audacity enough to face out any disclosure. But it's out
of the question for you and me to nurse his secret. We
have no right to do so.'
' You propose to denounce him ? '
^larcella gazed at her brother with an agitated
look.
' Not denounce. I am fund of Peak ; 1 wish him well.
But I can't join him in a dishonourable plot. — Then, we
mustn't endanger our place in society.'
' I have no place in society/ iMarcella answered,
coldly.
* Don't say that, and don't think it. We are both
going to make more of our lives ; we are going to think
336 BORN IN EXILE
very little of tlie past, and a great deal of the future.
We are still young ; we have happiness before us.'
* We ? ' she asked, with shaken voice.
' Yes — both of us ! Who can say '
Again he took her hand and pressed it warmly in both
his own. Just then the door opened, and dinner was
announced. Christian talked on, in low hurried tones,
for several minutes, affectionately, encouragingly. After
dinner, he wished to resume the subject, but Marcella
declared that there was no more to be said ; he must
act as honour and discretion bade him ; for herself, she
should simply keep silence as hitherto. And she left
him to his reflections.
Though with so little of ascertained fact to guide lier,
Marcella interpreted the hints afforded by her slight
knowledge of the AVarricombes with singular accuracy.
Precisely as she had imagined, Buckland Warricombe was
going about on Teak's track, learning all he could con-
cerning the theological student, forming acquaintance
with anyone likely to supplement his discoveries. And
less than a fortnight after the meeting at the theatre,
Christian made known to his sister that Warricombe
and he had had a second conversation, this time uninter-
rupted.
' He inquired after you, Marcella, and — really I had
no choice but to ask him to call here. I liardh' think
he'll come. He's not the kind of man I care for — though
liberal enough, and all that.'
' Wasn't it rather rash to give that invitation ? '
'The fact was, I so dreaded the appearance of — of
seeming to avoid him,' Christian pleaded, awkwardly.
' You know, that affair — we won't talk any more of it ;
but, if there should be a row about it, you are sure to
be compromised unless we have managed to guard our-
seh'es. If Warricombe c;dls, we must talk about Peak
without the least show of restraint. Let it appear
that we thought his choice of a profession unlikely, but
not impossible. Happily, we needn't know anything
about that anonymous Critical article. — Indeed, I think
I have acted wisely.'
HORN IX KXII.K 337
Marcella mininured :
* Yes, I suppose you have.'
' And, by the way, I liave spoken of it to tlarwaker.
Not of your part in the story, of course. 1 t(»M liini
that I had met a man who knew all about Peak. —
Impossible, you see, for me to keep silence with so
intimate a friend.'
'Then Mr. Earwaker will write to liim ?' said Marcella,
reflectively.
* I couldn't give him any address.'
' How does iMr. Warricombe seem to regard Mr.
Peak ( '
' With a good deal of interest, and of the friendliest
kind. Naturally enough ; they were College friends, as
you know, before I had heard of Peak's existence.'
' He has no suspicions ? '
Christian thought not, l>ut lier brother's judgment had
not much weiijlit with Marcella.
She at once dreaded and desired War ricom he's appear-
ance. H he thought it worth while to cultivate her
ac(|uaintanee, she would henceforth have the opportunity
of studying Peak's relations with the Warricond)es ;
on tlie other hand, this was to expose herself to suflering
and temptation from which the better part of her nature
shrank with disdain. That she might seem to have
broken the promise voluntarily made to Godwin was
a small matter ; not so the risk of being overcome by
an ignoble jealousy. She had no overweening con-
fidence in tlie steadfastness of her self-respect, if circum-
stances were all on the side of sensual impulse. xVnd
the longer slie brooded on this peril, the more it allured
her. For therewitli was connected the one satisfac-
tion which still remained to her: however little he
desired to keep her constantly in mind, Godwin Peak
must of necessity do so after wliat liad ])assed between
them. Had but lier discovery remainetl her own secret,
tlien the pleasure of commanding her less pure emotions,
of proving to Godwin tliat she was al)ove the weakness
of common women, might easily have prevailed. Now
that lier knowledge was shared by others, she had lost
38 BURN IN KXILK
that safegiuii'd against lower motive. The argument that
to unmask liypocrisy was in itself laudable she dis-
missed with contempt; let that be the resource of a
woman who would indulge her rancour whilst keeping
up the inward pretence of sanctity. If she erred in the
ways characteristic of her sex, it should at all events be
a conscious degradation.
' Have you seen that odd creature Malkin lately ? '
she asked of Christian, a day or two after.
'No, I haven't; I thought of him to make up our
dinner on Sunday ; but you had rather not have him
here, I daresay ? '
' Oh, he is amusing. Ask liim by all means,' said
Marcella, carelessly.
* He may have heard about l^eak from Earwaker, you
know. If he begins to talk before people '
'Things have gone too far for such considerations,'
replied Ids sister, with a petulance strange to her habits
of speech.
'AVell, yes,' admitted Christian, glancing at her. 'We
can't be responsible.'
He reproached himself for this attitude towards Peak,
l)ut was heartily glad that iMarcella seemed to liave
learnt to regard the intriguer with a wholesome indiffer-
ence.
On the second day after Cliristmas, as they sat talking
idly in the dusking twiliglit, the door of the drawing-
room was tlirown open, and a visitor announced. The
name answered with sucli startling suddenness to the
thought with wliich Marcella had been occupied that,
for an instant, she could not believe that she had heard
aright. Yet it was undoubtedly Mr. Warricombe who
presented liimself. He came forward with a slightly
hesitating air, l»ut Christian made liaste to smooth tlie
situation. Witli the help of those commonplaces by which
even intellectual people are at times compelled to prove
their familiarity with social usages, conversation was set
in movement.
lUickland could not be quite himself. Tlie conscious-
ness tliat lie had sought these people not at all for their
BORN IN KXII.K .".30
own sake miide him formal and dry ; liis glances, his
half-smile, indicated a doubt wliethertlie Moxeys l)elonged
entirely to the sphere in which he was at home. Hence
a rather excessive politeness, such as the man who sets
much store on breeding exhibits to those who may at any
moment, even in a fraction of a syllable, prove themselves
his inferiors. With men and women of the unmistakably
lower orders, Buckland could converse in a genial tone
that recommended him to their esteem ; on tlie border-
land of retinement, his sympathies were repressed, and he
held the distinctive part of his mind in reserve.
Marcella desired to talk agreeably, but a weight lay
upon her tongue she was struck with the resemblance in
Warricombe's features to those of his sister, and tliis
held her in a troubled preoccupation, occasionally evident
when she made a reply, or tried to diversify the talk
by leading to a new topic. It was rather early in the
afternoon, and she had slight hope that any other caller
w^ould appear; a female face would have been welcome
to her, even that of foolish jMrs. ^lorton, who misrht
...
])ossibly look in before six o'clock. To her relief the
door did i)resently open, but the sharp, creaking footsteji
M'hich followed was no lady's ; the servant announced
Mr. Malkin.
Marcella's eyes gleamed strangely. Not with the light
of friendly welcome, though for that it could be mistaken.
She rose quietly, and stepped forward with a movement
which again seemed to betoken eagerness of greeting. In
presenting the newcomer to Mr. Warricombe, she spoke
with an uncertain voice. Buckland was more than formal.
The stranger's aspect impressed him far from favourabl}-,
and he resented as an impudence the hearty hand-grip to
which he perforce submitted.
' I come to plead witli you,' exclaimed Malkin, turning
to Marcella, in his abrupt, excited way. 'After accepting
your invitation to dine, I find that the thing is utterly
and absolutely impossible. I had entirely forgotten an
engagement of the very gravest nature. I am conscious
of behaving in quite an unpardonable way.'
Marcella laughed down his excuses. She had suddenly
340 BORN IN EXILE
become so mirthful that Christian looked at her in
surprise, imagining that she was unable to restrain her
sense of the ridiculous in Malkin's demeanour.
* I have hurried up from Wtotham/ pursued the
apologist. 'Did I tell you, Moxey, that I had taken
rooms down there, to be able to spend a day or two near
my friends the Jacoxes occasionally ? On the way here,
I looked in at Staple Inn, but Earwaker is away some-
where. What an odd thing that people will go off
without letting one know ! It's such common ill-luck of
mine to find people gone away — I'm really astonished to
find you at home, Miss Moxey.'
Marcella looked at Warricombe and laughed.
' You must understand that subjectively,' she said, with
nervous gaiety which again excited her brother's surprise.
' I'lease don't be discouraged by it from coming to see us
again ; I am very rarely out in the afternoon.'
* But,' persisted ^lalkin, ' it's precisely my ill fortune
to hit on those rare moments when people arc out ! —
Now, I never meet acquaintances in the streets of London;
but, if I happen to be abroad, as likely as not I encounter
the last person I should expect to find. Why, you
remember, I rush over to America for scarcely a week's
stay, and there I come across a man who has disappeared
astonishingly from the ken of all his friends ! '
Christian looked at Marcella. She was leaning forward,
her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide as if in gaze at
something that fascinated her. He saw that she spoke,
but her voice was hardly to be recognised.
' Are you quite sure of that instance, Mr. Malkin ? '
* Yes, I feel quite sure. Miss Moxey. Undoubtedly it
was Peak ! '
Buckland Warricombe, who had been waiting for a
chance of escape, suddenly wore a look of interest. He
rapidly surveyed the trio. Christian, somewhat out of
countenance, tried to answer Malkin in a tone of light
banter.
*It happens, my dear fellow, tliat Peak has not left
England since we lost sight of him.'
* What ? He has been heard of ? Where is he then ? '
BORN IN FA'H.K .'341
' Mr. Wcirricombe can assure you that he has beeu
living for a year at Exeter.'
Buckland, perceiving tliat lie had at length come upon
something important to his purposes, smiled genially.
' Yes, I have had the jdeasure of seeing IVak down in
Devon from time to time.'
' Then it was really an illusion 1 ' cried ]\Ialkin. ' 1
was too hasty. Yet that isn't a charge that can be often
broucjht a«i;ainst me, I think. Does Earwaker know of
this ? '
* He has lately heard,' replied Oliristian, who in vain
sought for a means of checking ]\Ialkin's loquacity. ' I
thought he might have told you.'
' Certainly not. The thing is (piite new to me. And
what is Peak doing down there, pray ^ AVhy did he
conceal himself ? '
Christian gazed appealingly at his sister. She returned
the look steadily, but neitlier stirred nor spoke. It was
Warricombe's voice that next sounded :
' Peak's behaviour seems mysterious,' he began, with
ironic gravity. * I don't pretend to understand him.
AVhat's i/our view of his character, Mr. ^lalkin ? '
'I know him very slightly indeed, Mr. Warricomlie.
But I have a high opinion of his powers. I wonder he
does so little. After tliat article of his in The Critical '
Malkin became aware of something like agonised
entreaty on Christian's countenance, but this had merely
the effect of heiglitening his curiosity.
'In 71ic CriticdlV said Warricombe, eagerly. '1
didn't know of that. What was the subject ? '
' To be sure, it was anonymous,' went on Malkin, with-
out a suspicion of the part he was playing Itefore tliese
three excited people. ' A paper called *' The New Sophistry,"
a tremendous bit of satire.'
Marcella's eyes closed as if a light liad flashed before
them ; she drew a short sigli, and at once seemed to
become quite at ease, the smile witli whicli slie regarded
Warricombe expressing a calm interest.
* That article was Peak's ? ' Buckland asked, in a very
quiet voice.
342 BORN IN EXILE
Christian at last found his opportunity.
' He never mentioned it to you ? Perhaps he thouglit
he had gone rather too far in liis Broad Churchism, and
might be misunderstood.'
' Broad Churchism ? ' cried Malkin. ' Uncommonly
hroad, I must say ! '
And he laughed heartily ; Marcella seemed to join in
his mirth.
'Then it would surprise you/ said Buckland, in the
same quiet tone as before, ' to hear that l*eak is about to
take Orders ? '
' Orders ?— For what ? '
Christian laughed. The worst was over ; after all, it
came as a relief.
' Not for wines,' lie replied. ' Mr. AVarricombe means
that Peak is going to be ordained.'
Malkin's amazement rendered him speechless. He
stared from 'one person to another, his features strangely
distorted.
' You can hardly believe it ? ' pressed Buckland.
The reply was anticipated by Christian saying :
'Kemember, Malkin, that you had no opportunity
of studying Peak. It's not so easy to understand him.'
' But I don't see,' burst out the other, ' how I could
possibly so //misunderstand him ! What has Earwaker to
say ? '
Buckland rose from his seat, advanced to Marcella,
and offered his hand. She said mechanically, ' Must you
go ? ' but was incapable of another word. Christian
came to her relief, performed the needful civilities, and
accompanied his aecpiaintauce to the foot of the stairs.
Buckland had become grave, stiff, monosyllabic ; Christian
made no allusion to the scene thus suddenly interrupted,
and they parted with a formal air.
]\Ialkin remained for another quarter of an hour, when
the muteness of his companions made it plain to him
tliat he had better withdraw. He went off with a sense
of having been mystified, half resentful, and vastly im-
patient to see P]arwaker.
i
PART THE FIFTH
PART THE FIFTH
I
TiiH cuckoo clock in Mrs. Uoots's kitchen had just struck
three. A wind roared from the nortli - east, and light
tliickeued beneath a sky which made threat of snow.
Teak was in a mood to enjoy the crackling fire ; he
settled himself with a book in his easy-chair, and thought
with pleasure of two hours' reading, before the appearance
of the homely teapot.
Christmas was just over — one cause of the feeling of
relief and quietness which possessed him. Xo one had
invited him for Christmas Eve or the day that followed,
and he did not regret it. Tlie letter he had received
from ^lartin ^yarricombe was assurance enough that
those he desired to remember him still did so. He
had thouglit of using this season for his long
postponed visit to Twyljridge, but reluctance prevailed.
All popular holidays irritated and depressed him ; he
loathed the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb. It
was all over, and the sense of that afforded him a brief
content.
Tliis book, wliicli he had just la'ought from tlie circulat-
ing li])rary, was altogether to liis taste. The author,
Justin Walsh, he knew to be a l)rother of Professor
Walsh, long ago the o])ject of his rebellious admiration.
Matter and treatment rejoiced liim. No intellectual
346 BORN IN EXILE
delight, though he was capable of it in many forms, so
stirred his spirit as that afforded him by a vigorous
modern writer joyously assailing the old moralities. Justin
Walsh was a modern of the moderns; at once man of
science and man of letters ; defiant without a hint of
popular cynicism, scornful of English reticences yet
never gross, ' On i, repondit Pococurante, il est beau
(Vecrire ce (iiCon pense ; c'est le privilege de Vliomme.' ■ This
stood by way of motto on the title-page, and Godwin felt
liis nerves thrill in sympathetic response.
What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend 1
Now a man like this surely had companionship enough
and of the kind he wished ? He wrote like one who
associates freely with the educated classes both at home
and abroad. Was he married ? AVhere would he seek
his wife ? The fitting mate for him would doubtless be
found among those women, cosmopolitan and emancipated,
whose acquaintance falls only to men in easy circum-
stances and of good social standing, men who travel
much, who are at home in all the great centres of
civilisation.
As Peak meditated, the volume fell upon his knee.
Had it not lain in his own power to win a reputation
like that which Justin Walsh was achieving ? His paper
in Tlte Critical Review, itself a decided success, might have
been followed up by others of the same tenor. Instead
of mouldering in a dull cathedral town, he might now be
living and working in France or Germany. His money
would have served one purpose as well as the other,
and two or three years of determined eftbrt
]\rrs. Iioots showed her face at the door.
' A gentleman is asking for you, sir, — Mr. Chilvers.'
' ]\Ir. Chilvers ? Please ask him to come up.'
He threw his book on to the table, and stood in
expectancy. Someone ascended the stairs with rapid
stride and creaking boots. The door was flung open,
and a cordial but affected voice burst forth in greeting.
' Ha, Mr. Peak ! I hope you haven't altogether for-
gotten me ? Delighted to see you again ! '
Godwin gave his hand, and felt it strongly pressed.
BORN IX EXILK 347
whilst Chilvers gazed into his face with a smiling wist-
fulness which could only be answered with a grin of
discomfort. The Kev. ih-iino had grown very tall,
and seemed to be in perfect health; but the effeminacy
of his brilliant youth still declared itself in his attitudes,
gestures, and attire. He was dressed with marked
avoidance of the professional pattern. A hat of soft
felt but not clerical, fashionable collar and tie, a
sweeping ulster, and beneath it a frock-coat, which was
doubtless the pride of some West End tailor. His patent-
leather boots were dandiacally diminutive; his glove
titted like that of a lady who lives but to be lien ganlee.
The feathery hair, which at Whitelaw he was wont to
pat and smooth, still had its golden shimmer, and on his
face no growth was permitted.
' I had heard of your arrival here, of course,' said
Peak, trying to appear civil, though anything more
than that was beyond his power. ' Will you sit
down ? '
'This is the "breathing time o' the day" with you, I
hope ? I don't disturb your work i '
' I was only reading this book of A\'al.sh's. Do you
know it i '
V)Wt for some such relief of his feelings, Godwin could
not have sat still. There was a pleasure in uttering
Walsh's name. ^loreover, it would serve as a test of
Chilvers' disposition.
'Walsh?' He took up the volume. 'Hal Justin
Walsh. I know him. A wonderful book ! Admiral tie
dialectic ! Delicious style ! '
'Not quite orthodox,! fancy,' replied (lodwin, with a
curling of the lips.
'Orthodox? Oh, of course not, of course not! JUit a
rich vein of humanity. Don't you find that .^ — Pray
allow me to throw off my overcoat. Ha, thanks ! — A
rich vein of humanity. Walsh is by no means to be
confused with the nulliiidians. A very broad - hearted,
large - souled man ; at bottom the truest of ( 'hristians.
Now and then he effervesces rather too exuberantly.
Yes, I admit it. In a review of his last book, which I
S48 I30KX IX KXILK
«» wiitc for caie of oar pjipei^ I >-eiitiii>ed
n Ike ■eMssttv o^ nfi?:? n« «/ : it s^vius to
to ike smeiie fxtiiude which I tnisi he
A KMi of tke bcoftdeiSt bivxheiiine?^ A
-He tHr ei iq Ma ce a t OaistHadtT.*
Miiiy pRfued Ibr tdas str^n. He knew
TT^ai kiK^ <« "litcadth,' bat as yei he
amnse vidi tke broadest sdkiol (rf
: -r---^^^-^ ^ to the Kmits of modan
:T€iy of such fanta^ie
'I ihx but di^ike and
: ?.r least it di^>08ed
_ , ^ni- Chilvers"
_ 1.. rdnguished bv
. it was i::ip<>55ible not to
. ' Thongh his
. r managed to
. : :isi urterance.
rTrsr-jnd with
. -r war he
^-^--i .- .„. . . iiiveTed an
:Z he was derot- sports. His
fnng as . .z:..iig dumb-lnells,
' then, sptf^ to the uttermost,
ncB thofjrmti ijBiek in an attitude
*So T^: to join us,' he exclaimed, with a
look of : --^^ , ^r-h Kke th?it of a ladies'*
doctor r . f taxffmuhhi symptoms.
Thea, » 'i^e virile note, *I
Xkaak we r. I am always
ioir ; > ;, ;, ^' wi who liave
;. ^..3 iiiitifh: already
jom bare f tlie thinking? people
Veak. *r. ^ *."> r^ly,
*TheK ; of the r^.i'entific
t^piiit im, . llie chtirrhman
kitliefto ban bees, aui a »aill«r of cottrsie, of thie liUfnry
1
BORN IX KXILK 349
stamp ; hence iiiiK-h uf our trouble (luiin«,^ the hist hulf-
ceiituiy. It helioves us to go in for science — physical,
economic — science of every kind. Only thus can we
resist the morbific intluences which inevitably buset an
Kstal)lished Church in times such as these. I say it
boldly. Let us throw aside our Hebrew and our Greek,
our commentators ancient and modern ! Let us have done
with polemics and with compromises ! What we have
to do is to construct a spiritual edifice (jn tlie basis of
scientific revelation. 1 use the word revelation advisedly.
The results of science are the divine message to our age ;
to neglect them, to fear them, is to remain under the
old law whilst the new is demanding our adherence, to
repeat the Jewish error of bygone time. Less of St.
Paul, and more of Darwin ! Less of Luther, and more of
Herbert Spencer ! '
* Shall I have the pleasure of hearing this doctrine at
St. Margaret's ? ' l*eak inquired.
* In a form suitable to the intelligence of my parish-
ioners, taken in the mass. Were my hands perfectly
free, I should begin by preaching a series of sermons on
The Orvjin of Species. Sermons ! An obnoxious word !
One ought never to use it. It signifies everything inept,
inert.'
* Is it your serious belief, then, that the mass of
parishioners — here or elsewhere — are ready for this form
of spiritual instruction ? '
'Most distinctly — given the true capacity in the
teacher. ]\Iark me ; I don't say that they are capa1.)le of
receiving much absolute knowledge. What I desire is
that their minds shall be relieved from a state of
harassing conflict — put at the right point of view. They
are not to think that Jesus of Nazareth teaches faith and
conduct incompatible with the doctrines of Evolutionism.
They are not to spend their lives in kicking against the
pricks, and regard as meritorious the punctures which
result to them. The establishment in their minds of a
few cardinal facts — that is the first step. Then let the
interpretation follow — the solace, the encouragement, the
hope for eternityj '
350 BORN IN p:xile
' You imagine,' said Godwin, with a calm air, ' that the
mind of the average church-goer is seriously disturbed
on questions of faith ? '
* How can you ignore it, my dear Peak ? — Permit me
this familiarity ; we are old fellow - collegians. — The
average church-ofoer is the averacre citizen of our Enolish
commonwealth, — a man necessarily aware of the great
Eadical movement, and all that it involves. Forgive me.
There has been far too much blinking of actualities by
zealous Christians whose faith is rooted in knowledge.
We gain nothing by it ; we lose immensely. Let us
recognise that our churches are filled with sceptics,
endeavouring to believe in spite of themselves.'
' Your experience is much larger than mine,' remarked
the listener, submissively.
' Indeed I have widely studied the subject.'
Chilvers smiled with ineffable self-content, his head
twisted like that of a sagacious parrot.
' Granting your average citizen,' said the other, ' what
about the average citizeness ? The female church-goers
are not insignificant in number.'
' Ha 1 There we reach the core of the matter !
Woman ! woman ! Precisely tkei^e is the most hopeful
outlook. I trust you are strong for female emancipa-
tion ? '
' Oh, perfectly sound on that question ! '
* To be sure ! Then it must be obvious to you that
women are destined to play tlie leading part in our
Christian renascence, precisely as they did in the original
spreading of the faith. What else is the meaning of
the vast activity in female education ? Let them be
taught, and forthwith they will rally to our Broad
Church. A man may be content to remain a nullifidian ;
women cannot rest at that stage. They demand the
spiritual significance of everything. — I grieve to tell you,
Peak, that for three years I have been a widower. My
wife died with shocking suddenness, leaving me her
two little children. Ah, but leaving me also the
memory of a singularly pure and noble being. I
may say, with all humility, that I have studied the
BOIIX IX KXILK 351
female mind in its noblest modern ty])e. 1 Lmnr what
can be expected of woman, in our day and in the
future.'
' Mrs. Chilvers was in full sympatliy with your
views ? '
' Three years ago I had not yet reached my present
standpoint. In several directions I was still narrow.
But her prime characteristic was the tendency to spiritual
growth. She would have accompanied me step by step.
In very many respects I must regard myself as a man
favoured by fortune, — 1 know it, and I trust I am giateful
for it, — but that loss, my dear Teak, counterbalances
mucli happiness. In moments of repose, when I look
bfick on work joyously acliieved, I often murmur to
myself, with a sudden sigh, Excepto quod non simul esses,
cccfera hvfus!'
He i)ronounced his Latin in the new-old way, with
C.'ontinental vowels. The effect of this on an Englisli-
man's lii>s is always more or less pedantic, and in his case
it \vas hi tolerable.
' And when,' he exclaimed, dismissing the melancholy
thought, • do you present yourself for ordination ? '
It was his liabit to pay slight attention to the words of
anyone but himself, and Teak's careless answer merely led
liim to talk on wide subjects with renewal of energy.
One might have suspected that he had made a list of
unconnnon words wherewith to adorn his discourse, for
certain of these frequently recurred. ' Xullifidian,'
'morbific,' 'renascent,' were among his favourites. Once
or twice he spoke of ' psychogenesis,' with an emphatic
enunciation which seemed to invite respectful wonder.
In using Lfitin words which have become fixed in the
English language, lie generally corrected the common
errors of quantity : ' mi/inns the spiritual fervour,' ' acting
as his htccum tenncnx' When he referred to Christian
teachers with whom he was ac([uainted, they were sehhjm
or never members of the Church of England. Methodists,
Eomanists, Presbyterians appeared to stand high in his
favour, and Peak readily discerned that this was a way of
displaying ' large-souled tolerance.' It was his foible to
352 BORN IN EXILE
quote foreign languages, especially passages which caine
from heretical authors. Thus, he began to talk of Feuer-
bach for the sole purpose of delivering a German
sentence.
' He has been of infinite value to me — quite infinite
value. You remember his definition of God ? It is
constantly in my mind. " Gott ist eine Thrdne der Liehe,
in ticfstcr Verhorgenlieit vcrgossen iiher das menschliche
Mend." Profoundly touching ! I know nothing to
approach it.'
Suddenly he inquired :
' Do you see much of the Exeter clergy ? '
* I know only the A'icar of St. Ethelreda's, Mr.
Lilywhite.'
' Ha ! Admirable fellow ! Large - minded, broad of
sympathies. Has distinctly the scientific turn of
thought.'
Peak smiled, knowing the truth. But he had hit upon
a way of meeting the llev. Bruno which promised greatly
to diminish the suffering inherent in the situation. He
would use the large-souled man deliberately for his mirth.
Chilvers' self-absorption lent itself to persiflage, and by
indulging in that mood Godwin tasted some compensation
for the part he had to play.
* And I believe you know the Warricomljes very well ?'
pursued Chilvers.
' Yes.'
' Ha 1 I hope to see much of them. They are people
after my own heart. Long ago I had a slight acquaint-
ance with them. I hear we shan't see them till the
summer.'
' I believe not.'
' Mr. Warricombe is a great geologist, I think ? —
Probably he frequents public worship as a mere tribute
to social opinion ? '
He asked the question in the airiest possible way, as
if it mattered nothing to him what the reply might
be.
' Mr. Warricombe is a man of sincere piety,' Godwin
answered, with grave countenance.
BORN IN EXILK iloJ
* That by no means necessitates chureh-,L;«»in,L,^ my dear
Peak,' rejoined the other, waving his hand.
' You tliink not ? I am still only a student, you
must renieml)er. ^ly mind is in suspense on not a few
points.'
' Of course ! Of course ! Pray let me give you the
results of my own thought on this suhject.'
He proceeded to do so, at some length. When he
had rounded his last period, he unexpectedly started up,
swung on his toes, spread his chest, drew a deep breath,
and with the sweetest of smiles announced that lie must
postpone tlie delight of further conversation.
'You nmst come and dine with me as soon as my
house is in reasonable order. As yet, everything is seiis
dcssus-dcssous. Delightful old city, Exeter ! Charming !
Charming ! '
And on the moment he was gone.
What were this man's real opinions / He had brains
and literature ; his pose before the world was not that of
an ignorant chaiiatan. Vanity, no doubt, was his prime
motive, but did it operate to make a cleric of a secret
materialist, or to incite a display of excessive liberalism in
one whose convictions were orthodox ? Godwin could
not answer to his satisfaction, but he preferred tlie latter
surmise.
One thing, however, became clear to him. All his
conscientious scruples about entering the Church were
superfluous. Chilvers would have smiled pityingly at
anyone who disputed his right to live by the Estabhsh-
ment, and to stand u}) as an autliorised preacher of tlie
national faith. And beyond a doubt he regulated his
degree of ' breadtli ' by standards familiar to him in
professional intercourse. To him it seemed all-sutlicient
to preach a gospel of moral progress, of intellectual
growth, of universal fraternity. If tliis were tlie tendency
of Anglicanism, then almost any man who desired to live
a cleanly life, and to see others do the same, might
without hesitation become a clergyman. The old formuhe
of subscription were so symbolised, so volatilised, that
they could not stand in the way of anyone but a com-
23
354 BORN IN EXILP]
bative nihilist. Peak was conscious of positive ideals by
no means inconsistent with Christian teaching, and in
his official capacity these alone would direct him.
He spent his evening pleasantly, often laughing as he
recalled a phrase or gesture of the Rev. Bruno's.
In the night fell a sprinkling of snow, and when the
sun rose it gleamed from a sky of pale, frosty blue. At
ten o'clock Godwin set out for his usual walk, choosing
the direction of the Old Tiverton Eoad. It was a
fortnight since he had passed the Warricombes' house.
At present he was disposed to indulge the thoughts which
a sight of it would make active.
He had beL^un the ascent of the hill when the sound of
an approaching vehicle caused him to raise his eyes — they
were generally fixed on the ground when he walked alone.
It was only a hired fly. But, as it passed him, he recog-
nised the face he had least expected to see, — Sidwell
Warricombe sat in the carriage, and unaccompanied. She
noticed him — smiled — and bent forward. He clutched
at his hat, but it happened that the driver had turned to
look at him, and, instead of the salute he had intended,
his hand waved to the man to stop. The gesture was
scarcely voluntary; when he saw the carriage pull up,
his heart sank ; he felt guilty of monstrous impudence.
But Sidwell's face appeared at the window, and its
expression was anything but resentful ; she offered her
hand, too. Without preface of formal phrase he ex-
claimed :
' How delightful to see you so unexpectedly ! Are you
all here ? '
' Only mother and I. A¥e have come for a day
or two.'
' Will you allow me to call ? If only for a few
minutes '
' We shall be at home this afternoon.'
* Thank you ! Don't you enjoy the sunshine after
London ? '
' Indeed I do ! '
He stepped back and signed to the driver. Sidwell
bent her head and was out of sight.
BORN IX FA'Tr.K I)
But tho carriage was visible for some distance, and even
when lie could no longer see it he heard the horse's hoofs
on the hard road. Long after the last sound had died
away his heart continued to beat painfully, and he
breathed as if recovering from a hard run.
How beautiful were these lanes and hills, even in mid-
winter ! Once more he sang aloud in his joyous solitude.
The hope he had nourished was not unreasonable ; his
boldness justified itself. Yes, he was one of the men who
succeed, and the life before him wouLl be richer for all
the mistakes and miseries through which he had passed.
Thirty, forty, fifty — why, twenty years hence he would be
ill the prime of manhood, with perhaps yet another
twenty years of mental and bodily vigour. One of the
men who succeed !
II
On the morning after her journey down from London,
Mrs. Warricombe awoke with the conviction that she had
caught a cold. Her health was in general excellent, and
she had no disposition to nurse imaginary ailments, but
wdien some slight disorder broke the routine of her life
she made the most of it, enjoying — much as children do —
the importance with which for the time it invested her.
At such seasons she was wont to regard herself with a
mildly despondent compassion, to feel that her family
and her friends held her of slight account ; she spoke in
a tone of conscious resignation, often with a forgiving
smile. When the girls redoubled their attentions, and
soothed her with gentle words, she would close her eyes
and sigh, seeming to remind them that they would know
her value when she was no more.
* You are hoarse, mother,' Sidwell said to her, when
they met at breakfast.
* Am I, dear ? You know I felt rather afraid of the
journey. I hope I shan't be laid up.'
Sidwell advised her not to leave the house to-day.
Having seen the invalid comfortably established in an
upper room, she went into the city on business which
could not be delayed. On her way occurred the meeting
with Peak, but of this, on her return, she made no
mention. Mother and daughter had luncheon upstairs,
and Sidwell was full of affectionate solicitude.
' This afternoon you had better lie dowai for an hour or
two,' she said.
' Do you think so ? Just drop a line to father, and
warn him that we may be kept here for some time.'
BORN IN EXILE 357
' Shall I send for Dr. Eiidacott ? '
' Just as you like, dear.'
But ^Irs. Warricouibe had eaten such an excellent
lunch, that Sidwell could not feel uneasy.
' We'll see how you are this evening. At all events,
it will be safer for you not to go downstairs. If you lie
quiet for an hour or two, I can look for those pamphlets
that father wants.'
' Just as you like, dear.'
By three o'clock the invalid was cahnly slumbering.
Having entered the bedroom on tiptoe and heard regular
breathing, Sidwell went down and for a few minutes
lingered about the hall. A servant came to her for
instructions on some domestic matter; when this was
dismissed she mentioned that, if anyone called, she would
1)6 found in the library.
The pamphlets of which her father had spoken were
soon discovered. She laid them aside, and seated herself
l)y the fire, but without leaning back. At any sound
within or outside the house she moved her head to listen.
Her look was anxious, but the gleam of her eyes ex-
pressed pleasurable agitation.
At half-past three she went into the drawing-room,
where all the furniture was draped, and the floor bare.
Standing where she could look from a distance through
one of the windows, at which the blind had been raised,
slie waited for a quarter of an hour. Tlien the chill
atmosphere drove her back to the fireside. In the study,
evidences of temporary desertion were less oppressive,
])ut the windows looked only upon a sequestered part of
tlie garden. Sidwell desired to watch the apju'oacli from
tlie high-road, and in a few minutes she was again in the
drawing-room. But scarcely had she closed the door
behind her when a ringing of the visitors* bell sounded
with unfamiliar distinctness. She started, hastened from
the room, fled into the lil)rary, and had time to seat
herself before she heard the footsteps of a servant moving
in answer to the summons.
Tlie door opened, and Teak was announced.
Sidwell had never known what it was to be tlius over-
358 BORN IN EXILE
come with emotion. Shame at her inability to command
the cahn features with wdiich slie would naturally receive
a caller flushed her cheeks and neck ; she stepped forward
with downcast eyes, and only in offering her hand could
at length look at him who stood before her. She saw at
once that Peak was unlike himself ; he too had unusual
warmth in his countenance, and his eyes seemed
strangely large, luminous. On his forehead were drops
of moisture.
This sight restored her self-control, or such measure of
it as permitted her to speak in the conventional way.
' I am sorry that mother can't leave lier room. She had
a slight cold this morning, but I didn't think it would give
her any trouble.'
Peak was delighted, and betrayed the feeling even
whilst he constrained his face into a look of exac^oerated
anxiety.
' It won't be anything serious, I hope ? The railway
journey, I'm afraid.'
' Yes, the journey. She has a slight hoarseness, but I
think we shall prevent it from '
Their eyes kept meeting, and with more steadfastness.
They were conscious of mutual scrutiny, and, on both
sides, of changes since they last met. When two people
have devoted intense study to each other's features, a
three months' absence not only revives tlie old impres-
sions but subjects them to sudden modification which
engrosses thought and feeling. Sidwell continued to
utter commonplaces, simply as a means of disguising
the thoughts that occupied her; she was saying to
herself that Peak's face had a purer outline than she had
believed, and that his eyes had gained in expressiveness.
In the same way Godwin said and replied he knew not
what, just to give himself time to observe and enjoy
the something new — the increased animation or subtler
facial movements — which struck him as/, often as he
looked at his companion. Each wondered what the
other liad been doing, whether tlie time had seemed long
or short.
' I hope you have kept well ? ' Sidwell asked.
BORN IN EXILE 350
Godwin hastened to respond with civil in([uiries.
'I was very glad to hear from Mr. Warriconihe a few
days ago/ he continued. Sidwell was not aware that her
father had written, l)ut lier pleased smile seemed to
signify the contrary.
' She looks younger,' Peak said in his mind. ' Perhaps
that London dress and the new way of arranging her hair
have something to do with it. But no, she looks younger
in herself. Slie must have been enjoying the pleasures
of town.'
' You have been constantly occupied, no doubt,' he
added aloud, feeling at the same time that this was a
clumsy expression of what he meant. Though he had
unbuttoned his overcoat, and seated himself as easily as
he could, the absurd tall hat wiiich he held embarrassed
him ; to deposit it on the floor demanded an eflbrt of
which he was yet incapable.
*I have seen many things and heard much talk,'
Sidwell was replying, in a gay tone. It irritated him ;
he would have preferred her to speak with more of
the old pensiveness. Yet perhaps she was glad
simply because she found herself again talking with
him ?
' And you ? ' she went on. ' It has not been all work,
I hope ? '
* Oh no ! I have had many pleasant intervals.'
This was in imitation of her vivacity. He felt the
words and the manner to be ridiculous, but could not
restrain himself Every moment increased his uneasi-
ness ; the hat weighed in his hands like a lump of
lead, and he was convinced that he had never looked
so clownish. Did her smile signify criticism of liis
attitude ?
With a decision which came he knew not how, lie let
his liat drop to the floor and puslied it aside. There, lluit
was better ; he felt less of a bumpkin.
Sidwell glanced at the glossy grotesque, but inslantly
averted her eyes, and asked ratlier more gravely :
' Have you been in Exeter all the time ? '
' Yes.'
360 BORN IN EXILE
' But you didn't spend your Christmas alone, I hope ? '
' Oh, I had my books,'
Was there not a touch of natural pathos in this ? He
hoped so ; then mocked at himself for calculating such
effects.
' I think you don't care much for ordinary social
pleasures, Mr. Peak ? '
He smiled bitterly.
' I have never known much of them, — and you re-
member that I look forward to a life in which they will
liave little part. Such a life,' he continued, after a pause,
' seems to you unendurably dull ? I noticed that, when I
spoke of it before.'
'You misunderstood me.' She said it so undecidedly
that he gazed at her with puzzled look. Her eyes fell.
' But you like society ? '
' If you use the word in its narrowest mean.ing,' she
answered, 'then I not only dislike society, but despise
it.'
She had raised her eyebrows, and was looking coldly at
him. Did she mean to rebuke him for the tone he had
adopted ? Indeed, he seemed to himself presumptuous.
But if they were still on terms such as these, was it not
better to know it, even at the cost of humiliation ? One
moment he believed that he could read Sidwell's thoughts,
and that they were wholly favourable to him ; at another
he felt absolutely ignorant of all that was passing in her,
and disposed to interpret her face as that of a conven-
tional woman who had never regarded him as on her own
social plane. Tliese imcertainties, these frequent rever-
sions to a state of mind which at other times he seemed
to have long outgrown, were a singular feature of his
relations with Sidwell. Could such experiences consist with
genuine love ? Never had he felt more willing to answer
the question wdth a negative. He felt that he was come
lua^e to act a part, and that the end of the interview, ])e it
what it might, would only affect him superficially.
* No,' he replied, with deliberation ; * I never supposed
that you had any interest in the most foolish class of
wealthy people. T meant that you recognise your place
BORN IN EXILE 301
ill a certain social rank, and regard intercourse with y<jur
equals as an essential of happiness.'
' If I understood why you ask ' she began aliruptly,
but ceased as she met his glance. Again he thought
she was asserting a distant dignity.
' The question arose naturally out of a train of thought
which always occupies me when I talk with you. I
myself Ijelong to no class whatever, and 1 can't help
wondering how — if the subject ever occurred to you — you
would place me.'
He saw his way now, and, having said thus much,
could talk on deliantly. This hour must decide his
fortune with Sidwell, yet his tongue utterly refused any
of the modes of speech which the situation would have
suggested to an ordinary mind. He could not 'make
love.' Instead of humility, he was prompted to display
a rough arrogance ; instead of tender phrases, he uttered
what sounded like deliberate rudeness. His voice was
less gently tuned than Sidwell had been wont to hear it.
It all meant that he despaired of wooing successfully, and
more than half wished to force some word from Sidwell
which would spare liim the necessity of a plain avowal.
But before he had finished speaking, her face changed.
A light of sudden understanding shone in her eyes ; her
lips softened to a smile of exquisite gentleness.
' The subject never did occur to me,' she answered.
' How should it ? A friend is a friend.'
It was not strictly true, but in the strength of her
emotion she could forget all that contradicted it.
* A friend — yes.'
Godwin began with the same note of bluntness. lUit
of a sudden he felt the intiuence of Sidwell's smile. His
voice sank into a murmur, his heart leai)t, a thrill went
through his veins.
* 1 wish to be something more than a friend.'
He felt that it was bald, inadequate. Yet the words
had come of their ow^n accord, on an impulse of unim-
paired sincerity. Sidwell's head was bent.
'That is why I can't take simple things for granted,'
he continued, his gaze fixed upon her. 'If I thought of
^7
362 BORN IN EXILE
nothing but friendship, it would seem rational enough
that you should accept me for what I am — a man of
education, talking your own language. Because I have
dared to hope something more, I suffer from the thought
that I was not born into your world, and that you must
be always remembering this difference.'
' Do you think me so far behind the age ? ' asked
Sidwell, trying to laugh.
' Classes are getting mixed, confused. Yes, but we are_
so conscious of the process that we talk of class distinc-
tions more than of anything else, — talk and think of them
Jiicessantly. You have never heard me make a profession
of Eadicalism ; / am decidedly behind the age. Be what
I may — and I have spiritual pride more than enough — the
fact that I have relatives in the lower, even the lowest,
social class nmst necessarily affect the whole course of
my life. A certain kind of man declares himself proud
of such an origin — and most often lies. Or one may be
driven by it into rebellion against social privilege. To
me, my origin is simply a grave misfortune, to be accepted
and, if possible, overcome. Does that sound mean-
spirited ? I can't help it ; I want you to know me.'
' I believe I know you very well,' Sidwell replied.
The consciousness that she was deceived checked the
words which were rising to his lips. Again he saw
himself in a pitiful light, and this self-contempt reflected
upon Sidwell. He could not doubt that she was yielding
to him ; her attitude and her voice declared it ; but what
was the value of love won by imposture ? AVhy had she
not intelligence enough to see through his hypocrisy,
which at times was so thin a veil ? How defective must
her sympathy be !
' Yet you have seen very little of me,' he said, smiling.
There was a sliort silence ; then he exclaimed in a voice
of emotion :
* How I wish we had known each other ever since that
day when your brother brought me to your house near
Kingsmill ! If we had met and talked through all those
years 1 But that was impossible for the very reason
which makes me inarticulate now that I wisli to say so
BORN IN EXILE 3G3
much. When you first saw lue T was a [,'awky sdioolljoy,
loaniino- to use uiy brains, and kuowini,^ already that life
had nothing to oiler nie but a false [)Osition. AVhetlier I
remained with my kith and kin, or turned my back upon
them in the hope of finding my equals, I was condemned
to a life of miserable incompleteness. I was b f?rn in -
exile. It took a long time before I had taught myself
Iiovv to move and speak like one of the class to which I
belonged by right of intellect. I was living alone in
London, in mean lodging-houses. But the day came
when I felt more confidence in myself. 1 had saved
money, and foresaw that in a year or two I should be able
to carry out a plan, make one serious attempt to win a
position among educated people.'
He stopped. Had he intended a full confession, it was
thus he might have begun it. Sidwell was regarding liim,
but with a gentle look, utterly unsuspecting. She was
unable to realise his character and his temptations.
' And have you not succeeded ? ' she asked, in a low
voice.
' Have I ? Let me put it to the test. I will set aside
every thought of presumption ; forget that I am a penni-
less student looking forward to a country curacy ; and say
what I wished to when we had our last conversation.
Never mind how it sounds. I have dared to hope that
some day I shall ask you to be my wife, and that you
won't refuse.'
Tlie word ' wife ' reverberated on his ears. A whirl
of emotion broke the defiant calm he had supported
for the last few minutes. The silence seemed to be
endless ; when he looked at Sidwell, her head was bent,
the eyes concealed by their drooping lids. Her expression
was very grave.
' Such a piece of recklessness,' he said at length,
* deserves no answer.'
vSidwell r.aised her eyes and spoke gently, witli voice
a little shaken.
' Why should you call it recklessness ? I have never
thought of the things that seem to trouble you so much.
You were a friend of ours. Wasn't that enough ? '
364 BORN IN EXILE
It seemed to him an evasive reply. Doubtless it was
much that she showed neither annoyance nor prudish
reserve. He had won the right of addressing her
on equal terms, but she was not inclined to anticipate
that future day to which he pointed.
'You have never thought of such things, because
you have never tliought of me as I of you. Every
day of your absence in London has caused me torments
which were due most often to the difference between your
social position and mine. You have been among people
of leisure and refinement and culture. Each evening
you have talked with men whom it cost no effort to
make themselves liked and respected. I think of that
with bitterness.'
' But why ? I have made many acquaintances ; have
met very interesting people. I am glad of it; it
enables me to understand you better than T could
before.'
* You are glad on that account ? '
' Yes ; indeed I am.'
' Dare I think you mean more than a civil phrase ? '
' I mean quite simply all that my words imply. I
have thought of you, though certainly without bitterness.
No one's conversation in London interested me so much
as yours.'
Soothed with an exquisite joy, Godwin felt his eyes
moisten. For a moment he was reconciled to all the
Iworld, and forgot the hostilities of a lifetime.
* ' And will it still be so, now, when you go back ? ' he
asked, in a soft tone.
' I am sure it will.'
'Then it will be strange if I ever feel bitterly
again.'
Sidwell smiled.
' You could have said nothing that could please me
more. Why should your life be troubled by these
dark moods ? I could understand it if you were still
struggling with — with doubts, witli all manner of un-
certainties about your course '
She hesitated, watching his face.
BORN IN EXILE 365
' Vou think I have chosen well ? ' said Godwin, meeting
her look.
Sidwell's eyes were at once averted.
'I hope,' she said, * we may talk of that again very
soon. You have told me much of yourself, but I have
said little or nothing of my own — dilhculties. It won't
be long before we come back from London, and then '
Once more their eyes met steadily,
'You think,' Godwin asked, 'that I am right in aiming
at a life of retirement ? '
' It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be
useful anywhere ; but most useful, surely, among people
of active mind.'
* Perhaps I shan't be able to choose. liemember
that I am seeking for a livelihood as well as for a sphere
of usefulness.'
His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no
means of learning whether Sidwell would bring her
husband a dowry substantial enough to be considered.
Though he could not feel that she had betrothed herself
to him, their talk was so nearly that of avowed lovers
that perchance she would disclose whatever might help
to put his mind at rest. The thought revived his
painful self - consciousness ; it w^as that of a schemer,
yet would not the curse of poverty have suggested it
to any man ?
' Perhaps you won't be able to choose — at first,' Sidwell
assented, thereby seeming to answer his unspoken
question. ' But I am sure my father will use whatever
influence he has.'
Had he been seated near enough, he would have been
tempted to the boldness of taking her hand. What more
encouragement did he await ? But the distance between
them was enough to check his embarrassed impulses.
He could not even call her ' Sidwell ' ; it would have
been easier a few minutes ago, before she had begun
to speak with such calm friendliness. Now, in spite
of everything, he felt that to dare such a familiarity
must needs call upon him the reproof of astonished
eyes.
366 BORN IN EXILE
' You return to-morrow ? ' he asked, suddenly.
' I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful
until we are home again.'
*A promise to be cheerful wouldn't mean much.
But it Joes mean much that I can think of what you
have said to-day.'
Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to
compel him to rise. It was strange how remote he
still felt from her pure, grave face, and. the flowing
outlines of her figure. Why could he not say to her,
' I love you ; give me your hands ; give me your lips ' ?
Such words seemed impossible. Yet passion thrilled
in him as he watched the grace of her movements, the
light and shadow upon her features. She had risen and
come a step or two forward.
' I think you look taller — in that dress.'
The words rather escaped him than were spoken. His
need was to talk of common things, of trifles, that so he
might come to feel humanly.
Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.
' Do I ? Do you like the dress ? '
' Yes. It becomes you.'
' Are you critical in such things ? '
'Not with understanding. But I should like to see you
every day in a new and beautiful dress.'
* Oh, 1 couldn't afford it ! ' was the laughing reply.
He offered his hand; the touch of her warm, soft
fingers fired his blood.
' Sidwell ! '
It was spoken at last, involuntarily, and he stood
with his eyes on hers, her hand crushed in his.
' Some day ! ' she whispered.
If their lips met, tlie contact was so slight as to seem
accidental ; it was the mere timorous promise of a future
kiss. And both were glad of the something that had
imposed restraint.
When Sidwell went up to her mother's sitting-room,
a servant had just brought tea.
' I hear that Mr. Peak has been,' said Mrs. Warricombe,
who looked puffy and uncomfortable after her sleep.
BORN IN EXILK 307
'Emma was L,^oing to take tea to tlie study, l)nt I
thouglit it unnecessary. How could lie know that wc
were here ? '
' I met him tliis morning on my way into the
town.'
* Surely it was rather inconsiderate of him to call.*
* He asked if he might.'
Mrs. Warricombe turned her head and examined
Sidwell.
* Oh ! And did he stay long ? '
' Not very long,' replied Sidwell, who was in quiet good-
humour.
* T think it would have been Ijetter if you had
told him by the servant that I was not well enough
to see callers. You didn't mention that he might be
coming.'
Mrs. AYarricombe's mind worked slowly at all times,
and at present she was suffering from a cold.
' Why didn't you speak of it, Sidwell ? '
' lieally — T forgot,' replied the daughter, lightly.
* And what had he to say ? '
* Nothing new, mother. Is your head Ijctter, de:ir ? '
There was no answer. ^Mrs. AVarricombe had con-
ceived a vague suspicion which was so alarming that
she would not press inquiries alluding to it. The en-
couragement given by her husband to Godwin Peak
in the latter's social progress had always annoyed her,
though she could not frame solid objections. To be
sure, to say of a man that he is about to be ordained
meets every possible question that society can put ;
but Mrs. AYarricombe's uneasiness was in part due to
personal dislike. Oftener than not, she still thought of
Teak as he appeared some eleven years ago — an evident
l)lebeian, witliout manners, without a redeeming grace.
She knew the story of his relative who had opened a
shop in Kingsmill ; thinking of that now, she shuddered.
Sidwell began to talk of indifferent matters, and Peak
was not again mentioned.
Her throat being still troublesome, Airs. Warricombe
retired very soon after dinner. About nine o'clock
368 BORN IN EXILE
Sidwell went to the library, and sat down at her father's
writing-table, purposing a letter to Sylvia. She penned
a line or two, but soon lapsed into reverie, her head
on her hands. Of a sudden the door was thrown open,
and there stood Buckland, fresh from travel.
* What has brought you ? ' exclaimed his sister, starting
up anxiously, for something in the young man's look
seemed ominous.
* Oh, nothing to trouble about. I had to come down —
on business. Mother gone to bed ? '
Sidwell explained.
* All right ; doesn't matter. I suppose I can sleep
here ? Let them get me a mouthful of something ; cold
meat, anything will do.'
His needs were quickly supplied, and before long he
was smoking by the library fire.
* I was writing to Sylvia,' said his sister, glancing at
her fragmentary letter.
' Oh ! '
' You know she is at Salisbury ? '
' Salisbury ? No, I didn't.'
His carelessness proved to Sidwell that she was wrong
in conjecturing that his journey had something to do
with Miss Moorhouse. Buckland was in no mood for
conversation ; he smoked for a quarter of an hour whilst
Sidwell resumed her writing.
' Of course you haven't seen Peak ? ' fell from him at
length.
His sister looked at him before replying.
' Yes. He called this afternoon.'
' But who told him you were here ? '
His brows were knitted, and he spoke very abruptly.
Sidwell gave the same explanation as to her mother,
and had further to reply that she alone received the
caller.
' I see,' was Buckland's comment.
Its tone troubled Sidwell.
' Has your coming anything to do with Mr. Peak ? '
' Yes, it has. I want to see him the first thing
to-morrow.'
BORN IN EXILE 369
' Can you tell me what about { '
He searched her face, frowning.
' Xot now. I'll tell you in the niorniug.'
Sidwell saw herself doomed to a night of suspense.
She could not confess how nearly the mystery concerned
her. Had Auckland made some discovery that irritated
liim against l*eak ? She knew he was disposed to catch
at anything that seemed to tell against Godwin's claims
to respectful treatment, and it surely nuist be a grave
affair to hurry him on so long a journey. Though she could
imagine no ground of fear, the situation was seriously
disturbing.
She tried to go on with her letter, but failed. As
Buckland smoked in silence, she at length rose and said
she would go upstairs.
' All right ! Shall see you at breakfast. Good-
night ! '
At nine next morning ^Irs. Warricombe sent a
message to Auckland that sbe wished to see him in her
bedroom. He entered hurriedly.
* Cold better, mother ? I have only just time to drink
a cup of coffee. I want to catch Peak before he can
have left home.'
' W\. Peak 1 Why ] \ was going to speak about him.'
' AVhat were you going to say ? ' Buckland asked,
anxiously.
His mother began in a roundabout way which threat-
ened long detention. In a minute or two Buckland
had gathered enough to interrupt her with the direct
inquiry :
'You don't mean that there's anything between him
and Sidwell ? '
' I do hope not ; but I can't imagine why she should —
really, almost make a private appointment. I am very
uneasy, Buckland. I have hardly slept. Sidwell is
rather — you know '
' The deuce ! I can't stop now. Wait an hour or tw^o,
and I shall have seen the fellow. You needn't alarm
yourself. He will probably have disappeared in a few
days.'
24
370
BORN IN EXILE
'What do you, mean?' Mrs. Warricombe asked, with
nervous eagerness.
' I'll explain afterwards.'
He hurried away. Sidwell was at the breakfast-table.
Her eyes seemed to declare that she had not slept well.
With an insignificant word or two, the young man
swallowed his cup of coffee, and had soon left the
house.
Ill
The wrath which illumiued Buckland's counteuance as
he strode rapidly towards Longbrook Street was not uii-
mingled with joy. In the deep pocket of his ulster lay
something heavy which kept striking against his leg, and
every such contact spurred him with a sense of satis-
faction. All his suspicions were abundantly justified.
Not only would his father and Sidwell be obliged to
confess that his insiglit had been profouuder than theirs,
but he had tlie pleasure of standing justified l)efore his
own conscience. The philosophy by which he lived was
strikingly illustrated and confirmed.
He snilled the morning air, enjoyed the firmness of the
frozen ground, on which his boots made a pleasant thud.
To be sure, the interview before him would have its
disagjreeableness, but Buckland was not one of those
over-civilised men who shrink from every scene of pain-
ful explanation. The detection of a luirmful He was
decidedly congenial to him — especially when he and his
had been made its victims. He was now at liberty to
indulge that antipathetic feeling towards Godwin Peak
which sundry considerations liad hitherto urged him to
repress. Whatever miglit liave passed between I'eak and
Sidwell, he could not doubt that his sister's peace was
gravely endangered ; the adventurer (with however much
or little sincerity) had been making subtle love to her.
Such a thought was intoleral)le. Buckland' s _d.ass-prc-
judice asserted itself with l)rutal vigour now that it had
moral incligiiation_for.an all}-.
He had never been at Peak's lodgings, but the address
371
372 BORN IN EXILE
was long since noted. Something of disdain came into
his eyes as he approached the row of insignificant houses.
Having pulled the bell, he stood at his full height, looking
severely at the number painted on the door.
Mrs. Eoots opened to him, and said that her lodger was
at home. He gave his name, and after waiting for a
moment was led to the upper floor. Godwin, who had
breakfasted later than usual, still sat by the table. On
Warricombe's entrance, he pushed back his chair and
rose, but with deliberate movement, scarcely smiling.
That Buckland made no offer of a friendly hand did not
surprise him. The name of his visitor had alarmed him
with a sudden presentiment. Hardening his features, he
stood in expectancy.
' I want to have a talk with you,' Buckland began.
' You are at leisure, I hope ? '
' Pray sit down.'
Godwin pointed to a chair near the fire, but
Warricombe, having thrown his hat on to a side table,
seated himself liy one of the windows. His motions
proved that he found it difficult to support a semblance
of courtesy.
' I have come down from London on purpose to see you.
Unless I am strangely misinformed you have been guilty
of conduct which I shouldn't like to call by its proper
name.'
Eemembering that he was in a little house, with thin
partitions, he kept his voice low, but the effort this cost
him was obvious. He looked straight at Peak, who did
not return the gaze.
' Indeed ? * said Godwin, coldly. ' What is my crime ? '
' I am told that you have won the confidence of my
relatives by what looks like a scheme of gross dis-
honesty.'
' Indeed ? Who has told you so ? '
' No one in so many words. But I happened to come
across certain acquaintances of yours in London — people
who know you very well indeed; and I find that they
regard your position here as altogether incredible. You
will remember T had much the same feeling myself. In
BORN IN EXILE 373
support of their view it was ineiitioned to me that yuu
had published an article in llic Critical — the date less
than a year ago, ol)serve. The article was anonymous,
but I remember it very well. I have re-read it, and I
want you to tell me how the views it expresses can be
reconciled with those you have maintained in conversation
with my father.'
He drew from his pocket the incriminating periodical,
turned it back at the article headed ' The Xew Sophistry,'
and held it out for inspection.
* l^erhaps you would like to refresh your memory.'
'Needless, tliank you,' returned Godwin, with a smile —
in which the vanity of an author had its part.
Had Marcella betrayed him ? He had supposed she
knew nothing of this article, but Earwaker had perliaps
spoken of it to Moxey before receiving the injunction of
secrecy. On the other hand, it might be Earwaker him-
self from whom Warricombe had derived his information.
Not impossible for the men to meet, and Earwaker's
indignation might have led him to disregard a friend's
confidence.
The details mattered little. He was face to face with
the most serious danger that could befall liim, and ali-eady
he had strum,' himself to encounter it. Yet even in the
same moment he asked, ' Is it worth while ? '
* Did you write this ? ' Buckland inquired.
' Yes, I wrote it.'
'Then I wait for your explanation.'
* You mustn't expect me to enter upon an elaborate
defence,' Godwin replied, taking his pipe from tlie mantel-
piece and beginning to fill it. 'A man charged with
rascality can hardly help getting excited — and that
excitement, to one in your mood, seems evidence against
him. Please to bear in mind that I have never declared
myself an orthodox theologian. Mr. Warricombe is
well acquainted with my views; to yuu I have never
explained them.'
* You mean to say that my father knew of this article ? '
* No. I have not spoken of it.'
' And wdiy not ? '
374 BORN IN EXILE
' Because, for one thing, I shouldn't write in that way
now; and, for another, the essay seems to imply more
than I meant when I did write it.'
* " Seems to imply " ? I understand. You wish to
represent that this attack on M'Naughten involves no
attack on Christianity ? '
' Not on Christianity as I understand it,'
Buckland's face expressed profound disgust, but he
controlled his speech.
' Well, I foresaw this. You attacked a new sophistry,
but there is a newer sophistry still, and uncommonly
difficult it is to deal with. Mr. Peak, I have a plain word
to say to you. More than a year ago you asked me for
my goodwill, to aid you in getting a social position. Say
what you like, I see now that you dealt with me dis-
honestly. 1 can no longer be your friend in any sense,
and I shall do my best to have you excluded from my
parents' house. My father will re-read this essay — I
have marked the significant passages throughout — and
will form his own judgment; I know what it will be.'
' You are within your rights.'
' Undoubtedly,' replied Buckland, with polished insol-
ence, as he rose from his seat. ' I can't forbid you to go
to the house again, but — I hope we mayn't meet there.
It would be very unpleasant.'
Godwin was still pressing down the tobacco in the bowl
of his pipe. He smiled, and glanced about the room.
Did Warricombe know how far thinfrs had ffone between
him and Sidwell ? Whether or no, it was certain now
tliat Sidwell would be informed of this disastrous piece of
authorship — and the result ?
What did it matter? There is no struggling against
destiny. If he and Sidwell were ever fated to come
together, why, these difficulties would all be surmounted.
If, as seemed more than likely, he was again to be foiled
on the point of success — he could bear it, perhaps even
enjoy the comedy.
' There is no possibility of arguing against determined
anger,' he said, quietly. ' I am not at all inclined to plead
for justice ; one only does tliat with a friend who desires
BORN IN EXILK 375
tu ]»e just. My opinions are utterly distasteful to you,
and personal motives have made you re^Mrd me as — a
scoundrel to be got rid of. Well, tliere's an end of it. I
don't see what is to be gained by furllier talk.'
This was a dismissal. Godwin felt the necessity of
assertinfT himself thus far.
o
* One question,' said Warricombe, as he put the
periodical back into his pocket. ' What do you mean by
luy " personal motives " ? '
Their eyes met for an instant.
' I mean the motives whicli you have spoken of.'
It w\as Buckland's hope that I'eak might reveal liis
relations with Sidwell, but he shrank from seeming to
know anything of the matter. Clearly, no light was to
be had from this source.
' I am afraid,' he said, moving to the door, * that you
will find my motives shared by all the peoi)le whose
acquaintance you liave made in Exeter.'
And without further leave-taking he departed.
There was a doubt in his mind. Peak's coolness
might l)e the audacity of rascaldom ; lie preferred to
understand it so; but it miglif liave notliing to do witli
baseness.
'Confound it!' lie muttered to himself, irritably. 'In
our times life is so deucedly complicated. It used to be
the easiest thing to convict a man of religious hypocrisy ;
nowadays, one has to bear in mind such a multiplicity of
fine considerations. There's that fellow Bruno Chilvers :
mightn't anyone who had personal reasons treat him
precisely as I have treated Peak ? Both of them man
be honest. Yet in Peak's case all appearances are
against him — ^just because he is of low birth, has no
means, and wants desperately to get into society. The
fellow is a scoundrel ; I am convinced of it. Yet his
designs may be innocent. How, then, a scoundrel ?
' Poor devil ! Has he really fallen in love with
Sidwell ?
* Humlnig ! He wants position, nnd the comfort it
brings. And if he hadn't acted like a blackguard —
if he had come among* us tcdling the truth — who knows ?
376 BORN IN EXILE
Sidwell wouldn't then have thought of him, but for my
own part I would willingly have given him a hand.
There are plenty of girls who have learned to think for
themselves.'
This was an unhappy line of reflection. It led to
Sylvia Moorhouse — and to grinding of the teeth. By the
time he reached the house, Buckland was again in
remorseless mood.
He would have it out with Sidwell. The desire of
proving to her that he had been right from the first
i overrode all thought of the pain he might inflict.
She was in the library. At breakfast he had noticed
her heavy eyes, and that she made only a pretence of
eating. She was now less unlike herself, but her position at
the window showed that she had been waiting impatiently.
' Isn't mother coming down to-day ? ' he asked.
' Yes ; after luncheon she will go out for an hour, if it
keeps fine.'
'And to-morrow you return ?'
' If mother feels able to travel.'
He had The Critical in his hand, and stood rustling the
pages with his fingers.
' I have been to see Peak.'
' Have you ? '
She moved a few steps and seated herself sideways on
a small chair.
'My business with him was confoundedly unpleasant.
I'm glad it's over. I wish I had known what I now do
half a year ago.'
* Let me hear what it is.'
'You remember that I told you to be on your guard
against Peak ? '
Sidwell smiled faintly, and glanced at him, but made no
answer.
' I knew he wasn't to be trusted,' pursued her brother,
with gloomy satisfaction. * And I had far better means
of judging than father or you ; but, of course, my
suspicions were ungenerous and cynical.'
' Will you come to the point ? ' said Sidwell, in an
irritated tone.
BORN IN EXILE 377
'I tliink you read this article in The Critical T He
approacliLHl and sliowed it to her. ' We spoke of it once,
a propos of ^rXaughten's book.'
She raised her eyes, and met liis with a look of concern
she couhl not disguise.
'AVhat of that?'
' Peak is the author of it. It seems to liave l)een
written just about the time when I met him and l)rouglit
him here as a visitor, and it was puldished after he
had begun to edify you with his zeal for Christianity.'
She held out her hand.
' You remember the tone of the thing ? ' Buckland
added. * I'll leave it with you ; but just glance at one
or two of the passages I have marked. The Anglicanism
of their writer is decided^ " broad," it seems to me.'
He moved apart and watched his sister as she bent
over the pages. There was silence for five minutes.
Seeing that Sidwell had ceased to read, he ejaculated,
'Well?'
'Has Mr. Peak admitted the authorship?' she asked,
slowly and distinctly.
'Yes, and with a cool impudence I hardly expected.*
'Do you mean that he has made no attempt to justify
himself ? '
'None worth listening to. Practically, he refused an
explanation.'
Sidwell rested her forehead lightly upon the tips of
her fingers; the periodical slii)i)ed from her lap and lay
open on the Hoor.
' How did you find this out ? '
' In the simplest way. Knowing perfectly well that
I had only to get familiar with some of his old
friends to obtain proof that he was an impostor, I followed
u}) my acquaintance with Miss jMoxey — got hold of her
brotlier — called upon them. AVhilst I was there, a man
named Malkin came in, and somehow or other he began
talking of Peak. I learned at once i)recisely what I
expected, that Peak was known to all these people as
a violent anti-Christian. ]\Ialkin refused to believe the
story of his going in for the Church — it sounded to him
378 BORN IN EXILE
a mere joke. Then came out the fact that he had written
this article. They all knew about it.'
He saw a Hush of shame upon Sidwell's half-hidden
face. It gratified him. He was resolved to let her taste
all the bitterness of her folly.
' It seems pretty clear that the Moxeys — at all events
Miss Moxey — knew the rascally part he was playing.
Whether they wished to unmask him, or not, I can't
say. Perhaps not. Yet I caught an odd look on Miss
Moxey's face when that man Malkin began to talk of
Peak's characteristics and achievements. It came out,
by-the-bye, that he had given all his acquaintances the
slip ; they had completely lost sight of him — I suppose
until Miss Moxey met him by chance at Budleigh Salter-
ton. There's some mystery still. She evidently kept
Peak's secret from the Moorhouses and the Walworths.
A nice business, altogether ! '
Again there was a long silence. Then Sid well raised
her face and said, abruptly :
* You may l)e quite mistaken.'
' How ? '
' You went to Mr. Peak in a spirit of enmity and
anger. It is not likely he would explain himself. You
may have quite misunderstood what he said.'
' Eidiculous 1 You mean that he was perhaps " con-
verted " after writing this article ? — Then why did he
allow it to be published ? '
'He did not sign it. He may have been unable to
withdraw it from the editor's hands.'
' Bosh ! He didn't sign it, because the idea of this
Exeter campaign came between the reception and the
appearance of his paper. In the ordinary course of
things, he would have been only too glad to see his
name in The Critical. The scoundrelly project was
conceived perhaps the very day that I brought him
here — perhaps in that moment — at lunch, do you re-
member ? — when he began to talk of the sermon at
the Cathedral ? '
' AVhy did he go to the Cathedral and hear that sermon ? '
' To amuse a Sunday morning, I suppose.'
BORN IN EXILE 370
' Tliat is not very likely in a man whu liatcs and
ridicules religion.'
* It is decidedly more probable tlian the idea of liis
conversion.'
Sidwell fell back again into her brooding attitude.
'The reason of your mistake in judging him,' resumed
Buckland, with emphasis, ' is that you have undervalued
his intellect. I told you long ago that a man of Peak's
calibre could not possibly be a supporter of dogmas and
churches. No amount of plausiljle evidence would have
made me believe in his sincerity. Let me beg you to
appreciate the simple fact, that no young man of
brains and education is nowadays an honest defender
of medicL'val Christianity — the Christianity of your
r'hnrchps! Such fellows may transact with their con-
science, and make a more or less decent business of the
clerical career ; or, in rare cases, they may believe that
society is served by the maintenance of a national faith,
and accordingly preach with all manner of mental re-
serves and symbolical interpretations. These are in
reality politicians, not priests. But Peak l)elongs to
neither class. He is an acute cynic, bent on making
the best of this world, since he believes in no other.
How he must have chuckled after every visit to this
house ! He despises you, one and all. Believe me,
he regards you with profound contempt.'
Buckland's obtu seness on the imagiiiaiivc side sj.ared
hi m the understanding^ of his sister's state of mind.
Though in theory he recognised that women were little
amenable to reasoning, he took it for granted that a
clear demonstration of Peak's duplicity must at once
banish all thought of him from Sidwell's mind. There-
fore he was unsparing in his assaults upon her delusion.
It surprised him when at length Sidwell looked up
with flashing, tear-dewed eyes and addressed him in-
dignantly :
* In all this there is not one word of truth ! You
know that in representing the clergy as a body of ignorant
and shallow men you speak out of prejudice. If you
believed what you say, you would be yourself both igno-
380 BORN IN EXILE
rant and shallow. I can't trust your judgment of anyone
whatever.'
She paused, but in a moment added the remark which
would have come first had she spoken in the order of
her thoughts.
' It is because the spirit of contempt is so familiar to
you that you are so ready to perceive it in others. I
consider that habit of mind worse than hypocrisy — yes,
worse, far worse ! '
Buckland was sorry for the pain he had given. The
retort did not affect him, but he hung his head and
looked uncomfortable. His next speech was in a milder
strain :
' I feel it a duty, Sidwell, to represent this man to
you in what I verily believe to be the true light. To
be despised by one who is immeasurably contemptible
surely can't distress you. If a butler gets into your
house by means of a forged character, and then lays
his plans for a great burglary, no doubt he scorns you
for being so easily taken in, — and that is an exact
parallel to Peak's proceedings. He has somehow got__
the exterior of a gentleman ; you could not believe that
one who behaved so agreeably and talked so well was
concealing an essentially base nature. But I must re-
mind you that Peak belongs by origin to the lower
classes, which is as much as to say that he lacks the
sense of honour generally inherited by men of our world.
A powerful intellect by no means implies a correspond-
ing development of the moral sense.'
Sidwell could not close her ears against the argument.
But her features were still set in an expression of resent-
ment, and she kept silence lest her voice should sound
tearful.
'And don't be tempted by personal feeling,' pursued
her brother, ' to make light of hypocrisy — especially this
kind. The man who can act such a part as Peak's has
been for the last twelve months must be capable of
any depravity. It is difficult for you to estimate his
baseness, because you are only half convinced that any
one can really be an enemy of religious faith. You
BORN IN EXILE 381
suspect a lurkinic belief even in the minds of avowed
atheists, liut take the assurance from me that a man
like Peak (and I am at one with him in this matter)
regards with absolute repugnance every form of super-
naturalism. For him to aflect belief in your religion,
is a crime against conscience. Peak has connnitted this
crime with a mercenary motive, — what viler charge
could be brought against him ? '
Without looking at him, his sister replied :
' Whether he is guilty or not, I can't yet determine.
But the motive of his life here was not mercenary.'
* Then how would you describe it ? ' Buckland asked,
in astonishment.
' I only know that it can't be called mercenary.'
'Then the distinction you draw must be a very fine
one. — He has abandoned the employment by which he
lived, and by his own admission he looks to tlie Church
for means of support. It was necessary for him to
make interest with people of social position ; the closer
his relations with them the better. From month to
month he has worked skilfully to establish his footing
in this house, and among your friends. What do you
call this ? '
She had no verbal answer to make, Ijut her look
declared that she held to another interpretation.
• ' Well,' Buckland added, impatiently, ' we will hear
father's opinion. He, remember, has been deceived in
a very gross and cruel way. Possibly he may help you
to see the thing in all its hatefulness.'
Sidwell turned to him.
' You go to London this afternoon ? '
'In an hour or two,' he replied, consulting his
watch.
' Is it any use my asking you to keep silence about
everything until I am back in town ? '
Buckland frowned and hesitated.
' To mother as well as father, you mean ? '
' Yes. Will you d(j me this kindness ] '
'Answer me a question, Sidwell. Have you any
thought of seeing Peak ? '
382 BORN IN EXILE
' I can't say,' she replied, in agitation. ' 1 must leave
myself free. I have a right to use my own judg-
ment.'
' Don't see him ! I beg you not to see him ! '
He was so earnest that Sidwell suspected some other
reason in his request than regard for her dignity.
' I must leave myself free,' she repeated, with shaking
voice. ' In any case I shall be back in London to-morrow
evening — that is, if — but I am sure mother will wish
to go. Grant me this one kindness ; say nothing here
or there till I am back and have seen you again.'
He turned a deaf ear, for the persistency with which
she resisted proof of Peak's dishonour had begun to
alarm him. Who could say what miserable folly she
might commit in the next four - and - twenty hours ?
The unavoidable necessity of his own return exasperated
him ; he wished to see her safe back in London, and
under her father's care.
' No,' he exclaimed, with a gesture of determination ;
' I can't keep such a thing as this secret for another
hour. Mother must know at once — especially as you
mean to invite that fellow into the house again. — I
have half a mind to telegraph to Godolphin that I can't
possibly be with him to-night.'
Sidwell regarded him and spoke with forced com-
posure.
'Do as seems right to you, Buckland. But don't
think that by remaining here you would prevent me
from seeing Mr. Peak, if I wish to do so. That is treat-
ing me too much like a child. You have done your
part — doubtless your duty ; now I must reflect and
judge for myself. Neither you nor anyone else has
authority over me in such circumstances.'
'Very well. I have no authority, as you say, but
common sense bids me let mother know how the case
stands.'
And angrily he left the room.
TIlc Critical still lay where it had fallen. When
Sidwell had stood a while in confused thought, her eye
turned to it, and she went hurriedly to take it up.
BORN IN EXILK 383
Yes, that was the tirst thing to be dune, to read those
pages witli close care. For this she must liave privacy.
She ran upstairs and shut herself in her hedrooni.
But did not at once begin to read. It concerned
her deeply to know whether Teak had so expressed
himself in this paper, that no room was left for doubt
as to his convictions ; but another question pressed upon
her with even more urgency — could it be true that
he did not love her ? If Buckland were wholly right,
then it mattered little in wliat degree she had been
misled by intellectual hypocrisy.
It was impossible to believe that I'eak liad made love
to her in cold blood, with none but sordid impulses.
The thought was so humiliating that her mind re-
solutely rejected it ; and she had no difficulty in recall-
ino: numberless minutiie of behaviour — nuances of look
and tone such as abide in a woman's memory — any
one of which would have sufficed to persuade her that
he felt genuine emotion. How had it come to pass
that a feeling of friendly interest, which did not for
a nioment threaten her peace, changed all at once to an
agitation only the more persistent tlie more she tried
to subdue it, — how, if it were not that her heart re-
sponded to a passionate appeal, effectual as only the
sincerest love can prove ? Prior to that long talk with
Godwin, on the eve of her departure for London, she
had not imagined that he loved her ; wlien they said
good-bye to each other, she knew by her own sensations
all that the parting meant to him. She felt glad,
instead of sorry, that they were not to meet again for
several months ; for she wished to think of liim calmly
and prudently, now that he presented himself to her
imagination in so new an aspect. The hand-clasp was
a mutual assurance of fidelity.
'I should never liave loved liim, if he had nut lirst
loved me. Of that I am as firmly convinced as of my
own existence. It is not in my nature to dream
romances. I never did so even as a young girl, and at
this age I am not likely to fall into a loulish self-
deception. I had often thought about liim. He seemed
384 BORN IN EXILE
to me a man of higher and more complex type than
those with whom I was familiar ; but most surely I
never attributed to him even a correspondiug interest
in me. I am neither vain, nor very anxious to please ;
I never suffered because men did not woo me; I
have only moderate good looks, and certainly no un-
common mental endowments. — If he had been attracted
by Sylvia, I should have thought it natural ; and I more
than once suspected that Sylvia was disposed to like
him. It seemed strange at first that his choice should
have fallen upon me ; yet when I was far away from
him, and longed so to sit once more by him and hear
him talk, I understood that it might be in my power to
afford him the companionship he needed. — Mercenary ?
If I had been merely a governess in the house, he would
have loved me just the same ! '
Only by a painful effort could she remind herself that
the ideal which had grown so slowly was now defaced.
He loved her, but it was not the love of an honest man.
After all, she had no need to peruse this writing of his;
she remembered so well how it had impressed her
wdien she read it on its first appearance, how her father
had spoken of it. Buckland's manifold evidence was
irresistible. Why should Peak have concealed his author-
ship ? Why had he disappeared from among the people
who thoroughly kuew him ?
She had loved a dream. What a task would it be to
distinguish between those parts of Peak's conversation
which represented his real thoughts, and those which
were mockery of his listeners ! The plan of a retired life
which he had sketched to her — was it all falsehood ?
Impossible, for his love was inextricably blended with
the details. Did he imagine that the secret of his
unbelief could be preserved for a lifetime, and that it
would have no effect whatever upon his happiness as a
man? This seemed a likely reading of the pro-
blem. But what a multitude of moral and intellectual
obscurities remained ! The character which had seemed
to her nobly simple was become a dark and dread
BORN IN KXILE 385
She knew so little of his life. If only it could nil be
laid bare to her, the secret of his position would be
revealed. Buckland's violence altoL^a^ther missed its mark ;
the dishonour of such a man as Godwin Teak was due to
no gross incentive.
It was probable that, in talk with her father, he had
been guilty of more deliberate misrepresentation than had
marked his intercourse with the rest of the family. Her
father, she felt sure, had come to regard him as a valuable
source of argument in the battle against materialism.
Doubtless the CJernian book, which l*eak was translating,
bore upon tliat debate, and consequently was used as an
aid to dissimulation. Thinking of this, she all but shared
her brother's vehement feeling. It pained her to the
inmost heart that her father's generous and candid nature
should thus have been played upon. The deceit. as,iL
concemecMierself alone, she could forgive* at least she
could sus}»end "judgment until tlie accused had offered his
defence — feeling that the psychology of the case nmst
till then be beyond her powers of analysis. l>ut the
wrong done to her father revolted her.
A tap at the door caused her to rise, trembling. She
rememl)ered that by this time her mother must be aware
of the extraordinary disclosure, and that a new scene of
wretched agitation had to be gone through.
'Sid well!'
It was Mrs. Warricombe's voice, and the door
opened.
' Sidwell ! — What docs all tliis mean? 1 don't under-
stand half that liuckland lias been telling me.'
The speaker's face was mottled, and she stood })anting,
a hand pressed against her side.
' How very, very imprudent we have been ! How wrong
of father not to have made incpuries ! To think tliat such
a man should have sat at (jur table ! '
' Sit down, mother; don't be so distressed,' said Sidwell,
calmly. ' It will all very soon be settled.'
* Of course not a word must be said to anyone. How
very fortunate that we sliall be in London till the
summer! Of course lie must leave Kxeter.'
386 BORN IN EXILE
' I have no doubt he will. Let us talk as little of it as
possible, mother. AVe sliall go back to-niorvow '
' This afternoon ! We will go back with Buckland.
That is decided. I couldn't sleep here another
night.'
' We must remain till to-morrow,' Sidwell replied, with
quiet determination.
' Why ? What reason can there be ? '
Mrs. Warricombe's voice was suspended by a horrible
surmise.
' Of course we shall go to-day, Sidwell,' she continued,
in nervous haste. ' To think of that man having: the
impudence to call and sit talking with you ! If I could
have dreamt '
' Mother,' said Sidwell, gravely, ' I am obliged to see
Mr. Peak, either this evening or to-morrow morning.'
'To — to see him ? Sidwell! What can you
mean ? '
' I have a reason for wishing to hear from his own lips
the whole truth.'
' But we knoio the whole truth ! — What can you be
thinking of, dear ? Who is this Mr. Peak that you
should ask him to come and see you, under any circum-
stances ? '
It would never have occurred to Sidwell to debate witli
her mother on subtle questions of character and motive,
but the agitation of her nerves made it difficult for her to
keep silence under these vapid outcries. She desired to
be alone ; commonplace discussion of the misery that had
come upon her was impossible. A little more strain, and
she w^ould be on the point of tears, a weakness she was
resolute to avoid.
' Let me think quietly for an hour or two,' she said,
moving away. ' It's quite certain that I must stay here
till to-morrow. When Buckland has gone, we can talk
again.'
' But, Sidwell '
* If you insist, I must leave the house, and find a refuge
somewhere else.'
Mrs. Warricombc tossed her head.
BORN IN KXILK 387
* Oh, if I am not permitted to speak to you ! I only
hope you won't have occasion to remember my warning !
Such extraordinary behaviour was surely never known !
I should have thought '
Sidwell was by this time out of the ruum. Safe in
privacy she sat down as if to pen a letter. From an
hour's agitated thought, the following lines resulted :
* ]\Iy brother has told me of a conversation he huld with
you this morning. He says you admit the authorship of
an article which seems quite inconsistent with what you
have professed in our talks. How am I to understand
this contradiction ? I beg that you will write to me
at once. I shall anxiously await your reply.'
This, with her signature, was all. Having enclosed the
note in an envelope, she left it on her table and went
down to the library, where Buckland was sitting alone
in gloomy reverie. Mrs. Warricombe had told him of
Sidwell's incredible purpose. Eecognising his sister's
independence, and feeling sure that if she saw Peak it
could only be to take final leave of him, he had decided
to say no more. To London he must perforce return this
afternoon, but he had done his duty satisfactorily, and
just in time. It was plain that things had gone far
between Peak and Sidwell ; the latter's behaviour avowed
it. But danger there could be none, with * The New
Sophistry ' staring her in the eyes. Let her see the
fellow, by all means. His evasions and hair-splittings
would complete her deliverance.
' There's a train at 1.53,' Buckland remarked, rising,
* and I shall catch it if I start now. I can't stay for the
discomfort of luncheon. You remain here till to-morrow,
I understand ? '
' Yes.'
' It's a pity you are angry witli me. It seems to me I
have done you a kindness.'
' I am not angry with you, Buckland,' she replied,
gently. ' You ha^'e done wliat you were i)lainly obliged
to do.'
' That's a sensible way of putting it. Let us say good-
bye with friendliness then.'
388 BORN IN EXILE
Sidwell gave her hand, and tried to smile. With a
look of pained affection, Buckland went silently away.
Shortly after, Sidwell fetched her note from upstairs,
and gave it to the housekeeper to be delivered by hand as
soon as possible. Mrs. Warricombe remained invisible,
and Sidwell went back to the library, where she sat with
The Critical open before her at Godwin's essay.
Hours went by; she still waited for an answer from
Longbrook Street.
At six o'clock she went upstairs and spoke to her
mother.
' Shall you come down to dinner ? '
' No, Sidwell,' was the cold reply. ' Be so good as to
excuse me.'
Towards eight, a letter was brought to her; it could
only be from Godwin Peak. With eyes which en-
deavoured to take in all at once, and therefore could at
first distinguish nothing, she scanned what seemed to be
hurriedly written lines.
' I have tried to answer you in a long letter, but after
all I can't send it. I fear you wouldn't understand.
Better to repeat simply that I wrote the article you
speak of. I should have told you about it some day, but
now my intentions and hopes matter nothing. Whatever
I said now would seem dishonest pleading. Good-bye.'
She read this so many times that at length she had
but to close her eyes to see every word clearly traced on
the darkness. The meanings she extracted from each
sentence were scarcely less numerous than her perusals.
In spite of reason, this enigmatic answer brought her
some solace. He could defend himself; that was the
assurance she had longed for. Impossible (she again and
again declared to herself with emphasis) for their intimacy
to be resumed. But in secret she could hold him, if not
innocent, at all events not base. She had not bestowed
her love upon a mere impostor.
But now a mournful, regretful passion began to
weigh upon her heart. She shed tears, and presently
stole away to her room for a night of sorrow.
i
BORN IN EXILE 389
"What must be her practical course ? If she went back
to London without addressing another word to liini, lie
must understand her silence as a final farewell. In that
case his departure from Exeter would, no doubt, speedily
follow, and there was little likelihood that she would ever
again see him. Were Godwin a vulgar schemer, he would
not so readily relinquish the advantage he had gained ;
he would calculate upon the weakness of a loving woman,
and make at least one effort to redeem his position. As
it was, she could neither hope nor fear that he would try
to see her again. Yet she wished to see him, desired it
ardently.
And yet — for each impulse of ardour was followed by
a cold fit of reasoning — might not his abandonment of the
position bear a meaning such as Buckland would of course
attribute to it ? If he were hopeless of the goodwill of
her parents, what profit would it be to him to retain her
love ? She was no heiress ; supposing him actuated by
base motive, her value in his eyes came merely of his
regarding her as a means to an end.
But this was to reopen the question of whether or not
he truly loved her. No ; he was forsaking her because he
thought it impossible for her to pardon the deceit he had
undeniably practised — with whatever palliating circum-
stances. He wa? overcome with shame. He imagined
her indignant, sccrnful.
"Why had she written such a short, cold note, the very
thing to produce in his mind a conviction of her resent-
ment ?
Hereupon came another paroxysm of tearful misery.
It was intensified by a thought she had half consciously
been repressing ever since the conversation with her
brother. Was it true that Miss ^Moxey had had it in her
power to strip Godwin of a disguise i What, then, were
the relations existing between him and that strangely
impressive woman ? How long had they known each
other ? It was now all but certain that a strong intel-
lectual sympathy united their minds — and perhaps there
had been something more.
She turned her face u]M)n the ])illow and monned.
IV
And from the Moxeys Buckland had derived his in-
formation. What was it he said — something about ' an
odd look' on Miss McJxey's face when that friend of
theirs talked of Peak ? Might not such a look signify a
conflict between the temptation to injure and the desire
to screen ?
Sidwell constructed a complete romance. Ignorance of
the past of both persons concerned allowed her imagina-
tion free play. There was no limit to the possibilities of
self-torment.
The desire to see Godwin took such hold upon her,
that she had already begun to think over the wording of
another note to be sent to him the first thing in the
morning. His reply had been insufficient : simple justice
required that she should hear him in his ow^n defence
before parting with him for ever. If she kept silence, he
would always remember her with bitterness, and this
would make her life-long sorrow harder to bear. Sidwell
was one of those few women whose love, never demon-
strative, never exigent, only declares itself in all its
profound significance when it is called upon to pardon.
What was likely to be the issue of a meeting with
Godwin she could not foresee. It seemed all but im-
possible for their intercourse to continue, and their
coming face to face might result in nothing l3ut distress
to both, better avoided; yet judgment yielded to emotion.
Yesterday — only yesterday — she had yielded herself to
the joy of loving, and before her consciousness had had
time to make itself familiar with its new realm, before
31)0
BORN IN EXILE 391
her eyes had grown accustomed to the light suddenly
shed about her, she was bidden to think of what liad
happened as only a dream. Her heart refused to make
surrender of its hope. Thougli it could be held only by
an encoui-agement of recognised illusion, she preferred to
dream yet a little longer. Above all, she must taste the
luxury of forgiving her lovei', of making sure that her
image would not dwell in his mind as that of a self-
righteous woman wlio had turned coldly from his error,
perhaps from his repentance.
A little after midnight, she rose from bed, slipped on
her dressing-gown, and sat down by the still burning
lamp to write what her passion dictated :
' Why should you distrust my ability, or my willingness
to understand you ? It would have been so nnich better
if you had sent what you first wrote. These few lines do
not even let me know whether you think yourself to
blame. Why do you leave me to form a judgment of
things as they appear on the surface ? If you icish to
explain, if you sincerely feel that I am in danger of
wronging you by misconstruction, come to me as soon as
you have received this note. If you will not come, then
at least write to me — the letter you at first tliought
of sending. This afternoon (Friday) I return to London,
but you know my address there. Don't tliink because I
wrote so briefly that I have judged you. S. W.'
Tu liave connnitted this to paper was a relief. In the
morning she would read it over and consider again
whether she wished to send it.
On the tal)le lay The Critical. She opened it once
more at the page that concerned her, and glayced over
the first few lines. Then, having put the lamp nearer
to the bed, slie again lay down, not to sleep but to
read.
This e ssay .was not so repugnant to her mind or her
feelings as when she first became acquainted with it.
Its l)itterness no longer seemed to l)e directed against
herself. Tliere was niucli in it witli wliirh slie could
392 BORN IN EXILE
have agreed at any time during the last six months, and
many strokes of satire, which till the otlier day would have
ofiended her, she now felt to be legitimate. As she read
on, a kind of anger such as she had never experienced
trembled along her nerves. Was it not flagrantly true
that English society at large made profession of a faith
which in no sense whatever it could be said sincerely to
hold ? Was there not every reason to believe that
thousands of people keep up an ignoble formalism,
i because they feared the social results of declaring their
I severance from the religion of the churches ? This was
a monstrous evil ; slie had never till this moment
understood the scope of its baneful effects. But for the
prevalence of such a spirit of hypocrisy, Godwin Peak
would never liave sinned against his honour. Why was
it not declared in trumpet-tones of authority, from end
to end of the Christian world, that Christianity, as it
has been understood through the ages, can no longer
be accepted ? For that was the truth, the truth, the
truth !
She lay back, quivering as if with terror. For an
instant her soul had been filled with hatred of the
religion for which she could once have died. It had
stood before her as a power of darkness and ignorance,
to be assailed, crushed, driven from the memory of
man.
Last night she had hardly slept, and now, though her
body was numb with weariness, lier mind kept up a
feverish activity. She .was bent on excusing Godwin, and.
the only way in which she could do so was by arraigning
the world for its huge dislionesty. In a condition between
slumber and waking, she seemed to plead for him before
a circle of Pharisaic accusers. Streams of silent elo-
quence rushed through her brain, and the spirit winch
prompted her was closely akin to that of 'The New
Sophistry.' Now and then, for a few seconds, she was
smitten with a consciousness of extraordinary change in
her habits of thouglit. She looked about her with wide,
fearful eyes, and endeavoured to see things in the
familiar aspect. As if with physical constraint her angry
BORN IN EXILE 303
imagination again overcame her, until at length fiom
the penumbra of sleep she passed into its piotoundest
gloom.
To wake when dawn was pale at the window. A
chokinjiT odour reminded her that she had not ex-
tinguished the lamp, which must liave gone out for lack
of oil. She opened the window, took a draught of water,
and addressed herself to sleep again. But in recollecting
what the new day meant for her, she had spoilt the
chances of longer rest. Her head ached ; all worldly
thoughts were repulsive, yet she could not dismiss them.
She tried to repeat the prayers she had known since
childhood, but they were meaningless, and a sense of
shame attached to their utterance.
When the first gleam of sun told her that it was past
eight o'clock, she made an eflbrt and rose.
At breakfast Mrs. Warricombe talked of tlie depart ui-e
for London. She mentioned an early train; by getting
ready as soon as the meal was over, they could easily
reach the station in time. Sidwell made no direct reply
and seemed to assent ; but when they rose from the table,
she said, nervously :
' 1 couldn't speak l)efore the servants. I wish to stay
here till the afternoon.'
' Why, Sidwell ? '
' I have asked ]\Ir. Teak to come and see me this
morning.'
Her mother knew that expostulation was useless, but
could not refrain from a long harangue made up of
warning and reproof.
'You have very little consideration for me,' was her
final remark. 'Now we slian't get home till after dark,
and of course my throat will he l)ad again.'
Glad of the anti-climax, Sidwell rejilied that the day
was much warmer, and tliat witli care no liarm need come
of the journey.
'It's easy to say that, Sidwell. I never knew you to
behave so selfishly, never ! '
' Don't be angry with me, mother. You don't know
how grieved I am to distress you so. I can't help it,
394 BORN IN EXILE
dear ; indeed, I can't. Won't you sacrifice a few hours to
put my mind at rest ? '
Mrs. Warricombe once more gave expression to her
outraged feelings. Sidwell could only listen silently
with bent head.
If Godwin were coming at all, he would be here by
eleven o'clock. Sidwell had learnt that her letter was
put into his hands. She asked him to come at once, and
nothing but a resolve not to meet her could delay him
more than an hour or two.
At half-past ten the bell sounded. She was sitting in
the library with her back turned to the door. When a
voice announced ' Mr. Peak,' she did not at once rise,
and with a feeling akin to terror slie heard the footstep
slowly approaching. It stopped at some distance from
her; then, overcoming a weakness which threatened
to clog her as in a nightmare, she stood up and looked
round.
Peak wore neither overcoat nor gloves, but otherwise
was dressed in the usual way. As Sidwell fixed her eyes
upon him, he threw his hat into a chair and came a step
or two nearer. Whether he had passed the night in
sleep or vigil could not be determined ; 1)ut his look was
one of shame, and he did not hold himself so upright as
was his wont.
' Will you come and sit down ? ' said Sidwell, pointing
to a chair not far from that on which one of her hands
rested.
He moved forward, and was about to pass near her,
when Sidwell involuntarily held her hand to him. He
took it and gazed into her face with a melancholy
smile.
* What does it mean ? ' she asked, in a low voice.
He relinquished her fingers, which he had scarcely
pressed, and stood witli his arms behind his back.
' Oh, it's all quite true,' was his reply, wearily
spoken.
' What is true ? '
' All that you have heard from your brother.'
BORN IN EXILE 395
* All ? — But how can you know what he has said ? '
They looked at each other. l*eak's lips were set as if
in resistance of emotion, and a frown wrinkled his brows.
Sidwell's gaze was one of fear and appeal.
* lie said, of course, that I had deceived you.'
* But in what ? — Was there no truth in anything you
said to me ? '
'To you I have spoken far more truth than false-
hood.'
A light shone in her eyes, and her lips quivered.
'Then,' she murmured, ' Buckland was not riglit in
everything.'
* I understand. He wished you to believe that my love
was as much a pretence as my religion ? '
* He said that.'
'It was natural enough. — And you were disposed to
believe it ? '
' I thought it impossible. But I should liave thouglit
the same of the other things.'
Peak nodded, and moved away. Watching him, Sidwell
was beset with conflicting impulses. His assurance had
allayed her worst misgiving, and she ai)proved the self-
restraint with which he bore himself, but at the same
time she longed for a passionate declaration. As a
reasoning woman, she did her utmost to remember tliat
Peak was on his defence before her, and that nothing
could pass between them but grave discussion of the
motives which had impelled him to dishonourable he-
haviour. As a woman in love, she would fain have
obscured tlie moral issue by indulgence of her lieart's
desire. She was glad that he lield aloof, but if lie had
taken her in his arms, she would have forgotten every-
thing in tlie moment's happiness.
'Let us sit down, and tell me — tell me all you
can.'
He delayed a moment, then seated himsi'lf opposite to
her. She saw now that his movements were those of
physical fatigue; and the full light from the window,
enabling her to read his face more distinctly, revealed the
impress of suffering. Instead of calling upon him to
396 BORN IN EXILE
atone in such measure as was possible for the wrong
he had done her, she felt ready to reproach herself
for speaking coldly when his need of solace was so
great.
' What can I tell you/ he said, ' that you don't know,
or that you can't conjecture ? '
' But you wrote that there was so much I could not
be expected to understand. And I can't, can't under-
stand you. It still seems impossible. Why did you
hide the truth from me ? '
* Because if I had begun by telling it, I should never
have won a kind look or a kind thought from you.'
Sidwell reflected.
' But what did you care for me then — when it
began ? '
' Not so much as I do now, but enough to overthrow
all the results of my life up to that time. Before I
met you in this house I had seen you twice, and had
learned who you were. I was sitting in the Cathedral
when you came there with your sister and Miss Moor-
house — do you remember ? I heard Fanny call you by
your name, and that brought to my mind a young girl
whom I had known in a slight way years before. And
the next day I again saw you there, at the service ; I
waited about the entrance only to see you. I cared
enough for you then to conceive a design which for
a long time seemed too hateful really to be carried out,
but — at last it was, you see.'
Sidwell breathed quickly. Nothing he could have
urged for himself would have affected her more deeply
than this. To date back and extend the period of
his love for her was a flattery more subtle than Peak
imagined.
' Why didn't you tell me that the day before yester-
day ? ' she asked, with tremulous bosom.
' I had no wish to remind myself of baseness in the
midst of a pure joy.'
She was silent, then exclaimed, in accents of pain :
'Why should you have thought it necessary to be
other than yourself ? Couldn't you see, at first meeting
BORN IN EXILE 397
with us, that we were not bigoted people? Didn't
you know that IJuekhmd liad accustomed us to under-
stand liow common it is nowadays for people to throw
oir the old relii^don ? Would father liave looked cohlly
on you if he liad known that you followed where so
many good and tlioughtful men w'ere leading ? '
He regarded her anxiously.
* I Iiad heard from Buckland that your father was
strongly prejudiced ; that you also were quite out of
sympathy witli the new thought.'
* He exaggerated — even then.'
'Exaggerated? But on what plea could I have come
to live in this neighbourhood ? How could I have
kept you in sight — tried to win your interest? I had
no means, no position. The very thought of encouraging
my love for you demanded some extraordinary step.
What course was open to me ? '
Sid well let her head droop.
' I don't know. You might perhaps liave discovered
a way.'
* But what was the use, when the mere fact of my
heresy would have forbidden hope from the out-
set?'
* Why should it have done so ? '
' Why ? You know very well that you could never
even have been friendly witli the man who wrote that
tiling in the review.'
' But here is the proof how much better it is to
behave truthfully! In this last year I have changed
so much that I find it difhcult to understand the
strength of my former prejudices. What is it to me
now that you speak scornfully of attempts to reconcile
things that can't be reconciled ? I understand the new
thought, and liow natural it is for you to accept it.
If only I could have come to know you well, your
opinions w^ould not have stood between us.'
Peak made a slight gesture, and smiled incredulously.
' You think so now.'
' And I have such good reason for my thought,' rejoined
Sid well, earnestly, ' that when you said you loved me, my
398 BORN IN EXILE
only regret in looking to the future was — that you had
resolved to be a clergyman.'
He leaned back in the chair, and let a hand fiill on
his knee. The gesture seemed to signify a weary
relinquishment of concern in what they were dis-
cussing.
' How could I foresee that ? ' he uttered, in a corre-
sponding tone.
Sidwell was made uneasy by the course upon which
she had entered. To what did her words tend ? If
only to a demonstration that fate had used him as the
plaything of its irony — if, after all, she had nothing
to say to him but ' See how your own folly has ruined
you,' then she had better have kept silence. She not
only appeared to be offering him encouragement, but
was in truth doing so. She wished him to understand
that his way of thinking was no obstacle to her love,
and with that purpose she was even guilty of a slight
misrepresentation. For it was only since the shock
of this disaster that she had clearly recognised the
change in her own mind. True, the regret of which
she spoke had for an instant visited her, but it repre-
sented a mundane solicitude rather than an intellectual
scruple. It had occurred to her how much brighter
would be their prospect if Peak were but an active
man of the world, with a career before him distinctly
suited to his powers.
His contention was undeniably just. The influence
to which she had from the first submitted was the same
that her father felt so strongly. Godwin interested her
as a self-reliant champion of the old faiths, and his
personal characteristics would never have awakened such
sympathy in her but for that initial recommendation.
Natural prejudice would have prevented her from per-
ceiving the points of kindred between his temperament
and her own. His low origin, the ridiculous stories
connected with his youth — why had she, in spite of
likelihood, been able to disregard these things ? Only
because of what slie then deemed his spiritual value.
Lut for the dishonourable part he liad jok^-yed, this
BORN IN EXILE 309
bond of love would never Imve l)een formed between
them. The thought was a new apology for his trans-
gression ; she could not but defy her conscience, and
look indulgently on the evil which had borne such fruit.
Godwin had begun to speak again.
* This is quite in keeping with the tenor of my whole
life. Whatever I undertake ends in frustration at a
point where success seems to have just come within my
reach. Great things and triHes — it's all the same. ]\Iy
course at College was broken off at the moment when
T might have assured my future. Later, I made many
an effort to succeed in literature, and when at length
something of mine was printed in a leading review,
I could not even sign it, and had no profit from the
attention it excited. Now — well, you see. Laughable,
isn't it ? '
Sidwell scarcely withheld herself from bending forward
and i^ivins^ him her hand.
* What shall you do ? ' she asked.
' Oh, I am not afraid. I have still enough money
left to support me until I can find some occupation of
the old kind. Fortunately, I am not one of those men
whose brains have no marketable value.'
' If you knew how it pains me to hear you ! '
'If I didn't believe that, I couldn't speak to you like
this. I never thought you would let me see you again,
and if you hadn't asked me to come, I could never
have brought myself to face you. But it would have
been a miserable thing to go off without even knowing
what you thought of me.'
' Should you never have written to me ? '
' I think not. You find it hard to imagine that I
have any pride, no doubt ; but it is there, explain it
liow one may.'
* It would have been wrong to leave me in such
uncertainty.'
' Uncertainty ? '
' About you — about your future.'
'Did you quite mean that? Ilathrt y(»ur brolhci-
made you doubt whether I loveil you at all ^'
400 BORN IN EXILE
'Yes. But no, I didn't doubt. Indeed, indeed, 1
didn't doubt ! But I felt such a need of hearing from
your own lips that Oh, I can't explain myself ! '
Godwin smiled sadly.
' I think I understand. But there was every reason
for my believing that your love could not bear such
a test. You must regard me as quite a different man —
one utterly unknown to you.'
He had resolved to speak not a word that could sound
like an appeal to her emotions. When he entered the
room he felt a sincere indifference as to what would
result from the interview, for to his mind the story was
ended, and he had only to retire with the dignity still
possible to a dishonoured man. To touch the note of
pathos would be unworthy ; to exert what influence
might be left to him, a wanton cruelty. But he had
heard such unexpected things, that it was not easy for
him to remember how complete had seemed the severance
between him and Sidwell. The charm of her presence
was reasserting itself, and when avowal of continued
love appeared so unmistakably in her troubled counte-
nance, her broken words, he could not control the
answering fervour. He spoke in a changed voice, and
allowed his eyes to dwell longingly upon hers.
'I felt so at first,' she answered. 'And it would be
wrong to pretend that I can still regard you as I did
before.'
It cost her a great effort to add these words.
When they were spoken, she was at once glad and
fearful.
* I am not so foolish, as to think it possible,' said Peak,
half turning away.
' But that is no reason/ she pursued, ' why we should
become strangers. You are still so young a man ; life
must be so full of possibilities for you. This year has
been wasted, but when you leave Exeter '
An impatient movement of Godwin's checked her.
' You are going to encourage me to begin the struggle
once more,' he said, bitterly. 'Where ? How ? It is
so easy to talk of " possibilities." '
BORN IN KXTLK 401
' Yuu are not without friends — I mean IViends whose
sympathy is of real vahie to you.'
Saying this, slie looked keenly at him.
' Friends,' he replied, ' who perha[>s at this moment
arc laughing over my disgrace.'
' How do they know of— what has happened ^ '
' How did your brother get his information ? I didn't
care to ask him. — No, I don't even wish you to say
anything about that.'
' Ikit surely there is no reason for keeping it secret.
Why may I not speak freely ? Auckland tokl me that
he had heard you spoken of at the house of people named
Moxey.'
She endeavoured to understand the smile which rose
to his lips.
* Now it is clear to me/ he said. ' Yes, I suppose that
was inevitable, sooner or later.'
* You knew that he had become actpiaintcd with the
Moxey s ? '
Her tone was more reserved than hitherto.
' Yes, I knew he liad. He met Miss Moxey by cliance
at Budleigli Salterton, and I happened to be there — at
the Moorhouses' — on the same day.'
Sidwell glanced at him inquiringly, and waited for
something more.
'I saw Miss Moxey in private,' he added, speaking
more quickly, * and asked her to keep my secret.
1 ought to be ashamed to tell you this, l)ut it is
better you should know how far my humiliation has
gone.'
He saw that she was moved with strong feeling.
The low tone in which she answered had peculiar
significance.
' Did you speak of me to Miss Moxey ? '
' I must forgive you for asking that,' Peak rc})lied,
coldly. *It may well seem to you that I have neither
honour nor delicacy left.'
There had come a flush on her cheeks. For some
moments she was absorbed in thought.
* It seems strange to you,' he continued at length,
26
402 BORN IN EXILE
* that I could ask J\Iiss Moxey to share such a secret.
But you must understand on what terms we were — she
and I. We have known each other for several years.
She has a man's mind, and I have always thought of
her in much the same way as of my male companions. —
Your brother has told you about her, perhaps ? '
' I have met her in London.'
'Then that will make my explanation easier/ said
Godwin, disregarding the anxious questions that at once
suggested themselves to him. 'Well, I misled her, or
tried to do so. I allowed her to suppose that I was
sincere in my new undertakings, and that I didn't wish
Oh ! ' he exclaimed, suddenly breaking off, ' Why
need I go any further in confession ? It must be as
miserable for you to hear as for me to speak. Let us
make an end of it. I can't understand how I have
escaped detection so long.'
Kemembering every detail of Buckland's story, Sid well
felt that she had possibly been unjust in representing the
Moxeys as her brother's authority ; in strictness, she
ouglit to mention that a friend of theirs was the actual
source of information. But she could not pursue the
subject ; like Godwin, she wished to put it out of her
mind. What question could there be of honour or dis-
honour in the case of a person such as Miss Moxey, who
had consented to be party to a shameful deceit ?
Strangely, it was a relief to her to have heard this. The
moral repugnance which threatened to estrange her from
Godwin, was now directed in another quarter ; unduly
restrained by love, it found scope under the guidance of
jealousy.
' You have been trying to adapt yourself,' she said, ' to
a world for which you are by nature unfitted. Your
place is in the new order ; by turning back to the old,
you condemned yourself to a wasted life. Since we have
been in London, I have come to understand better the
great difference between modern intellectual life and
that which we lead in these far-away corners. You must
go out among your equals, go and take your part with
men who are working for the future.'
BORN IN EXILE 403
Peak rose with a gesture of passionate impatience.
* What is it to me, new workl or (jkl ^ ^ly worhl is
where v/o?^ are. I have no life of my own ; I think only
of you, live only by you.'
'If I could help you!' she replied, witli emotion.
* What can I do — but be your friend at a distance ?
Everything else has l)econie impossible.'
' Impossible for the present — for a long time to come.
But is there no hope for me ? '
She pressed her hands together, and stood before liim
unable to answer.
' Iiememl)er,' he continued, ' that you are almost as
much changed in my eyes as I in yours. I did not
imagine that you had moved so far towards freedom of
mind. If my love for you was profound and absorbing,
tliink what it must now have become 1 Yours has suffered
by my disgrace, but is there no hope of its reviving — if
I live worthily— if I ? '
His voice failed.
' I liave said that we can't be strangers,' Sidwell
murmured brokenly. ' Wherever you go, 1 must hear of
you.'^
' Everyone about you will detest my name. You will
soon wish to forget my existence.'
' If I know myself, never ! — Oh, try to tind your true
wurk ! You have such abilities, powers so much greater
than those of ordinary men. You will always be the same
to me, and if ever circumstances '
'You would have to give up so much, Sidwelh And
there is little chance of my ever l)eing well - to - do ;
poverty will always stand between us, if nothing else.'
' It must be so long before we can think of that.'
* But can I ever see you ? — Xo, I won't ask that. Who
knows ? I may have to go too far away. But I nvnj write
to you — after a time ? '
' I shall live in the hope of good news from you,' she
replied, trying to smile and to speak cheerfully. * This
will always be my home. Nothing will l)e changed.'
' Then you don't think of me as irredeemably l)ase ? '
* If I thought you base,' Sidwell answered, in a low
404 BORN IN EXILE
voice, ' I should not now be speaking with you. It is
because I feel and know that you have erred only — that
is what makes it impossible for me to think of your fault
as outweighing the good in your nature.'
' The good ? I wonder how you understand that.
What is there good in me ? You don't mean mere
intellect ? '
He waited anxiously for what she would say. A
necessity for speaking out his inmost thoughts had arisen
with the emotion, scarcely to be called hope, excited by
Sidwell's magnanimity. Now, or never, he must stand
before this woman as his very self, and be convinced that
ske loved him for his own sake.
'No, I don't mean intellect,' she replied, with hesi-
tation.
' What then ? Tell me of one quality in me strong
enough to justify a woman's love.'
Sidwell dropped her eyes in confusion.
' I can't analyse your character — T only know '
She became silent.
' To myself,' pursued Godwin, with the modulated,
Qioving voice which always expressed his genuine feeling,
* I seem anything but lovable. I don't underrate my
powers — rather the opposite, no doubt ; but what I
always seem to lack is the gift of pleasing — moral grace.
My strongest emotions seem to be absorbed in revolt ;
for once that I feel tenderly, I have a hundred fierce,
resentful, tempestuous moods. To be suave and smiling
in common intercourse costs me an effort. I have to act
the part, and this habit makes me sceptical, whenever
I am really prompted to gentleness. I criticise myself
ceaselessly ; expose without mercy all those characteristics
which another man would keep out of sight. Yes, and
for this very reason, just because I think myself un-
lovable — the gift of love means far more to me than to
other men. If you could conceive the passion of gratitude
which possessed me for hours after I left you the other
day ! You cannot ! '
Sidwell regarded him fixedly.
' In comparison with this sincerity, what becomes of the
BORN IN EXILE 405
pretence you blame in me ? If you knew how paltry it
seems — that accusation of dishonesty ! I believed the
world round, and pretended to believe it flat : tliat's wliat
it amounts to ! Are you, on such an account as tliat, to
consider wortldess the devotion whicli has grown in me
month by month ? You — I was persuaded — thought the
world Hat, and couldn't think kindly of any man who
held the other hypothesis. Very well ; why not concede
the trifle, and so at least give myself a chance ? 1 did
so — that was all.'
In vain her conscience strove to assert itself. She was
under the spell of a nature infniilely stronger than hers ;
she saw and felt as Godwin did.
'You think, Sidwell, that I stand in need of forgive-
ness. Then be great enough to forgive me, wholly — once
and for all. Let your love be strengthened by the trial it
has passed through. That will mean that my whole life
is yours, directed by the ever-present thought of your
beauty, lace and soul. Then there icill be good in me,
thanks to you. I shall no longer live a life of hypocrisy,
of suppressed rage and scorn. I know liow mucli I am
asking ; perhaps it means that for my sake you give up
everything else tliat is dear to you '
The thought checked him. He looked at her
despondently.
' You can trust me,' Sidwell answered, moving nearer to
him, tears on her cheeks. ' I must hear from you, and I
will write.'
' I can ask no more than that'
He took her hands, held them for a moment, and turned
away. At tlie door he looked round. Sidwcll's head was
l)owed, and, on her raising it, lie saw lliat she was blinded
with tears.
So he went fortli.
PART THE SIXTH
PART THE SIXTH
For several days after the scene in which Mr. Malkin
unconsciously played an important part, Marcella seemed
to be ill. She appeared at meals, but neither ate nor
conversed. Christian liad never known lier so sullen
and nervously irritable; he did not venture to utter
Peak's name. Upon seclusion followed restless activity.
]\Iarcelki was rarely at home between breakfast and
dinner-time, and her brother learnt with satisfaction
that she went much among her acquaintances. Late one
evening, when he had just returned from he knew not
where, Christian tried to put an end to the unnatural
constraint between them. After talking cheerfully for a
few minutes, he risked the question :
' Have you seen anything of the Warricombes i '
She replied with a cold negative.
' Xor heard anything ? '
* No. Have you ? '
'Nothing at all. I have seen Karwaker. Malkin had
told him about what ha])p('n(Ml here the oilier day.'
' Of course.'
' But he had no news. — ( )f Peak, I mean.'
Marcella smiled, as if the situation amused hur : but
she would not discuss it. Christian began to liope that
she was training herself to a wholesome indilVerence.
40'.>
410 BORN IN EXILE
A month of the new year went by, and Peak seemed to
be forgotten. MarceUa had returned to lier studious
habits, was fenced around with books, seldom left the
liouse. Another month and the brother and sister were
living very much in the old way, seeing few people,
conversing only of intellectual things. But Christian
concealed an expectation which enabled him to pass hours
of retirement in the completest idleness. Since tlie death
of her husband, Mrs. Palmer had been living abroad.
Before the end of March, as he had been careful to
discover, she would be back in London, at the house in
Sussex Square. By that time he might venture, without
indelicacy, to call upon her. And after the fiist
interview
The day came, when, ill with agitation, lie set forth to
pay this call. For two or three nights he had scarcely
closed his eyes ; he looked ghastly. The weather was
execrable, and on that very account he made choice of
this afternoon, hoping that he might fiud liis widowed
Laura alone. Between ringing the bell and the opening
of the door, he could liardly support himself. He asked
for Mrs. Palmer in a gasping voice which caused the
servant to look at him with surprise.
The lady was at home. At the drawing-room door,
before his name could be announced, he caught the
unwelcome sound of voices in lively conversation. It
seemed to him that a score of persons were assembled.
In reality there were six, three of them callers.
Mrs. I*almer met hhn with the friendliest welcome. A
stranger would have thought her pretty, but by no means
impressive. She was short, any tiling but meagre, fair-
haired, brisk of movement, idly vivacious in look and
tone. The mourning she wore imposed no restraint upon
her humour, which at present was not far from gay.
' Is it really Mr. Moxey ? ' she exclaimed. ' Why, I
had all but forgotten you, and positively it is your own
fault ! It must be a year or more since you came to see
me. No ? Eight months ? — But I have been through so
much trouble, you know.' She sighed mechanically. 'I
thought of you one day at Bordighera, when we were
BORN IN EXILE HI
looking at some funny little sea-creatures — the kind of
thing you used to know all about. How is your
sister i '
A chill struck upon his heart. Assuredly \\v had no
wish to find Constance sunk in the semblance of dolour;
such hypocrisy would have pained him. lUit lier spright-
liness was a shock. Though months had passed since Mr.
Palmer's decease, a decent gravity would more have
become her condition. He could reply only in brokun
phrases, and it was a relief to him when the widow,
as if tiring of his awkwardness, turned her attention
elsewhere.
He was at length able to survey the company. Two
ladicis in mourning he faintly recognised, the one a sister
of Mr. Palmer's, comely but of didl aspect; the other a
niece, whose laugh was too fre(|uent even had it been
more musical, and who talked of athletic sports with a
young man evidently better fitted to excel in that kind of
thing than in any pursuit demanding intelligence. This
gentleman Christian had never met. The two other
callers, a grey-headed, military-looking person, and a lady,
possibly his Avife, were e(|ually strangers to him.
The drawing-room was much changed in appearance
since Christian's last visit. There was more display, a
richer profusion of ornaments not in the best taste. The
old pictures had given place to showily-framed daubs of
the most popular school. On a little table at his elbow,
he remarked the ])hotograp]i of a jockey who was just
then engrossing public allection. What did all this
mean ? Formerly, he had attributed every graceful
feature of the room to Constance's choice. He had
imagined that to her Mr. Palmer was indebted for
guidance on points of icsthetic proprietv. Could it be
that ?
He caught a glance which slie cast in Ids direction, and
instantly forgot the troublesome prol)lem. How dull of
him to misunderstand her ! Her sportiveness had a
double significance. It was the expression of a hope
which would not be sul)dued, and at the same time a
means of disguising the tender interest with which slie
412 BORN IN EXILE
regarded him. If she had been blithe before his appear-
ance, how could she suddenly change her demeanour as
soon as he entered ? It would have challenged suspicion
and remark. For the same reason she affected to have
all but forgotten him. Of course ! how could he have
failed to see that ? * I thought of you one day at
Bordighera' — was not that the best possible way of
making known to him that he had never been out of her
mind ?
Sweet, noble, long-suffering Constance !
He took a place by her sister, and began to talk of he
knew not what, for all his attention was given to the
sound of Constance's voice.
' Yes,' she was saying to the man of military appearance,
* it's very early to come back to London, but I did get so
tired of those foreign places.'
(In other words, of being far from her Christian — thus
he interpreted.)
'No, we didn't make a single pleasant acquaintance.
A shockingly tiresome lot of people wherever we
went.'
(In comparison with the faithful lover, who waited,
w^aited.)
' Foreigners are so stupid — don't you think so ? Wliy
should they always expect you to speak tlieir language ?
— Oh, of course I speak French ; but it is such a
disagreeable language — don't you think so ? '
(Compared with the accents of English devotion, of
course.)
' Do you go in for cycling, Mr. Moxey ? ' inquired Mrs.
Palmer's laughing niece, from a little distance.
' For cycling ? ' With a great effort he recovered himself
and grasped the meaning of the words, ' No, I — I'm sorry
to say I don't. Capital exercise ! '
' Mr. Dwight has just been telling me such an awfully
good story about a friend of his. Do tell it again, Mr.
Dwight ! It'll make you laugh no end, Mr. Moxey.'
The young man appealed to was ready enough to repeat
his anecdote, which had to do with a bold cyclist, who,
after dining more than well, rode liis machine down a
BORN IN KXILK 41 o
Steep hill and escaped destruction only l)y miracle.
Christian laughed desperately, and declared tliat he had
never lieard anything so good.
But the tension of his nerves was unendurahle. Five
minutes more of anguish, and he sprang up like an
automaton.
* Must you really go, Mr. ]\Ioxey ? ' said Constance,
with a manner which of course was intended to veil her
emotion. * Please don't be anotlier year Ijcfore you let
us see you again.'
Blessings on her tender heart ! What mure could she
liave said, in the presence of all those peo})le ? He
walked all the way to Notting Hill through a i>elting
rain, his passion aglow.
Impossible to be silent longer concerning the brilliant
future. Arrived at home, he Huncr off hat and coat, and
went straight to the drawing - room, hoping to find
^larcella alone. To his annoyance, a stranger was sit-
ting there in conversation, a very simply dressed lady,
who, as he entered, looked at him with a grave smile
and stood up. He thought he had never seen her
before.
]\Iarcella wore a singular expression : there was a
moment of silence, for Christian decidedly embarrassing,
since it seemed to be expected that he should greet the
stranger.
' Don't you remember Janet ? ' said his sister.
'Janet?' He felt his face iiush. ' You don't mean to
say ? But how you have altered ! And yet, no ;
really, you haven't. It's only my stupidity.' He grasped
her hand, and with a feeling of genuine pleasure, despite
awkward reminiscences.
' One does alter in eleven years,' said Janet Moxey, in
a very pleasant, natural voice — a voice of habitual self-
command, conveying the idea of a highly cultivated mind,
and many other agreeable things.
' Eleven years ? Yes, yes ! How very glad I am to see
you! And I'm sure Marcella was. How very kind of
you to call on us ! '
Janet was as far as ever from looking handsome or
414 BORN IN EXILE
pretty, but it must have been a dullard who proclaimed
her face unpleasing. She had eyes of remarkable intelli-
gence, something like Marcella's, but milder, more benevo-
lent. Her lips were softly firm ; they would not readily
part in laughter; their frequent smile meant more than
that of the woman who sets herself to be engaging.
' I am on my way home,' she said, ' from a holiday in
the South, — an enforced holiday, I'm sorry to say.'
* You have been ill ? '
* Overworked a little. I am practising medicine in
Kingsmill.'
Christian did not disguise his astonishment.
' Medicine ? '
'You don't remember that I always had scientific
tastes ? '
If it was a reproach, none could have been more gently
administered.
*0f course — of course I do! Your botany, your
skeletons of birds and cats and mice — of course ! But
where did you study ? '
* In London. The Women's Medical School, I have
been in practice for nearly four years.'
'And have overworked yourself. — But why are we
standing ? Let us sit down and talk. How is your
father ? '
Marcella was watching her brother closely, and with a
curious smile.
Janet remained for another hour. No reference was
made to the long rupture of intercourse between her
family and these relatives. Christian learnt that his
uncle was still hale, and that Janet's four sisters all
lived, obviously unmarried. To-day he was disposed to
be almost affectionate with anyone who showed him a
friendly face : he expressed grief that his cousin must
leave for Twybridge early in the morning.
' Whenever you pass through the Midlands,' was Janet's
indirect reply, addressed to Marcella, 'try to stop at
Kingsmill.'
And a few minutes after that she took her leave.
There lingered behind her that peculiar fragrance of
BORN IN EXILE 415
nu|jprn wnTflftphnnH^ rpfrPfiliino' inspiritini,^ wliicli is so
"enTTrely different from the iiierely I'uniiiiiiiL' piTt'iime,
however exquisite.
' What a surprising visit!' was Christian's exehiinatinu,
when he and his sister were alone. 'How did she liiid
us?'
* Directory, I suppose.'
* A lady doctor ! ' he mused.
' And a very capable one, I fancy,' said Marcella. * We
had nearly an hour's talk before you came. Lut she
won't be able to stand the work. There'll be another
breakdown before long.'
' Has she a large practice, then ? '
'Not very large, perhaps; but she studies as well.
1 never dreamt of Janet becoming so interesting a
person.'
Christian had to postpone till after dinner the talk he
purposed about Mrs. Palmer. When that time came, he
was no longer dis})Osed for sentimental confessions ; it
would be better to wait until he could announce a settled
project of marriage. Through the evening, his sister re-
curred to the subject of Janet with curious frequency, and
on the following day her interest had suH'ered no iliniinu-
tion. Christian had always taken for granted that she
understood the grounds of the breach between him and
his uncle ; without ever unbosoming himself, he had
occasionally, in his softer moments, alluded to the
awkward subject in language which he thought easy
enough to interpret. Now at length, in reply to some
remark of Marcella's, he said with significant accent :
* Janet was very friendly to me.'
* She has studied science for ten years,* was Ids sister's
comment.
' Yes, and can forgive a l)oy's absurdities.*
' Easier to forgive, certainly, tlian those of a man,' said
]\[arcella, wdth a curl of the lip.
Christian became silent, and went thoughtfully away.
A week later, he was again in ]\Irs. Palmer's chawing-
room, where again he met an assemlJage of people such as
seemed to profane this sanctuary. To be sure — he said
416 BORN IN EXILE
to himself — Constance could not at once get rid of the
acquaintances forced upon her by her husband ; little by
little she would free herself. It was a pity that her sister
and her niece — persons anything but intelligent and
refined — should be permanent members of her house-
hold; for their sake, no doubt, she felt constrained to
welcome men and women for whose society she herself
had little taste. But when the year of her widowhood
was past
Petrarch's Laura was the mother of eleven children ;
Constance had had only three, and one of these w^as dead.
The remaining two. Christian now learnt, lived with a
governess in a little house at Bournemouth, which Mrs.
Palmer had taken for that purpose.
' I'm going down to see them to-morrow,' she informed
Christian, ' and I shall stay there over the next day. It's
so quiet and restful.'
These words kept repeating themselves to Christian's
ear, as he went home, and all through the evening. Were
they not an invitation? Down there at Bournemouth,
Constance would be alone the day after to-morrow. ' It
is so quiet and restful ; ' that was to say, no idle callers
would break upon her retirement ; she would be able to
welcome a friend, and talk reposefully with him. Surely
she must ha\ c meant that ; for she spoke with a peculiar
intonation — a look
By the second morning he had worked himself up to a
persuasion that yonder by the seaside Constance was
expecting him. To miss the opportunity would be to
prove himself dull of apprehension, a laggard in love.
With trembling hands, lie hurried through his toilet and
made haste downstairs to examine a railway time-table.
He found it was possible to reach Bournemouth by about
two o'clock, a very convenient hour ; it would allow him
to take refreshment, and walk to the house shortly after
three.
His conviction strong as ever, he came to the journey's
end, and in due course discovered the pleasant little
house of which Constance had spoken. At the door, his
heart failed him ; but retreat could not now be thought of.
liolJX IN KXILK 117
Yes, Mis. Palmer was at home. The servant led him into
a sitting-room on the gronnd floor, took his name, and
left him.
It was nearly ten minutes before Constance ai)i)eared.
On her face he read a frank surprise.
'I happened to — to l)e down here; coiddn't resist the
temptation '
' Delighted to see you, ]Mr. Moxey. But how did you
know I was here ?'
He crazed at her.
* You — don't you remember { The day before yesterday
— in Sussex Square — -you mentioned '
' Oh, did I ? ' She laughed. ' I had quite forgotten.'
Christian sank upon his chair. He tried to convince
liimself that she was playing a part; perhaps she thought
tliat she had been premature in revealing lier wish to talk
with him.
Mrs. Palmer was good-natured. This call evidently
puzzled her, but she did not stint her hospitality. AVhen
Christian asked after the children, they were summoned ;
two little girls daintily dressed, pretty, affectionate with
tlieir mother. The sight of them tortured Christian, and
he sighed deeply with relief when they left the room,
(.'onstance ajjpeared rather absent ; her quick glance at
him signified something, but he could not determine
what. In agony of constraint, he rose as if to go.
' Oh, you will have a cup of tea with me,' said Mrs.
Palmer. * It will be brought in a few minutes.'
Then she really wished him to stop. AYas he not
behaving like an obtuse creature :* AYliy, everything was
planned to encourage him.
He talked recklessly of this and that, and got round
to tlie years long gone by. When the tea came, he was
reviving memories of occasions on which he and she had
met as young people. Constance laughed merrily, declared
she could hardly remember.
* Oh, what a time ago ! — But I was quite a cliild.'
*No — indeed, no! You were a young lady, and n
brilliant one.'
The tea seemed to intoxicate liini. He noticed again
27
418 BORN IN EXILE
that Constance glanced at him significantly. How good
of her to allow him this delicious afternoon !
* Mr. Moxey,' she said, after meditating a little, ' why
haven't you married ? I should have thought you would
have married long ago.'
He was stricken dumb. Her jerky laugh came as a
shock upon his hearing.
' Married ? '
' What is there astonishing in the idea ? '
* But — I — How can I answer you ? '
The pretty, characterless face betrayed some unusual
feeling. She looked at him furtively ; seemed to suppress
a tendency to laugh.
* I mustn't pry into secrets/ she simpered.
* But there is no secret ! ' Christian panted, laying down
his teacup for fear he should drop it. ' Whom should I
— could I have married ? '
Constance also put aside her cup. She was bewildered,
and just a little abashed. With courage which came he
knew not whence, Christian bent forward and continued
speaking :
' Whom could 1 marry after that day when I met you
in the little drawing-room at the Eobinsons' ? '
She stared in genuine astonishment, then was
embarrassed.
'You cannot — cannot have forgotten ?'
'You surely don't mean to say, Mr. Moxey, that you
have remembered ? Oh, I'm afraid I was a shocking llirt
in those days ! '
' But I mean after your marriage — when I found you
in tears '
' Please, please don't remind me ! ' she exclaimed,
giggling nervously. ' Oh how silly ! — of me, I mean.
To think that — but you are making fun of me, ]\Ir.
Moxey ? '
Christian rose and went to the window. He was not
only shaken by his tender emotions — something very
like repugnance had begun to ahect him. If Constance
were feigning, it was in very bad taste ; if she spoke with
sincerity — what a Avoman had he worshipped ! It did
BORN IN KXILK 419
not occur to him to lay the fault upon his own absurcL.
romanticism. Alter eleven years' persistence in one point
of view, he could not suddenly see the allair with the
eyes of common sense.
He turned and approached her again.
* Do you not know, then,' he asked, witli rpiiet dignity,
' that ever since the day I speak of, 1 have devoted my
life to the love I then felt? AW these years, have you
not understood me ? '
Mrs. Palmer was quite unable to grasp ideas such as
these. Neither her reading nor her experience i)repared
her to understand what Christian meant. Courtship of
a married woman was intelligible enough to her; but
a love that feared to soil itself, a devotion from afar,
encouraged by only the faintest hope of reward other
tlian the most insubstantial — of that she had as little
conception as any woman among the wealthy vulgar.
'Do you really mean, Mr. Moxey, that you — have kept
unmarried for rji?j sake ? '
' You don't know that ? ' he asked, hoarsely.
' How could I ? How was I to imagine such a thing ?
Iteally, was it proper ? How could you expect me, Mr.
Moxey ? '
For a moment she looked oll'ended. lUit Iier real
feelings were astonishment and amusement, not unmingled
with an idle gratification.
/ 1 must ask you to pardon me,' said Christian, whose
forehead gleamed with moisture.
'Xo, don't say that. I am really so sorry! What an
odd mistake ! '
' And I have hoped in vain — since yiju were free ? '
' Oh, you mustn't say such things ! I shall never dream
of marrying again — never ! '
There was a matter-of-fact vigour in the assertion
which proved that Mrs. Talmer spuke her genuine
thought. The tone could not be interpreted as devotion
to her husband's memory ; it meant, plainly and simply,
that she had had enough of marriage, and delighted in
her freedom.
Christian could not say anotlier woi-d. Disilhision was
420 BORN IN EXILE
complete. The voice, the face, were those of as unspiritual
a woman as he could easily have met with, and his life's
story was that of a fool.
He took his hat, held out his hand, with ' Good-bye,
Mrs. Palmer.' The cold politeness left her no choice but
again to look offended, and with merely a motion of the
head she replied, * Good-bye, jMr. Moxey.'
And therewith permitted him to leave the house.
II
Ox calling at Earwaker's chambers one February evening,
Malkin became aware, from the very thresliold of the
outer door, that the domicile was not as he had known
it. With the familiar fragrance of Earwaker's special
' mixture ' blended a suggestion of new upholstery. The
little vestibule had somehow put oil' its dinginess, and an
unwontedly brilliant light from the sitting-room revealed
changes of the interior which the visitor remarked with
frank astonishment.
' AVhat the deuce ! Has it happened at last ? Are you
going to be married ? ' he cried, staring about him at
unrecognised chairs, tables, and bookcases, at whitened
ceiling and pleasantly papered walls, at pictures and
ornaments which he knew not.
The journalist shook his head, and smiled contentedly.
' An idea that came to me all at once. ]\Iy editorship
seemed to inspire it.'
After a year of waiting upon Providence, Earwaker
had received the offer of a substantial aj^pointment mucli
more to his taste than tliose he had previously lield. He
was now literary editor of a weekly review which made
no kind of appeal to the untaught nudtitude.
'I have decided to dwell lierc for tlie rest of my life,'
he added, looking round the walls. 'One must liave a
liomestead, and tliis sliall be mine; here I have set up my
penates. It's a portion of space, you know ; and what
more can be said of Longleat or Chatsworth ? A house
[ sliall never want, because I shall never have a wife.
And on the whole T jn-efcr this situation to any other.
422 BORN IN EXILE
I am well within reach of everything urban that I care
about, and as for the country, that is too good to be put
to common use; let it be kept for holiday. There's an
atmosphere in the old Inns that pleases me. The new
flats are insufferable. How can one live sandwiched
between a music-hall singer and a female politician ? For
lodgings of any kind no sane man had ever a word of
approval. Eeflecting on all these things, I have estab-
lished myself in perpetuity.'
'Just what I can't do,' exclaimed Malkin, flinging
himself into a broad, deep, leather-covered chair. ' Yet I
have leanings that way. Only a few days ago I sat for
a whole evening with the map of England open before
me, wondering where would be the best place to settle
down — a few years hence, I mean, you know ; when
Bella is old enough. — That reminds me. Next Sunday is
her birthday, and do you know what ? I wish you'd go
down to Wrotham with me.'
' Many thanks, but I think I had better not.'
* Oh, but do ! I want you to see how Bella is getting
on. She's grown wonderfully since you saw her in Paris
— an inch taller, I should think. I don't go down there
very often, you know, so I notice these changes. Eeally,
I think no one could be more discreet than I am, under
the circumstances. A friend of the family; that's all.
Just dropping in for a casual cup of tea now and then.
Sunday will be a special occasion, of course. I say, what
are your views about early marriage ? Do you think
seventeen too young ? '
' I should think seven-and-twenty much better.'
Malkin broke into fretful ness.
* Let me tell you, Earwaker, I don't like the way you
habitually speak of this project of mine. Plainly^ I don't
like it. It's a very serious matter indeed — eh ? What ?
Why are you smiling ? '
* I agree with you as to its seriousness.'
'Yes, yes; but in a very cynical and offensive way.
It makes me confoundedly uncomfortable, let me tell you.
I don't think that's very friendly on your part. And the
lact is, if it goes on I'm very much afraid we shan't see
BORN IN EXILE 42o
SO much of each otlier as we liave done. I Hke you,
Earwaker, and I respect you ; I think you know that.
But occasionally you seem to liave too little regard for
one's feelings. No, I don't feel able to pass it over with
a joke. — There ! The deuce take it ! I've bitten olf the
end of my pipe.'
He spat out a piece of amber, and looked ruefully at
the broken stem.
'Take a ci^irar,' said Earwaker, fetcliinLj a box from a
cupboard.
* I don't mind. — Well — what was I saying ? Oh yes ;
I was quarrelling witli you. Now, look here, what fault
have you to find wuth Bella Jacox ? '
' None whatever. She seemed to me a very amial)le
child.'
* Child ! Pooh ! pshaw ! And fifteen next Sunday, I
tell you. She's a young lady, and to tell you the con-
founded plain truth, I'm in love with her. I am, and
there's nothing to be ashamed of. If you smile, we shall
quarrel. I warn you, Earwaker, we shall quarrel.'
The journalist, instead of smiling, gave fortli his deepest
laugh. Malkin turned very red, scowled, and threw his
cigar aside.
* You really wish me to go on Sunday ? ' Earwaker
asked, in a pleasant voice.
The other's countenance immediately cleared.
' I shall take it as a great kindness. ^Vlrs. Jacox will
be delighted. Meet me at Holborn Viaduct at one-
twenty-tive. No, to make sure I'll come here at one
o'clock.'
In a few minutes he was chatting as unconcernedly as
ever.
'Talking of settling down, my l)rother Tom and his
wife are on the point of going to New Zealand. Necessity
of business ; may be out there for the rest of their lives.
Do you know that I shall think very seriously of following
them some day ? With Bella, you know. The fact of
the matter is, I don't ])elieve I could ever make a solid
home in England. Why, I can't quite say; partly, I
suppose, because I have nothing to do. Now there's a
424 BORN IN P]X1LE
good deal to be said for going out to the colonies. A
man feels that he is helping the spread of civilisation ;
and that's something, you know. I should compare
myself with the Greek and Roman colonists— something
inspiriting in that thought — what ? Why shouldn't J
found a respectable newspaper, for instance ? Yes, I
sliall think very seriously of tliis.'
' You wouldn't care to run over with your relatives, just
to have a look ? '
' It occurred to me,' Malkin replied, thoughtfully. ' But
they sail in ten days, and — well, I'm afraid I couldn't get
ready in time. And then I've promised to look alter
some little affairs for Mrs. Jacox — some trifling money
matters. But later in the year — who knows ? '
Earwaker half repented of his promise to visit the
Jacox household, but there was no possibility of excus-
ing himself. So on Sunday he journeyed with his friend
down to Wrotham. Mrs. Jacox and her children were
very comfortably established in a small new house. When
the companions entered they found the mother alone in
her sitting-room, and she received them with an effusive-
ness very distasteful to Earwaker.
* Now you shouldn't ! ' was her first exclamation to
Malkin. ' Indeed you shouldn't ! It's really very naughty
of you. Mr. Earwaker ! Who ever took so much
pleasure in doing kindnesses ? Do look at this hcautiful
book that Mr. Malkin has sent as a present to my little
Bella. Mr. Earwaker ! '
The journalist was at once struck with her tone and
manner as she addressed Malkin. He remarked that
phrase, *my little Bella,' and it occurred to him that ^Irs.
Jacox had been growing younger since he made her
acquaintance on the towers of Notre Dame. When the
girls presented themselves, they also appeared to him
more juvenile ; Bella, in particular, was dressed with an
exaggeration of childishness decidedly not becoming. One
had but to look into her face to see that she answered
perfectly to Malkin's description ; she was a young lady,
and no child. A very pretty young lady, moreovei' ;
given to colouring, but with no silly simper ; intellii^ejjt
TJOKN IX MX ILK 425
about tlie eyes and lips; modest, in a natural and sweet
way. He conversed witli her, and in iloin;^ so was
disagreeably aiVected by certain glances she occasion-
ally cast towards her mother. One would have said
that she feared censure, though it was hard to see
why.
On the return journey Earwaker made known s(jine of
his impressions, though not all.
' I like the girls,' he said, ' Bella especially. Ihit I can't
say nnich good of their mother.'
They were opposite each other in the railway carriage,
^lalkin leaned forward with earnest, anxious face.
' That's my own trouble,' he whispered. * I'm con-
foundedly uneasy about it. I don't think she's bringing
them up at all in a proper wa}-. Earwaker, 1 would
pay down five thousand pounds for the possibility of
taking Bella away altogether.'
The other mused.
* Ikit, mind you,' pursued Malkin, ' she's not a hial
woman. By no means! Thoroughly good-hearted I'm
convinced ; only a little weak here.' He tapped his
forehead. ' I respect her, for all she has suffered, and
her way of going through it. l^ufc she isn't the ideal
mother, you know.'
On his way home, IVfalkin turned into his friend's
chambers ' for live minutes.' At two in the morning he
was still there, and his talk in the meanwhile had been
of nothing but schemes for protecting Bella against her
mother's more objectionable influences. On taking leave,
lie asked :
* Any news of Peak yet ? '
* None. I haven't seen Moxey for a long time.'
'Do you think Peak will look you up again, if he's in
London ? '
'Xo, I think he'll keep away. And I half hope he
will ; I shouldn't quite know how to behave. Ten to
one he's in London now. I suppose he couldn't stay
at Exeter. But he may have left England.'
They parted, and for a week did not see each otliei.
Then, on Mondav evenin*r, when Earwaker was vei\'
426 BORN IN EXILE
busy with a mass of manuscript, the well-kuown knock
sounded from the passage, and Malkin received admis-
sion. The look he wore was appalling, a look such as
only some fearful catastrophe could warrant.
' Are you busy ? ' he asked, in a voice very unlike his
own.
Earwaker could not doubt that the trouble was this
time serious. He abandoned his work, and gave himself
wholly to his friend's service.
* An awful thing has happened,' Malkin began. ' How
the deuce shall I tell you? Oh, the ass I have made
of myself ! ]')Ut I couldn't help it; there seemed no way
out of it'
' Well ? What ? '
* It was last night, but I couldn't come to you till now.
By Jove ! I veritably thought of sending you a note,
and then killing myself. Early this morning I was
within an ace of suicide. Believe me, old friend. This is
no farce.'
' I'm waiting.'
' Yes, yes ; but I can't tell you all at once. Sure
you're not busy ? I know I pester you. I was down
at Wrotham yesterday. I hadn't meant to go, but the
temptation was too strong. I got there at five o'clock,
and found that the girls were gone to have tea with
some young friends. Well, I wasn't altogether sorry ;
it was a good opportunity for a little talk with their
mother. And I liad the talk. But, oh, ass that I was ! *
He smote the side of his head savagely.
' Can you guess, Earwaker ? Can you give a shot at
what happened ? '
' I^erhaps I might,' replied the other, gravely.
'Well?'
' That woman asked you to marry her.'
Malkin leapt from his chair, and sank back again.
* It came to that. Yes, upon my word, it came to that.
She said she had fallen in love with me — that was the
long and short of it. And I had never said a word tliat
could suggest Oh, confound it! What a frightful
scene it was ! '
BORN IN EXILE 427
* You took a final leave of her ? '
Malkiii stared witli eyes of ani^'uisli into liis friend's
face, and at lengtli whispered thickly :
' I said I would ! '
' What ? Take leave ? '
* Marry her ! '
Earwaker had much ado to check an impatiently
remonstrant laugh. He paused awhile, then began Ids
expostulation, at tirst treating the affair as too absurd for
grave argument.
' My boy,' he concluded, ' you have got into a pre-
posterous scrape, and I see only one way out of it. You
must flee. When does your brother start for the
xVntipodes ? '
* Thursday morning.'
* Then you go with him ; there's an end of it.'
Mai kin listened with the l)lank, despairing look of a
man condemned to death.
'Do you hear me?' urged the other. 'Go home and
pack. On Thursday I'll see you off.'
*I can't bring myself to that,' came in a groan from
Malkin. * I've never yet done anything to be seriously
ashamed of, and I can't run away after promising
marriage. It would weigh upon me for the rest of my life.'
' Humbug ! Would it weigh upon you less to marry,
the mother, and all the time be in love with the
daughter ? To my mind, there's something peculiarly
loathsome in the suggestion.'
' But, look here ; 13ella is very young, really very young
indeed. It's possiljle that I have deluded myself.
Perhaps I don't really care for her in the way I imagined.
It's more than likely that I might be content to regard
her with fatherly affection.'
'Even supposing that, with what sort of ailection do
you regard j\Irs. Jacox ? '
Malkin writhed on his chair before replying.
'You mustn't misjudge her!' he exclaimed. 'She
is no heartless schemer. The poor thing almost cried
her eyes out. It was a frightful scene. She reproached
herself bitterly. What conhJ I do ? I have a tenderness
428 BORN IN EXILE
for her, there's no denying that. She has been so vilely
used, and has borne it all so patiently. How abominable
it would be if I dealt her another blow ! '
The journalist raised his eyebrows, and uttered inarticu-
late sounds.
* Was anything said about Bella ? ' he asked, abruptly.
' Not a word. I'm convinced she doesn't suspect that
I thought of Bella like that. The fact is, I have mis-
led her. She thought all along that my chief interest was
in liev.'
' Indeed ? Then what was the ground of her self-
reproach that you speak of ? '
' How defective you are in the appreciation of delicate
feeling ! ' cried Malkin frantically, starting up and rush-
ing about the room. ' She reproached herself for having
permitted me to get entangled with a widow older than
myself, and the mother of two children. What could be
simpler ? '
Earwaker began to appreciate the dangers of the
situation. If he insisted upon his view of Mrs. Jacox's
behaviour (though it was not the harshest that the
circumstances suggested, for he was disposed to believe
that the widow had really lost her heart to her kind,
eccentric champion), the result would probably be to
confirm Malkin in his resolution of self-sacrifice. The
man must be saved, if possible, from such calamity, and
this would not be effected by merely demonstrating
that he was on the highroad to ruin. It was necessary
to try another tack.
' It seems to me, Malkin,' he resumed, gravely, ' that
it is you who are deficient in right feeling. In offering to
marry this poor woman, you did her the gravest wrong.'
'What? How?'
'You know that it is impossible for you to love her.
You know that you will repent, and that she will be
aware of it. You are not the kind of man to conceal
your emotions. Bella will grow up, and — well, the
state of things won't tend to domestic felicity. For
Mrs. Jacox's own sake, it is your duty to put an end
to this folly l)efore it has gone too far.'
r.or.x IN ivxiij-: 429
The other gave earnest ear, l)ut with no sign of sliaken
conviction.
' Yes,' he said. ' 1 know this is one way of hxiking
at it. But it assumes that a man can't control himself,
that his sense of lionour isn't strong enougli to keep
him in the right way. I don't think you quite under-
stand me. I am not a passionate man; the proof is
that I have never fallen in love since I was sixteen.
I tliink a great deal of domestic peace, a good deal
more than of romantic enthusiasm. If I marry ^Irs.
Jacox, I shall make her a good and faithful liusband, —
so much I can safely say of myself.'
He waited, but Earwaker was not ready with a rejoinder.
'And there's another point. I have always admitted
tlie defect of my character — an inability to settle down.
Now, if I run away to New Zealand, with the sense of
having dishonoured myself, I shall be a mere Wander-
ing Jew for the rest of my life. All hope of redemption
will be over. Of the two courses now open to me, that
of marriage with Mrs. Jacox is decidedly the less dis-
advantageous, (rranting that I have made a fool of
myself, I must al)ide by the result, and make the best
of it. And the plain fact is, I cant treat her so dis-
gracefully ; I cant burden my conscience in this way.
I believe it would end in suicide ; I do, indeed.'
'This sounds all very well, but it is weakness and
selfishness.'
' How can you say so ? '
'There's no proving to so short-sighted a man the
result of his mistaken course. I've a good mind to let
you have your way just for the satisfaction of saying aftei-
wards, " I )idn't I tell you so ? " You propose to behave
with abominable injustice to two people, ]nitting yourself
aside. Doesn't it occur to you that liella may already
look upon you as her future husband i II;iven't you
done your best to plant that idea in her mind ('
Malkin started, but ([uickly recovered himself.
'No, I haven't! I have behaved with the utmost
discretion. Bella thinks of me only as of a liiend nmch
older than herself.'
430 BORN IN EXILE
' I don't believe it ! '
' Nonsense, Earwaker ! A child of fifteen ! '
'The other day you had quite a different view, and
after seeing her again I agreed with you. She is a
young girl, and if not already in love with you, is on the
way to be so.'
' That will come to nothing when she hears that I am
going to be her step-father.'
Tar more likely to develop into a grief that will
waste the best part of her lifetime. She will be shocked
and made miserable. But do as you like. I am tired of
arguing.'
Earwaker affected to abandon the matter in disgust.
For several minutes there was silence, then a low
voice sounded from the corner where Malkin stood
leaning.
'So it is your honest belief that Bella has begun to
think of me in that way ? '
' I am convinced of it.'
' But if I run away, I shall never see her again.'
' Why not ? She won't run away. Come back when
things have squared themselves. Write to Mrs. Jacox
from the ends of the earth, and let her understand that
there is no possibility of your marrying her.'
' Tell her about Bella, you mean ? '
*No, that's just what I don't mean. Avoid any
mention of the girl. Come back when she is seventeen,
and, if she is willing, carry her oft* to be happy ever
after.'
* But she may have fallen in love with someone
else.'
' I think not. You must risk it, at all events.*
' Look here ! ' Malkin came forward eagerly. ' I'll
write to Mrs. Jacox to-night, and make a full confession.
I'll tell her exactly how the case stands. She's a good
woman ; she'll gladly sacrifice herself for the sake of her
daughter.'
Earwaker was firm in resistance. He had no iaith
whatever in the widow's capacity for self - immolation,
and foresaw that his friend would be drawn into another
BORN IN EXILE 431
'frightful scene,' resultin*,' )3robably in ;i iiKirriage as
soon as tlie licence could be obtaijied.
' When are you to see her again ? ' he inquired.
' On Wednesday.'
* Will you undertake to do nothing whatever till
AVednesday morning, and then to have another talk with
me ? I'll come and see you about ten o'clock.'
In the end Malkin was constrained into making this
engagement, and not long after midnight the journalist
managed to get rid of him.
On Tuesday afternoon arrived a distracted note. ' I
shall keep my promise, and I won't try to see you till
you come here to-morrow. But I am sore beset. 1 have
received three letters from Mrs. Jacox, all long and
horribly pathetic. She seems to have a presentiment
that I shall forsake her. What a beast I shall be if I do !
Tom comes here to-night, and I think I shall tell him
all.'
The last sentence w^as a relief to the reader ; he knew
nothing of Mr. Thomas Malkin, but there was a fair
presumption that this gentleman would not see liis
brother bent on making such a notable fool of himself
without vigorous protest.
At the appointed hour next morning, Earwaker reached
his friend's lodgings, which were now at Kilburn. On
entering the room he saw, not the familiar figure, but a
solid, dark -faced, black - whiskered man, whom a faint
resemblance enabled him to identify as ]\Ialkiu the
younger.
' I was expecting you,' said Thomas, as they sh(X)k
hands. 'My brother is completely lloored. When 1
got here an hour ago, I insisted on his lying down,
and now I think he's asleep. Tf you don't mind,
we'll let him res-t for a little. I believe lie has
hardly closed his eyes since this unforttmate aflair
happened.'
'It rejoiced me to hear that he was going to ask your
advice. How do matters stand ? '
' You know Mrs. Jacox ? '
Thomas was obviously a man of discretion, but less
432 BORN IN EXILE
intellectual than his brother; he spoke like one who
is accustomed to the management of affairs. At first
he was inclined to a polite reserve, but Earwaker's
conversation speedily put him more at ease.
' I have quite made up my mind,' he said presently,
' that we must take him away with us to-morrow. The
voyage will l)ring him to his senses.'
' or course he resists ? '
' Yes, but if you will give me your help, I think we
can manage him. He is not very strong-willed. In a
spasmodic way he can defy everyone, but the steady
])ressure of common sense will prevail with him, I
think.'
They had talked for half-an-hour, when the door
opened and the object of their benevolent cares stood
before them. He was clad in a dressins^-sjown, and his
disordered hair heightened the look of illness which his
features presented.
* Why didn't you call me ? ' he asked his brother,
irritably. ' Earwaker, I beg a thousand pardons ! I'm
not very well ; I've overslept myself.'
' Yes, yes ; come and sit down.'
Thomas made an offer to leave them.
* Don't go,' said Malkin. * No need whatever. You
know why Earwaker has been so kind as to come
here. We may as well talk it over together.'
He sat on the table, swinging a tassel of his dressing-
gown round and round.
' Now, what do you really think of doing ? ' asked the
journalist, in a kind voice.
' I don't know. I absolutely do not know. I'm
unutteralJy wretched.'
' In that case, will you let your brother and me decide
for you ? We have no desire but for your good, and
we are perfectly at one in our judgment.'
* Of course I know what you w*ill propose ! ' cried the
other, excitedly. ' Erom the prudential point of view,
you are right, I have no doubt. But how can you
protect me against remorse ? If you had received letters
such as these three,' he pulled them out of a pocket,
BORN IN EXILE 43:^.
* you would be as miserable as I am. If I don't keep my
promise, I sliall never know another moment of peace.'
* You certainly won't if you do keep it,' remarked Thomas.
'No,' added Earwaker, 'and one if not two other
persons will be put into the same case. Whereas by
boldly facing these reproaches of conscience, you do a
great kindness to the others.'
' If only you could assure me of that ! '
* I can assure you. Tliat is to say, I can give it as my
unassailable conviction.'
And Earwaker once more enlarged upon the theme,
stating it from every point of view that served his purpose.
'You're making a mountain out of a mole-heap,' was
the confirmatory remark that came from Thomas. ' This
respectable lady will get over her sorrows quickly
enough, and some day she'll be only too glad to have
you for a son-in-law, if Miss Bella still pleases you.'
' It's only right,' urged Earwaker, in pursuance of his
subtler intention, ' that you should bear the worst of
the suffering, for the trouble has come out of your own
thoughtlessness. You are fond of saying that you have
behaved with the utmost discretion ; so far from that
you have been outrageously indiscreet. I foresaw that
something of this kind might come to pass '
* Then why the devil didn't you warn me ? ' shouted
Malkin, in an agony of nervous strain.
' It would have been useless. In fact, 1 foresaw it too late.'
The discussion continued for an hour. By careful in-
sistence on the idea of self-sacritice, Earwaker by degrees
demolished tlie arguments his friend kei)t putting forward.
Thomas, who had gone impatiently to the window, turned
round with words that were meant to be final.
' It's quite decided. You begin your preparations at
once, and to-morrow morning you go on Itoard with us.'
' But if I don't go to AVrotham this afternoon. slie'U
1)6 here either to-night or the first thing to-morrow. I'm
sure of it ! '
'By four or five o'clock,' said Earwaker, ' you can have
broken up the camp. You've often done it at shorter
notice. Go to an hotel for the night.'
28
434 BORN IN EXILE
' I must write to the poor woman.'
' Do as you like about that.'
' Who is to help her, if she gets into difficulties — as
she's always doing ? Who is to advise her about Bella's
education ? Who is to pay 1 mean, who will see
to ? Oh, confound it ! '
The listeners glanced at each other.
' Are her affairs in order ? ' asked Earwaker. * Has she
a sufficient income ? '
' For ordinary needs, quite sufficient. But '
'Then you needn't be in the least uneasy. Let her
know where you are, when the equator is between you.
Watch over her interests from a distance, if you like.
I can as good as promise you that Bella will wait
hopefully to see her friend again.'
Malkin succumbed to argument and exhaustion.
Facing Earwaker with a look of pathetic appeal, he
asked hoarsely :
' Will you stand by me till it's over ? Have you
time ? '
* 1 can give you till five o'clock.'
' Then I'll go and dress. Fung the bell, Tom, and ask
them to bring up some beer.'
Before three had struck, the arrangements for flight
were completed. A heavily-laden cab bore away Malkiri's
personal property ; within sat the unhappy man and his
faithful friend.
The next morning Earwaker went down to Tilbury,
and said farewell to the travellers on board the steam-
ship Orient. Mrs. Thomas had already taken her brother-
in-law under her special care.
' It's only three children to look after, instead of two,'
she remarked, in a laughing aside to the journalist. ' How
grateful he will be to you in a few days ! And I'm
sure ire are already.'
Malkin's eyes were no longer (juite lustreless. At the
last moment he talked with animation of 'two years
hence,' and there was vigour in the waving of his hand
as the vessel started seaward.
Ill
Peak lost no time in leaving Exeter. To lighten his
baggage, and to get rid of possessions to which hateful
memories attached, lie sold all his books that had any
bearing on theology. The incomplete translation of
Bihd und Natur he committed to the flames in Mrs.
Koots's kitchen, scattering its black remnants with savage
thrusts of the poker. AYhilst engaged in packing, he
debated with himself whether or not he should take leave
of the few ac(|uaintances to whom he was indebted for
hospitality and other kindness. The question was : Had
Buckland Warricombe already warned these people
against him ? Probably it had seemed to Buckland the
wiser course to be content with driving tlie hypocrite
away ; and, if tliis were so, regard for the future dictated
a retirement from Exeter which should in no way
resemble secret flight. Sidwell's influence witli lier
parents would perhaps withliold tliem from making his
disgrace known, and in a few years lie miglit ])e glad that
he had behaved with all possible prudence. In the end,
he decided to write to Mr. Lily white, saying that he was
oljliged to go away at a moment's notice, and that he
feared it would be necessary altogetlier to cliange the
sclieme of life which he had liad in view. This was
the best way. From the Lilywhites, otlier people would
hear of him, and percliance their conjectures would be
charitable.
Without much hesitation lie had settled his immediate
plans. To London he would not return, for he dreaded
the temptations to which the proximity of Sidwell would
436 BORN IN EXILE
expose him, and he had no mind to meet with Moxey or
Earwaker. As it was now imperative that he should
find work of the old kind, he could not do better than go
to Bristol, where, from the safe ground of a cheap and
obscure lodging, he might make inquiries, watch adver-
tisements, and so on. He already knew of establishments
iu Bristol where he might possibly obtain employment.
Living with the utmost economy, he need not fall into
difficulties for more than a year, and before then his good
repute with the Eotherhithe firm would ensure him some
position or other; if not in Bristol, then at Newcastle,
St. Helen's — any great centre of fuming and malodorous
industry. He was ready to work, would delight in work.
Idleness was now the intolerable thing.
So to Bristol he betook himself, and there made his
temporary abode. After spending a few weeks in fruit-
less search for an engagement, he at length paid his
oft-postponed visit to Twybridge. In the old home he
felt completely a stranger, and his relatives strengthened
the feeling by declaring him so changed in appearance
that they hardly knew his face. With his mother only
could he talk in anything like an intimate way, and the
falsehoods with which he was obliged to answer her
questions all but destroyed the pleasure he would other-
wise have found in being affectionately tended. His
sister, Mrs. Cusse, was happy in her husband, her children,
and a flourishing business. Oliver was making money,
and enjoyed distinction among the shopkeeping com-
munity. His aunt still dealt in millinery, and kept up
her acquaintance with respectal)le families. To Godwin
all was like a dream dreamt for the second time. He
could not acknowledge any actual connection between
these people and himself. But their characteristics no
longer gravely offended him, and he willingly recognised
the homespun worth which their lives displayed. It was
clear to him that by no possible agency of circumstances
could he have Ijcen held in normal relations with his
kinsfolk. However smooth his career, it must have
wafted him to an immeasurable distance from Twybridge.
Nature had decreed that he was to resemble the animals
BOim IN EXILE 437
which, once reared, go forth in complete indcpenilence of
birthplace and the ties of blood. It was a harsh fate, but
in what had not fate been harsh to him ? Tlie one
consolation was that he alone sulfered. His mother was
no doubt occasionally troubled by solicitude on his
account, but she could not divine his inward miseries,
and an assurance that he had no material cares sutliced
to set her mind at ease.
' You are very like your father, Godwin,' she said, with
a sigh. ' He couldn't rest, however well he seemed to be
getting on. There was always something he wanted, and
yet he didn't know what it was.'
' Yes, I must be like him,' Godwin replied, smiling.
He stayed five days, then returned to Bristol. A week
after that, his mother forwarded to him a letter which
had come to Twybridge. He at once recognised the
writing, and broke the envelope with curiosity.
' If you should be in London,' the note began, ' I beg
you to let me see you. There is something 1 have to say.
To speak to you for a lew minutes I would come any
distance. Don't accuse me of behaving treacherously ; it
was not my fault. I know you would rather avoid me,
but do consent to hear what I have to say. K you have
no intention of coming to London, will you write and let
me know where you are living ? ]\L ^I.'
What could iMarcella have to say to him s* Nothing
surely that he at all cared to hear. Xo doubt she
imacjined that he mij^ht be in ignorance of the circum-
Stances which had led to Buckland AVarricombe's dis-
covery ; she wished to defend herself against the suspicion
of * treachery.' He laughed carelessly, and threw her
note aside.
Two months passed, and his efforts to find employment
were still vain, though he had received conditional
promises. The solitude of his life grew bunlensome.
Several times he began a letter to Sidwell, but his
difficulty in writing was so great that he destroyed the
attempt. In truth, he knew not how to address her.
The words he penned were tumid, meaningless. He could
not send professions of love, for his heart seemed to be
438 BORN IN EXILE
suffering a paralysis, aud tlie laborious artificiality of liis
style must have been evident. The only excuse for
breaking silence would be to let her know that he had
resumed honest work ; he must wait till the opportunity
offered. It did not distress him to be without news of
lier. If she wished to write, and was only witldield by
ignorance of his whereabouts, it was well ; if she had no
thought of sending him a word, it did not matter. He
loved her, and consciously nourished hope, but for the
present there was nothing intolerable in separation. His
state of mind resulted partly from nervous reaction, and
ill part from a sense that only by silent suffering could
Ills dignity in Sidwell's eyes be ultimately restored.
Uetween the evil past and the hopeful future must be a
complete break.
His thoughts kept turning to London, though not
because Sidwell might still be there. He felt urgent need
of speaking with a friend. Moxey was perhaps no longer
to be considered one ; but Earwaker would be tolerant of
liuman weaknesses. To have a long talk with Earwaker
would help him to recover his mental balance, to under-
stand himself and his position better. So one morning in
March, on the spur of the moment, he took train and
was once more in the metropolis. On his way he had
determined to send a note to Earwaker before calling at
Staple Inn. He wrote it at a small hotel in Paddington,
where he took a room for the night, and then spent
tlie evening at a theatre, as the "best way of killing
time.
By the first post next morning came a card, whereon
Earwaker had written : — ' Be here, if you can, at two
o'clock. Shall be glad to see you.'
* So you have been new-furnishing!' Godwin remarked,
as he was admitted to the chambers. ' You look much
more comfortable.'
' I'm glad you tliink so. It is tlie general opinion.'
They had sliaken liands as though this were one of the
ordinary meetings of old time, and their voices scarcely
belied the appearance. Peak moved about the study,
glancing at pictures and books, Earwaker eyeing him
BORN IN KXILH 43!)
tlie while witli nut inifiiomlly i-xpressioii. Tlicy wcru
sincerely glad to see eacli other, and when Peak seated
himseU" it was with an audil)le sigh of contentment.
* And what are you doing / ' he inriuired.
The journalist gave a hrief account of his affairs, and
Peak biightened with pleasure.
' This is good news. I knew you would shake oil" the
raaaniuthns before long. Give me some of vour hack
numbers, will you? I shall he curious to examine yt>ur
new style.'
* And you ? — Come to live in London ? '
'No; I am at Bristol, but only waiting. There's a
chance of an analyst's })lace in Lancashire; but I may
give the preference to an ojjcning I have heard of in
J Belgium. Better to go abroad, I think.'
' Perhaps so.'
' I have a question to ask you. I suppo.se you talked
about that Critical article of mine before you received my
request for silence ? '
' That's how it was/ Earwaker replied, cahnly.
' Yes; I understood. It doesn't matter.'
The other pufied at his pipe, and moved uneasily.
* I am taking for gi-anted,' Peak continued, ' that you
know how I have spent my time down in Devonshire.'
' In outline. Xeed we trouble about the details ? *
' Xo. But don't suppose that I should feel any shame
in talking to you about them. That would be a con-
fession of base motive. You and I have studied each
other, and we can exchange tlioughts on most subjects
with mutual understanding. You know that I have only
followed my convictions to their logical issue. An oppor-
tunity otlered of achieving the supreme end to whicii my
life is directed, and what scruple could stand in my way i
We have nothing to do with names and ei)ithets. Here
are the facts of life as I had known it; tlwre is the
existence promised as the reward of successful artiticc.
To live was to i)ursue the object of my being. I could
not feel otherwise; therefore, could not act otherwi.sc.
You imagine me defeated, Hung back into the gutter.*
His words came more (piickly, and th<^ muscles of hii<
440 BOEN IN EXILE
face worked under emotion. ' It isn't so. I have a great
and reasonable liope. Perhaps I have gained everything
I really desired. I could tell you the strangest story, but
there a scruple docs interpose. If we live another twenty
years — but now I can only talk about myself.'
* And this liope of which you speak,' said Earwaker,
witli a grave smile, ' points you at present to sober w^ork
among your retorts and test-tubes ? '
* Yes, it does.'
' Good. Then I can put faith in the result.'
' Yet the hope began in a lie,' rejoined Peak, bitterly.
' It will always be pleasant to look back upon that, won't
it ? You see : by no conceivable honest effort could I
have gained this point. Life utterly denied to me the
satisfaction of my strongest instincts, so long as I plodded
on without cause of shame ; the moment I denied my
faith, and put on a visage of brass, great possibilities
opened before me. Of course I understand the moralist's
l)Osition. It behoved me, though I knew that a barren
and solitary track would be my only treading to the end,
to keep courageously onward. If I can't helieve that any
such duty is imposed upon me, where is the obligation to
persevere, the morality of doing so ? That is the worst
hypocrisy. I have been honest, inasmuch as I have acted
in accordance with my actual belief.'
* jM — m — m,' muttered Earwaker, slowly. ' Then you
have never been troubled with a twinge of conscience ? '
* With a thousand ! I have been racked, martyred.
What has that to do with it ? Do you suppose I attach
any final significance to those torments ? Conscience is
the same in my view as an inherited disease which
may possibly break out on any most innocent physical
indulgence. — What end have I been pursuing? Is it
criminal ? Is it mean ? I wanted to win the love of a
woman — nothing more. To do that, I have had to behave
like tlie grovelling villain who has no desire but to fill
his pockets. And with success! — You understand that,
Earwaker ? I have succeeded ! What respect can I have
for the common morality, after this ? '
' You have succeeded ?' the other asked, thoughtfully. ' I
BORN IN EXILK 441
coukl liave imagined that you had l)C't'n in iippearance
successful '
He paused, and Teak resumed witli vehemence :
' Xo, not in appearance only. 1 can't tell you the
story '
* I don't wish you to '
' But what I have won is won for ever. The triunijih
no longer rests on deceit. What I insist upon is tliat l)y
deceit only was it rendered possible. If a starvini; man
succeeds in stealing a loaf of bread, the food will 'oenetit
him no less than if lie had purchased it ; it is good, true
sustenance, no matter how he got it. To be sure, the
man may prefer starvation ; he may have so strong a
metaphysical faith that death is welcome in comparison
with what he calls dishonour. I — I have no such faitli ;
and millions of other men in this country would tell the
blunt truth if they said the same. I have 7/^7/ nuajui,
that's all. The old way of candour led me to bitterness j
and cursing ; by dissimulation I have won something iy
more glorious than tongue can tell.' ^
It was in the endeavour to expel the sul)tlest enemy of
his peace that Godwin dwelt so defiantly upon this view
of the temptation to which he had yielded. Since his
farewell intervicAv with Sidwell, he knew no rest from the
torment of a mocking voice which bade him bear in mind
that all his dishonour had been superfluous, seeing that
wliilst he played the part of a zealous Christian, Sid well
herself was drifting further and further from the old
religion. This voice mingled with his dreams, and left
not a waking hour untroubled. He refused to believe it,
strove against the suggestion as a half-despairing man
does against the persistent thought of suicide. K only he
could obtain Earwaker's assent to tlie plan he put for-
ward, it would support him in disregard of idle regrets.
' It is impossible,' said the journalist, ' for anyone to
determine whether that is true or not — for you, as much
as for anyone else. Be glad tliat you have sliaken olf
the evil and retained the good,— no use in saying more
than that.'
'Yes,' decKared the other, stublxanly, 'there is goo<l in
442 BORN IN EXILE
exposing false views of life. I ought to have come utterly
to grief and shame, and instead '
' Instead ? Well ? '
What I have told you.'
' Which I interpret thus : that you have permission to
redeem your character, if possible, in the eyes of a woman
you have grievously misled.'
Godwin frowned.
* Who suggested this to you, Earwaker ? '
'You; no one else. I don't even know who the
woman is of whom you speak.'
' Grant you are right. As an honest man, I should
never have won her faintest interest.'
* It is absurd for us to talk about it. Think in the
way that is most helpful to you, — that, no doubt, is
a reasonable rule. Let us have done with all these
o])SCurities, and come to a practical question. Can I be
of any use to you? Would you care, for instance, to
write an article now and tlien on some scientific matter
that has a popular interest ? I think I could promise to
get that kind of thing printed for you. Or would you re-
view nn occasional book tliat happened to be in your line ? '
Godwin reflected.
' Thank you,' he replied, at length. ' I should be glad
of such work— if I can get into the mood for doing it
properly. That won't be just yet ; but perhaps when I
have found a place '
'Think it over. AVrite to me about it.'
Peak glanced round the room.
'You don't know how glad I am,' he said, ' that your
prosperity shows itself in this region of bachelordom. If
I had seen you in a comfortable house, married to a
woman worthy of you — I couldn't have been sincere in
j my congratulations : I should have envied you so fiercely.'
* 'You're a strange fellow. Twenty years hence — as
you said just now — you will one way or another have
got rid of your astounding illusions. At fifty — well, let
us say at sixty — you will have a chance of seeing things
witliout these preposterous sexual spectacles.'
' I liope so. Every stage of lil'e has its powers and
BORN IN KXILK 443
enjoyments. Wlieii 1 am old, 1 hope to perceive and judge
without passion of any kind. But is that any reason
why my youth should be frustrated ? We have only one
life, and I want to live mine througliout.'
Soon after this Teak rose. He remembered that the
journalist's time was valuable, and that he no lunger had
the right to demand more of it than could l)e granted to
any casual caller. Earwaker behaved with all friendli-
ness, but their relations had necessarily suflered a change.
More than a year of separation, spent l)y the one in
accumulating memories of dishonour, had given the other
an enviable position among men ; Earwaker had liis place
in the social system, his growing circle of friends, his
congenial labour; perhaps — notwithstanding the tone in
whicli he spoke of marriage — his hopes of domestic happi-
ness. All this with no sacrifice of principle. He Avas
fortunate in his temper, moral and intellectual ; i)artly
directing circumstances, partly guided by their pressure,
he advanced on the way of harmonious development.
Nothing great would come of his endeavours, but what
lie aimed at he steadily perfected. And this in spite of
the adverse conditions under wliich he began his course.
Nature had been kind to him ; what more could one
say ?
When he went forth into the street again, Clodwin felt
Ids heart sink. His solitude was the more comidete for
this hour of friendly dialogue. No other companionship
offered itself ; if he lingered here, it must be as one of
the drifting crowd, as an idle and envious spectator of the
business and pleasure rife about him. He durst not
approach that quarter of the town where Sidwell was
living — if indeed she still remained here. Happily, the
vastness of London enabled him to think of her as at a
great distance; by keeping to tlie district in which he
now wandered he was practically as remote from her as
wlien he walked the streets of Bristol.
Yet tliere was one person who would welcome liim
eagerly if he chose to visit her. And, after all, might it
not be as well if he heard what ^Marcella had to say to
him ? He could not go to the house, for it would be
444 BORN IN EXILE
disagreeable to encounter Moxey ; but, if he wrote,
Marcella would speedily make an appointment. Alter
an hour or two of purposeless rambling, he decided to ask
for an interview. He might learn something that really
concerned him ; in any case, it was a final meeting
with Marcella, to whom he perhaps owed this much
courtesy.
The reply was as prompt as that from Earwaker. By
the morning post came a letter inviting him to call upon
Miss Moxey as soon as possible before noon. She added,
' My brother is away in the country ; you will meet no
one here.'
By eleven o'clock he was at Notting Hill ; in the
drawing-room, he sat alone for two or three minutes.
Marcella entered silently, and came towards him without
a smile ; he saw that she read his face eagerly, if not with
a light of triumph in her eyes. The expression might
signify that she rejoiced at having been an instrument
of his discomfiture ; perhaps it was nothing more than
gladness at seeing him again.
' Have you come to live in London ? ' she asked, wlien
they had shaken hands without a word.
* I am only here for a day or two.'
' My letter reached you without delay ?'
' Yes. It was sent from Twybridge to Bristol. I
didn't reply then, as I had no prospect of being in
London.*
* Will you sit down ? You can stay for a few
minutes ? '
He seated himself awkwardly. Now that he was in
Marcella's presence, he felt that he had acted un-
accountably in giving occasion for another scene
between them which could only end as painfully
as that at Exeter. Her emotion grew evident; he
could not bear to meet the look she had fixed upon
him.
* I want to speak of what happened in this house about
Christmas time,' she resumed. * lUit I must know first
what you have been told.'
' Wliat have you been told?' lie replied, witli an
BORN IN EXILE 4-45
uneasy smile. 'How du you know that anything which
happened here liad any importance for me ? '
* J don't know tliat it liad. But I felt sure tliat Mr.
AVarriconibe meant to speak to you about it.'
* Yes, lie did.'
' But did he tell you the exact truth ? Or were
you led to suppose that I liad broken niv ])romise to
you ? '
Unwilling to introduce any mention of Sidwell, Peak
preferred to simplify the story by attributing to Buckland
all the information he had gathered.
' I understood,' he replied, ' that Warricombe had come
here in the hope of learning more about me, and that
certain facts came out in general conversation. What
does it matter how he learned what he did ? From the
day when he met you down in Devonshire, it was of cour.se
inevitable that the truth should sooner or later come out.
He always suspected me.'
' But I want you to know,' said Marcella, ' that I had no
willing part in it. I promised you not to speak even to
my brother, and I should never have done so but that
Christian somehow met 'Mr. AVarricombe, and heard him
talk of you. Of course he came to me in astonishment,
and for your own interest I thouglit it l)est to tell
Christian what I knew. When Mr. Warricombe en me
here, neither Christian nor I would have enliglitened him
about — about your past. It happened most unfortunately
that Mr. Malkin was present, and he it was who began
to speak of the Critical article — and other things. I was
powerless to prevent it.'
' Why trouble about it ? I ([uite believe your account.'
* You do believe it ? You know I would not have
injured you ? '
' I am sure you had no wish to,' Godwin replied, in as
unsentimental a tone as possible. And, he adiled after a
moment's ]muse, 'Was this what you were so anxious
to tell me ? '
* Yes. Chiefly that.'
' Let me put your mind at rest,' pursued the other, with
quiet friendliness. * I am disposed to turn optimist ;
446 BORN IN exilp:
everything has happened just as it should liave done.
Warriconibe relieved me from a false position. If he
hadn't done so, I must very soon have done it for
myself. Let us rejoice that things work together for
such obvious good. A few more lessons of this kind,
and we shall acknowledge that the world is the best
possible.'
He laughed, but the tense expression of Marcella's
features did not relax.
* You say you are living in Bristol ? '
' For a time.'
* Have you abandoned Exeter ? '
The word implied something that Marcella could not
utter more plainly. Her face completed the question.
'And the clerical career as well,' he answered.
But he knew that she sought more than this, and his
voice again broke the silence.
' Perhaps you have heard that already ? Are you in
communication witli Miss Moorhouse ? '
Slie shook her liead.
' V)\\t probably Warriconibe has told your brother ? '
'What?'
' Oh, of his success in ridding Exeter of my objection-
able presence.'
' Christian hasn't seen him again, nor have L'
* I only wish to assure you that I have suffered no
injury. My experiment was doomed to failure. What
led me to it, how I regarded it, we won't discuss ; I am
as little prepared to do so now as when we talked at
Exeter. That chapter in my life is happily over. As
soon as I am estal)lished again in a place like that I had
at Eotherliithe, I shall be quite contented.'
' Contented ? ' She smiled incredulously. ' For how
long ? '
'Who can say? I have lost the habit of looking far
forward.'
]\rarcella kept silence so long that he concluded she had
nothing more to say to him. It was an opportunity for
taking leave without emotional stress, and he rose from
his chair.
BORN IN KXILK 447
* Don't go yet,' she said at once. 'It wasn't only this
that 1 '
Her voice was checked.
'Can I be of any use to you in Jhistol ?' Peak asked,
determined to avoid the trial he saw approaching,'.
'Tliere is soniethin^^ more I wanted to say,' slie i)ursui'(l,
seeming not to hear him. 'You ])retend to he contented,
but I know that is impossible. You talk of going hack to
a dull routine of toil, wlien what you most desire is
freedom. I want — if 1 can — to help you.'
Again she failed to command lier voice. Godwin raised
his eyes, and was astonished at the transformation slie liad
suddenly undergone. Her face, instead of being colour-
less and darkly vehement, had changed to a bright
warmth, a smiling radiance such as would have become a
hap}>y 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 wdiy should a conventional fear
hinder what I want to say ? You know — don't you { — that
1 have far more money than 1 need or am ever likely to.
I want only a few hundreds a year, and I have more than
a thousand.' She sj^oke more and more quickly, fearful of
being interrupted. 'Why shouldn't I give you some of
my sui)ertiuity ? 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 vie. AVhy
shouldn't someone whom I wish well benefit by it ? '
Godwin was not so much suri)rised as disconcerted.
He knew that Marcella's nature was of large mould, and
that whether she acted for good or evil its jn-omptings
would be anything but commonplace. The ardour with
which she pleaded, and the magnitude of the benefaction
she desired to bestow upon him, so alVected his imagina-
tion that for the moment he stood as if doubting what
reply to make. The doubt really in Ins mind was
whether Marcella had calculated u])on 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 ii])])ea.«^e
lier heart with the exercise of generosity.
448 BORN IN EXILE
' 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
BORN IN KXII.K 440
hence. V>y that time you will have Icaiui ihat what 1
ollered was not inipossiltle. You will wish you hud dared
to accept it. I know what your amhUiun is. Wait till
you are old enou^^h to see it in its true li',dit. How you
will scorn yourself! Surely there was never ji man who
united_such capacity for <;reat things with so mean an
_[deal. You will never win even the paltry satisfaction on
which you have set your mind — never ! l>ut you can't lie
made to understand that. You will throw away (dl 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. Y<»u will
not dare to tell the truth.'
* AVhy not ? ' he asked, indifferently. ' Decidedly I shall
owe it you in return for your frankness to-day. Till tlifu
— 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 ;ind
physical lassitude. Earwaker corresponded with him, and
urged him to attempt the work that had l)cen }ir()posed,
but such effort was beyond his power.
He saw one day in a literary paper an announcement
that Reusch's Bihcl unci Natitr was about to be ])ub-
lished in an English translation. So someone else had
successfully finished the work he undertook nearly two
years ago. He amused himself with the thought tliat
he could ever have persevered so long in such protitless
labour, and with a contemptuous laugh he muttered
' TJiohic vjahohu.'
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 stej* to any tiling
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
29
450 BORN IN EXILE
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 understand 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 1 am able to read,
to think — I mean really to think, not to muse. I get
through big and solid books. Presently, if your ofier
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 philosopliic state
endure ? Perhaps I have used up all my emotional
energy ? I hardly know whether to hope or fear it.'
BORN IN EX1L1-: 451
About midsummer, when liis short holiday (he wouhl
only be released for a fortniglit) drew near, he was sur-
prised by another letter from ►Sid well. ' 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 liavo
been constantly expecting a few lines. The spriii*; 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 A])ril, 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 lioyat, and I think we shall
be away until the end of September. AVill 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 CJodwin felt that the
letter meant more. In re-reading it he was jdcasantly
thrilled with a stirring of the old emotions. Ihit his
first impulse, to write an ardent reply, did not carry
him away; he reflected and took counsel of the exj)eri-
ence gained in his studious solitude. It was evident
that by keeping silence he had caused Sielwell 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 Mattered his piide. ' Let
her learn that, after all, T 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 dignitied expression.
IV
SiDWELL took no one into her confidence. Tlie 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 Moor-
house, '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. Buck-
land'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 ? '
BORN IN EXILE 453
' He has deceived you, fatlicr,' was the quiet reply.
' You are convinced of that ^ — It allows of no T
* It can't be explained away. He pretended to believe
what he did not and could nut believe.'
* With interested motives, then ^ '
'Yes. — But not motives in themselves dishonourable.'
There was a pause. iSidwell 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. Jiut a revelation of all that had
passed between her and Teak 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 dillicult 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 trust-
worthy counsellor was time ; on what time brouglit forth
must depend her future.
'Do you mean, Sidwell,' resumed her fatlier, '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.
* Ihit will he remain in Exeter / '
' I shouldn't think he can.'
Again a pause. Martin was of course puzzled exceed-
ingly, 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 1 thought I saw in him.'
' Yes — it must.'
*Not — perhaps— to you ?' Martin ventured, anxiously.
'His nature is not base.'
454 BORN IN EXILE
' Forgive me, clear. — T 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 V
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 w^ife 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 lias had a talk
with you ? ' The clergyman replied tliat Peak liad 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
BORN IN KXILK 455
suspect that conscientious scruples may havu sonietliing
to do with it ; if so, all honour to him ! '
The Warricombes proloni^^ed tlieir stay in I/mdoii
until the end of June. On their return home, Martin
was relieved to hnd that scarcely an in(|uiry was made
of him concerning Peak. The young man's disappear-
ance 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 liis
questioning. On an afternoon when Mrs. Warricombe
and her daughters were alone, the Kev. 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 lie ? AVhat is he
doing ? '
There was a barely appreciable delay before Mrs.
Warricombe made answer.
*We have quite lost sight of him,' she said, witli an
artificial smile. ' AVe 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, l)n)Ught his eyes back
again.
'I hope most earnestly,' he went on, in lii.s ihity tone,
* that he will return. A most interesting man ! A man
of larfjc intellectual scope, and really hmad sympatliies.
I looked forward to many a chat witli him. Has he, I
wonder, been led to cliange his views ? Possibly he
wouhl find a secular s])here more adapted to his siKicial
powers.'
Mrs. Warricombe had nothing to say. Sidwell,
finding that Mr. Chilvers' smile now beamed in her
direction, replied to him witli steady utterance :
456 BORN IN EXILE
' It isn't iincomiiion, I think, nowadays, for doubts to
interfere with the course of study for ordination ? '
' Far from uncommon ! ' exclaimed the Eector 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 Eev. 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 AVarricombes than to his
other acquaintances. Believed 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. Lily white did not hesitate to call him 'a mounte-
bank,' 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. Bather 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 Bev. Bruno's
favour, took care to report these matters to his wife.
BORN IN KXILK 457
'\ don't l)elicve a word of it!' exclaimed Mrs.
Warricoiube. ' All tlie clergy are jealous of Mr.
Chi I vers.'
* What ? Of his success witli ladies { '
' Martin ! It is soniethini^' new I'cjr you to be profane !
— They are jealous of his higli reputation.'
* Rather a serious charge against our respectable friends.'
' And the stories are all nonsense,' i)ursued 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 througli his married life — and let the discussion rest
there. On the next occasion of ^Ir. Chilvers being at the
house, he observed the reverend man's behaviour with
Sid well, and was not at all pleased. Bruno had a way
of addressing wonien which certainly went beyond the
ordinary limits of courtesy. At a little distance, anyone
would have concluded tliat he was doing his Ijest to
excite Sidwell's affectionate interest. The matter of his
discourse might be unobjectionable, but tlie manner of it
was not in good taste.
Mrs. \Varricoml)e was likewise observant, l>ut with
other emotions. To lier it seemed a subject for ]>leasur-
al»le reflection, that Mr. Chilvers sliould sliow interest in
Sidwell. The Rev. Bruno had bright prospects. With
tlie 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 alto-
gether with the men of 'l)readth.' "^ The time drew near
when Sidwell must marry, if she ever meant to do so, and
in comparison with such candidates as ^Ir. Walsh and
Godwin Peak, the Rector of St. Margaret's woidd be an
ideal husband for her. Sidwell's attitude towards Mr.
Cliilvers was not encouraging, but Mrs. Warricond>e
suspected that a lingering regard for tlie impostor, so
lately unmasked, still troubled her daughter's mind: a
new suitor, even if rejected, would hel}) the poor girl to
dismiss that shocking infatuation.
Sidwell and her father nowadays spent nnich time
458 BORN IN EXILE
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. Tlie questions she put with
reference to Martin's favourite studies were sometimes
embarrassing.
One day they liappened 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, ' 1 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.
BORN IN EXILE 459
*If Mr. Chilvers were brouglit 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 Cluirch ? '
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 Hashed, 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 intelli-
gible sense of that* much-abused word, — no ! He is one
type of the successful man of our day. Where thousantls
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 con-
ventional hour. Sidwell, ho})ing 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 Kev.
Bruno's voice disagreeably broke her reverie. She was per-
force involved in a dialogue, her companions moving aside.
'What a magnifice'nt sky!' murmured Chilvers.
' " There sinks the nebulous star." Forgive me, I have
fallen into a tiresome trick of (pioting. How dillerently
a sunset is viewed nowadays from wliat it was in old
times ! Our impersonal emotions are on a higher plane —
don't you think so ? Yes, scientific discovery has done
460 BORN IN EXILE
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 ? ' Sidvvell asked, coldly.
In everyday conversation she was less suave than for-
merly. Tliis 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 autlior, 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 sympatliise with what I don't understand, Mr.
Chilvers.'
He looked at her with tender solicitude, bending
slightly from his usual square-shouldered attitude.
BURN IN KX1IJ-: 401
* Do let me find an opportunity of talkiii;^ ovit the
whole matter with you — by no means as an instructor.
In my view, a clergyman may seek instruction IVoni
the humblest of those wlio are called his tlock. The
thoughtful and high - minded among them will often
assist him materially in his endeavour at self -develop-
ment. 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 kiiul
of sympathy ? '
Sid well glanced about her in the hope that sonie <jne
might be approaching. Her two friends were at a
distance, talking and laughing together.
* You shall tell me some day,' slie replied, with more
attention to courtesy, 'what the doctrines of the l>road
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 tefc-a-tctc with the Eev. Bruno.
It was seldom that she thought of him save when com-
pelled to do so by his exacting presence, but in the mean-
time he exercised no small intluence on her mental life.
Insensibly she was confirmed in her alienation Iroui
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 Beak.
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 tlie 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 (lodwin, the thought
of marrying him was so ditlicult 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)
462 BORN IN EXILE
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 Ijut 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.
BORN IN KXILE 4G3
When he wrote again, her answer slujukl not he
cowardly.
The life of the household we'nt on as it had Ijeen
wont to do for years, ])ut with the sprin«» 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 findinf^ 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 Ibr 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 afl'air of Godwin l^eak, 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 Mcjor-
house's sincerity in rejecting Ikickland'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 Eadical had honoured willi his trans-
ferred affections.
* The lady's name,' Buckland began, ' is Miss ^fatilda
Renshaw. She is the second daughter of a dealer in
hides, tallow, and that kind of thing. lioth her parents
are dead ; she has lived of late with her married sister at
Blackheath.'
Sidwell listened with no slight astonishnu'nt, and her
countenance looked what she felt.
'That's the bald statement of the cause,' pursued
464 BORN IN EXILE
her brother, seeming to enjoy the consternation he
had excited. ' Now, let nie till up the outline. Miss
Kenshaw 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. Einally, she owns property representing between
three and four thousand a year.'
' The picture has become more attractive,' said
Sidwell.
' You imagined a rather dift'erent person ? If I per-
suade 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 Eenshaw 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 tliose
first months had been justifiable was now a source of
BURN IN KXILK 4G5
anxiety. But whether fear or liope predominaled in her
expectancy, she still coukl not decitle. 8he had said to
herself that her next reply should not he 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 lier sake
as much as for Fanny's tliey must liave a tliorough holiday
abroad.
Urged by the approaching departure, Sidwell over-
came 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 slie dare to open the envelope. Her letter
had perchance been more significant tlian she supposed ;
and did not the mere fact of her writing invite a lover's
frankness ?
But the reply was haivlly more moving than if it
had come from a total stranger. For a moniunt slic
felt relieved ; in an hour's time she suffered indescrib-
able distress. Godwin wrote — so she convinced herself
after repeated perusals — as if discharging a task; not
a word suggested tenderness. Had the letter l^een un-
solicited, she could have used it like tlie former one ;
but it was the answer to an appeal. The phrases she
had used were still present in lier 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 law.s
of life.
A fortnight later, she wrote from Boyat to Sylvia
Moorhouse. It was a long epistle, full of sunny descrip-
30
466 BORN IN EXILE
tioiis, 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.'
FART THE SEVENTH
PART THE SEVENTH
I
At the close of a sultry day in September, when factory
fumes hung low over the town of St. Helen's, and
twilight tliickened luridly, and the air tasted of sulphur,
and the noises of the streets, nmlllcd in their joint
eftect, had individually an ominous distinctness, Godwin
Peak walked with languid stei)s 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 tlie
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 l)e deemed secure ? Ilubbish !
It was an idea out of old-fashioned r(>nuinccs. What
he was, he was, and no extent of dogged (hiration at
St. Helen's or elsewhere, could all'ect his ])c*rsonality.
What, practically, was to be the end? If Sidwell had
no money of her own, and no expectations from lier
father, how could she ever become his wife ? Women
liked this kind of thing, this indelinite engagement to
marry when something should hajipen, which in all
likelihood never would happen— tliis fantastic mutual
fidelity with only the airiest reward, l-lsiu'cially women
of a certain age.
A heavy cart seemed to be rundjling in the next
470 BORN IN EXILE
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 tliere
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, speak-
ing 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.
BORN IN KXII.K 471
'Oh, that's nothing! I went an<l liad .hnner. — IN'ak,
my sister is dead.'
Their eyes met; something of th(^ old kindness rose
to either face.
'That must be a heavy blow to you,' murmured Clodwin,
possessed with a strange anticipation which he would not
allow to take clear form.
* It is. She was ill for three UKjnths. Whilst staying
in the country last June she met with an accident. Slie
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 tliere lieating 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 tlien lie wouldn't stop his
brutality. Marcella tried to get lietween liim 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 sufl'eriug, aiul then
happily came the end.'
A far, faint echoing of thunder filled tlie silence of
their voices. Heavy rain splashed upon the ]»avement.
'She said to me just before her death,' resumed
Christian, '" I have ill luck when I try to do a kinihiess
— but perhaps there is one more chance." I didn't know
what she meant till afterwards. Peak, she lias left nearly
all her money to you.'
Godwin knew it l)efore the words were spoken. His
heart leaped, and only the dread of being observe<l
enabled him to control his features. When liis tongue
was released he said harshly :
' Of course I can't accept it.*
The words were uttere»l independently of his will, lb-
had no such thought, and the sound <>f his voice shook
him with alarm.
472 BORN IN EXILE
* Why can't you ? ' returned Christian.
' I liave 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 line 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 tlie last moment." I buried her without
forms of any kind, in the cemetery at Kingsmill. Tliat
was what slie wislied. 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 companion^
I
BORN IN KXILK 473
ship, but I don't care to go about iuvitini,' people's pity.
If only I could forget those niontlis of sulfiTing! Some
day I shall, perhaps, and think of her only as she lived.'
'Were you alone with her all tiie time T
' 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 I^jwt«»n,
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 tho\ights ;
a languor had crept over him.
' Do you recollect, Peak,' said Christian, presently, ' the
talk we had in the fields by Twy bridge, when we lirst
met ? '
The old friendliness was reappearing in his manner,
lie was yielding to the impulse to be connnunicative.
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 l)oth !t^
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. — Widl, and 1
too am free.'
The last words were in a lower tone. Godwin glanced
at the speaker, whose sadness was not banished, hut
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. liut, happily, I liave
been able to go back a])0ut thirteen years — recover njy
old sane self — and with it what 1 then threw away.'
474 BORN IN EXILE
* 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 ? '
' Tliat's still uncertain. Janet mustn't go on with pro-
fessional 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 wdiy 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.
BORN IN lOXILK 476
'Let us speak frankly. You will take this i,'ift of
Marcella's as it was meant ? '
How was it meant ? Critic and analyst jus ever,
Godwin could not be content to see in it tlie 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 l)e a temptation he couhl
scarcely resist — and knew at the same time that, if
he accepted it, he practically renounced his hope of
marrying Sid well Warricombe. Doubtless she had
learned as much as she needed to know of Sid well's
position. IJefusiiig 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 Marcelhi,
nnist 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
dithcult to answer Moxey's question.
'I must take time to think of it,' he said, at length.
'Well, I suppose that is right. lUit — well, I know so
little of your circumstances '
' Is that strictly true ? ' Peak asked.
* Yes. I have only the vaguest idea of wliat you
have been doing since you left us. (^f 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 ? '
' Tliere's a train at 10.20. I had better go by it.'
* Then let us forget everything but your own clieerful
outlook. At ten, I'll walk with you to the station.'
Peluctantly at first, but before long with a (piiet
abandonment to the joy that would not be supi)r('sse«l,
Christian talked of his future wife. In Janet he found
every perfection. Her mind was sonu*thing more than
tlie companion of his own. Already she liad l)egun to
inspire him with a liopeful activity, and to foster tlio
elements of true manliness which he was conscious of
possessing, though they had never yet liad free phiy.
With a sense of luxurious safety, he submitted to her
476 BORN IN EXILE
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 con-
scious 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 tliat 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 tlie news
of lier will come 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.
BORN IN KXIl.H 477
• If I were to refuse this money, it would be in
consequence of a scruple whicli 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 1 have
any duty at all in the matter, surely it docs 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 liljcrty 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 eity.
It would be idle to speak of the projects and and )it ions
tliat fill my mind — but surely I may do sonu'thing 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 satislieil love!
I am past the age which is misled by vain fancies. I
have suffered unsi)eakably, 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
478 BORN IN EXILE
had been truthful from the first, you might have loved me
with no misgiving. Forget the madness into which T
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 inde-
pendence was impossil)le.
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 :
BORX iX KXIKK 47!)
' 1 cannot. It is not that 1 am iroul.led hy yuur
accepting the legacy. You have every right to' do so,
and I know that your life will justify the hopes of lier
Avlio thus befriended yxm. l>ut I am too weak to take
this step. To ask you to wait yet longer, would only \hi
a fresh cowardice. You cannot know Imw 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 i)lace is, you will win a love
very difi'erent. S. W.'
Godwin laughed aloud as the paper droi)ped from his
hand.
AVell, 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 witli 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. Jn any case she would not have con-
sented to marry him, and tJiercforc she knew no jealousy.
Her love ! why, truly, what was it worth (
(Much, much ! of no less than inlinite 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 niiiht, and Sidwell's letter lay
within reach, — Did she sleej) calmly i Had she never
stretched out her hand for ///.s- letter, when all was
silent i 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'
480 BORN IN EXILE
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 w^as 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 Octobei',
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 sometliing that will interest you — possibly
you have seen it.'
BORN IN KXILK 481
He bpgaii to read aloud :
'"On the 23rd inst. was celebrated at St. l'>ra«'«''s,
Torquay, tlie marriage of the llev. IJruno lA-atlnvTutc'
Chilvers, late Itector of St. ]\rargaret's, Kxi^ter, and the Hon.
I'.crtha Harriet Cecilia Jute, eldest daughter of the late
liaron Jute. The ceremony was conducted l»y the Hon.
and Eev. J. C. Jute, uncle of the bride, assisted by the
llev. F. :Miller, the Very liev. Dean rinnock, the Kev.
H. S. Crook, and tlie llev. AVilliani Tomkinson. The
bride was given away by Lord Jute. Mr. Horatio
Dukinfield was best man. The l)ridal 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 (lodwin. '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 tliem were
diamond and ruby brooches." '
' Chilvers in excclsis ! — So he is no longer at Exeter ;
has no living, it seems. AVhat does he aim at next. I
wonder i '
Earwaker cast meaning glances at his friend.
* I understand you,' said Godwin, at length. ' Vou mean
that this merely illustrates my own ambition. Well, you
are riglit, 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 regi'etted any-
thing. 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.'
3'
482 BORN IN EXILE
' Eather, with resignation/
Godwin let his cigar fall, and langhed bitterly.
'Your resignation has kept pace with life. I was
always a rebel. My good qualities — I mean wdiat I
say — have always wrecked me. Now that I haven't
to fight w^ith 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 trausformed.'
* As you know. Experience only could bring that
al)Out. 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, Konie. — 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, Pome ! 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
BOKN IN KXILH 483
Godwin resumed, after a ]oiv^ pause. ' Xoiliin;^ to hide,
no shams, no pretences. Let who will intpiire ahout 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 ad-
mirable photograph, which he inserted in his album witli
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 somewliere,' thought the man of
letters, ' but he will never find her.' /
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 M(jorhouse 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. — AVhat 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
l)lan. I think it is time you got away from Exeter; it
seems to me you are finding its atmosphere morlijic!
Sidwell laughed at the allusion.
' You know,' she said, ' that the reverend gentleman is
shortly to l)e married ? '
' Oh yes, I liave heard all about it. But is he forsaking
the Church ? '
' lietiring only for a time, they say.'
' Forgive the question, Sidwell — did he lionour you with
a proposal ? '
484
BOKN IN EXILK 485
' Indeed, no ! '
' Some one told me it was innuincnt, n<»t lon^ a^o.'
'Quite a mistake,' Sidwell answered, with her t,'mve
smile. 'Mr. Chilvers had a sin«^adar manner with wnmeii
in general. It was meant, })erliaps, for subtle tluttery ; lie
may have thought it the most suitable return for the
female worship he was accustomed t(^ receive.'
Mr. AVarriconil)e was coming towanls them. He
brought a new subject of conversation, and as they
talked the trio drew near to the gate which led into tlie
road. The afternoon p(jstman 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 causecl 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 ^Ir. AVarricombe con-
tinued his talk from the point at which he hail 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 cliat t<t 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 i)laying tmitor.
Fortunately, Sylvia found it necessary to write a rej^ly to
the missive she had received, and her comj>anion 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 jn-cvicius
instances ; what she found on opening the envelope threw
her into so extreme an agitation that it was long lx?f«)re
she could sulnlue the anguish of disorder in all her .senses.
She had tried to Ijelieve that (lodwin IVak was hencefortli
powerless to affect her in this way, write what he woidd.
The romance of her life was over; time had brt»ught the
solution of difhculties to which she looked forward ; she
recoLniised the inevitable, as doubtless did G(»dwin als<».
486 BORN IN EXILE
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 unavowaljle. She could think
of the news Godwin sent, conld 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 l)eginning 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 preoccupa-
tion, and that he avoided addressing her. The evening
asked too much of her self-connnand ; she again withdrew,
and only came Ijack when the household was ready for
retiring. In bidding her father good -night, 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
lier water-colour drawing, but as a rule her withdrawal to
BORN IN KXILK IS 7
the glass-house was for reafUng or reverie. Larryiiii,' n
small lamp, slie led the way before Sylvia, and tliey sat
down in the chairs which on one occasion had l>een
occupied by Buckland AVarricoml)e and Teak.
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 Ply-
mouth, heightened the sense of retirement and quietude
always to be enjoyed at night here under the stars.
'Have you l)een thinking over my suggestion r asked
Sylvia, when there had l»een silence awhile.
' No,' was the murmured reply.
' Something has happened, I think.'
'Yes. I should like to tell you, Sylvia, bm '
' But '
* I mnst tell you ! I can't kee]t it in my own mind, ami
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-dav was from Mr.
Peak.'
' You hear from him ? '
'This is the third time — since he went away. At our
last meeting' — her voice (lro]»ped — ' 1 i)ledged my faith to
him. — Xot absolutely. The future was too uncertain '
The gleam in Sylvia's eyes grew more vivid. She wa.s
profoundly interested, and did not s])eak when Sidwells
voice failed.
'You never suspected this r asked the latter, in a few
moments.
' Xot exactly that. What I did susi>ect was that Mr.
Peak's departure resulted from— your rejection of him.'
' There is more to be told,' pursued Sidwell, in treniulouH
accents. 'You must know it all— because I need your
help. N(. one here has learnt what took place U'tween
488 BORN IN EXILE
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 liave 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 Tirge.'
' 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 nnich. 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
BORN IX KXII.K 489
enterprise. Only by long exercise (»f an inipas-sinned
imagination eouM she thus thoroughly have itleiitificii
herself with a life so remote from her own. Peak's
pleading for himself was searcely more impressive. In
listening, Sylvia understood how C(»m]>let€ly Sidwell ha«l
cast oft' the beliefs for which lier 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 imdertook. It was
not I as an individual, but all of us here, and the W(»rld
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, ami
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 ]>ui*suits, and if
possible to make a position for himself. It was to Ikj
our secret. And in spite of everything, I hoped for the
future.'
Silence followed, and Sidwell seemed to h)se hei-self in
distressful thought.
' And now,' asked her friend, * what has come to ])ass ? '
'Do you know that Miss Moxey is dead ? '
' I haven't heard of it.'
'She is dead, and has left I\Ir. IVak a fortune.— His
letter of to-day tells me this. And at the same time he
claims my promise.'
Their eyes met. Sylvia still had tlie air of meditating
a most interesting problem. Im]»os.sible to decide from
her countenance how she regarded Sidwell's position.
'But why in the world,' she asked, ' shouM Marcella
Moxey have left her money to Mr. Teak ?'
'They were friends,' was the quick rei»ly. 'She knew
all that had befallen him, and wished to smooth his i»ath.'
Sylvia put several more questions, and to all of tiiem
Sidwell replied with a i)eculiar decision, as though U'nt on
makim; it clear that there was nothing remarkable in this
490 BORN IN EXILE
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 — ])ut 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 vour wish,' asked Sylvia at length, 'you are not
at all doul/tful ? '
' Not for one moment. — Whether I err in my judgment
of him could be proved only l)y 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, Imt 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 1 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
])een too much reserve between us. After so long a
friendship, I ought to have known you more thoroughly.
BORN IN KXILK 491
To tell the truth, I have thought imw and then of v«»ii ninl
Mr. Teak; that was inevitalile. But I went astray; it
seemed to me the most unlikely thin;,' that you shnuhl
regard him with more than a d()u])tful interest. I knew,
of course, that he had made you his ideal, and I fult snrrv
lor him.'
* I seemed to you unworthy ?'
'Too placid, too calmly prudent. — In ])lain wnrds,
Sidwell, I do think l)etter of you.'
Sidwell smiled.
* Only to know me henceforth as the woman whn diil
not dare to act upon her l)est im])ulses.'
'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 he "U'st" to
throw over your family, or to direct yourself solely with
regard to their comfort.'
Sidwell l)roke in.
'Yes, that is the true phrase — "their comfort." Xo
higher word should be used. That is the ideal of the life
to which I have been brought u]). Comfort, res|K^'ctal>ility.
— And has he no right ? If I sacrifice myself to father
and mother, do I not sacrifice him as well ? He Iia.s
forfeited all claim to consideration — that is what j)eoph»
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 underst(jod him. That ei)isode in his life is
IJotted out; by what law must it con(lemn to imperfection
the whole of his life and of my <>wn ? Yet because j>enpje
will not, cannot, look at a thing in a spirit of justice. 1
must wrong myself and him.'
'Let us think of it more ipiietly,' said Sylvia, in lu-r
clear, dispassionate tones. 'You speak as thougli a
decision must be taken at once. Where is the necessity
for that? Mr. Peak is now inde]>endent. Sup]M.se a
year or two be allowed to jiass, may not things l«M.k
difterently ? '
'A year or two!' exclaimed Sidwell, with impatience.
'Nothing will be changed. What 1 have to f..nten«l
492 BORN IN EXILE
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, 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, afiected by the outbreak of
emotion in one whom she had always known so strong in
self-conmiand, 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 l)onds. 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 liave, just as Fanny
I
BORN IN KXILK 493
will— indeed has. Take to-iiii^dit l(» tliink nf it. If you
can decide to travel witli me for a year, Ite frank wiili Mr.
Peak, anil ask him to wait so lon^ — till ymi have made
up your mind. He cannot reasonal)ly lind fault with you,
for he kn( )ws all you have to consider. Wun't this Ixj In^st ? '
Sidwell was long silent.
* I will go with you,' she said at last, in a low vnlcc. ' 1
will ask him to grant me perfect lil>erty f«»r 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; lnit
]\Ir. AVarricombe anticipated her.
'Will you come to the lilirary 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. Teak ^ '
' Yes, father.'
' Ts he' — Mr. Warricombe hesitated — 'in these i)arts
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 rei)lied with ditHculty, ' to let me
know of a change that has come ui)on his ])rospects. Uy
the death of a friend, he is made independent.'
'For his own sake, I am glad to hear that. Ihit how
could it concern yon, dear ? '
She struggled to command herself
'It was at my invitation that he wrote, father.'
Martin's face ex])ressed grave concern.
'Sidwell! Is this right ?'
She was very pale, and ke])t her eyes unniovingly
directed just aside from her father.
'What can it mean?' Mr. Warricoud.e pursued, with
sad remonstrance. 'Will you not take me into your
confidence, Sidwell ? '
494 BORN IN EXILE
' T can't speak of it/ she replied, with sudden determina-
tion. ' 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 l)e 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 (jn the morning that
followed. But when this meal was over, Sylvia received
a message, sunnnoning 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 hand-
writing.
It was a letter, Ijeginning — ' 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, 1
iJOKN JX i:\ii.K 495
knew that I must write thU. There's no more to Ini said,
dear. You will go al)roa(l without me— at all events for
the i)resent.'
' If that is your resolve,' answered tiie other, (quietly, * 1
shall keep my word, and only do wliat I eaii t4. aid it.'
She sat down shielding her eyes from the sunlight with a
Japanese fan. 'After all, Sidwell, there's much to \>e said
for a purpose formed on such a morning as this ; <»ne 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.
i 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
insuperal)le difficulty.'
' 1 know what you mean — the legacy.'
' Yes. It still seems to you (jf 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 b»]l,.\ving lines
which she enclosed in an envelope and })laced on the study
table, when her father was absent.
* The long letter which I ])romised you, dear father, is
needless. I have to-day sent Mr. Peak a rejtly 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 lier somewlierc
on the Continent, but l)y that time you will l»e 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 i>rescnt,
she was greatly interested in the coming nuirriage of the
4:9 Q BORN IN EXILE
Eev. 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 Sid well, he could never again touch on such topics.
If he were still conscious of a postponed debate, the ad-
journment was si7ie 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.
<
ni
Eakavaker spent Christmas witli his relatives at Kings-
mill. His fatlier and mother botli lived ; the latter very
infirm, unable to leave the house ; the former a man of
seventy, twisted with rheumatism, his face rui,'t,^'d as a
countenance picked out l)y fancy on the trunk of a h'\<r
old oak, his hands scarred and deformed witli laliour.
Their old age was restful. The son who had made hinuself
a * gentleman,' and who in London sat at the tables of the
high-born, the wealthy, the famous, saw to it that tliey
lacked no comfort.
A bright, dry morning invited tlie old man and the
young to go forth together. They walked from tlie suburb
countrywards, and their conversation was of the time
when a struggle was being made to l)ear tlie expense of ,
those three years at Whitelaw — no bad investment, as it
proved. The father spoke with a strong MTcITaiid accent, !
using words of dialect by no means disagreealde to the
son's ear — for dialect is a very ditVerent thing fmin the
bestial jargon wliich 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 comi>anion to gaze about
him, Christian came (|uite near before his eyes fidl on
Earwaker. Then he started with a i)leivsant surprise,
changed instantly to something like embarrassment when
he observed the aged man. Earwaker was willing to
J2
498 BORN IN EXILE
smile and go by, had the other consented; but a better
impulse prevailed in both. They stopped and struck
hands together,
' ]\iy 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 wlio 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 foi'
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.
AVhere 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 wdiich accom-
panies 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 tw^o years and a half
ago. It has nothing u'haievcr to do with those circum-
stances.'
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 ! '
BURN IN KXlLi: .JHO
' Don't get angry. I dui conviucud uf ilio iruth of what
you say.'
' Very well ! It's as likely as not that, on returning,' to
Auckland, 1 shall marry Miss ^laccabe — of whom 1 have
written to you. 1 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 lias
been guided by extreme discretion. lUit 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 tlie 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 wisli to put my relations with that family
on a proper footing. Our correspondence has been very
satisfactory, esi)ecially of late. The poor woman laments
more sincerely her — well, let us say, her folly of two yeare
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 tlieirs — we won't have any
more mystery ; it was I wlio undertook the tritling
expense. A really excellent teacher, 1 have every rciison
to believe. I am told that Bella promises to be a remark-
able pianist, and Lily is uncommonly strong in languages.
But my interest in tliem 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 mothei'. Anything else wouUl 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 T'elln has retained any recollection of
me at all.'
500 BORN IN EXILE
' 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 liaven't got so far as that. What a
hasty fellow you are, Earwaker! I told you dis-
tinctly '
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 liome late one night, he found Malkin sitting on
the steps.
' Earwaker, T 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.'
' Y^ou impressed that upon me.'
' Good ! I have never made love to Miss Maccabe, and
T doubt whether she has ever thought of me as a possible
husband.'
'Well?'
BORN IN KXILK 501
* Don't be impatient. 1 want yon to «,'ra8i) the fact, Ii
is important, because — 1 am ^t^oiii^ to marry liolla Jacox.'
' You don't say so ? '
' Why not ? ' cried Malkin, suddenly passing to a stiite
of excitement. ' Wliat objection can you make ? I tell
you that I am absolutely free to choose *
The journalist calmed him, and thereupon had to hear
a glowin«r account of ]kdla'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 to-morrow, Sunday. You remember our last
joint visit ! Ha, ha 1 '
' Mrs. Jacox is reconciled ? '
'My dear fellow, she rejoices! A wonderful nobility
in that poor little woman ! She wept upon my shouhler !
But you must see Bella ! I shan't take her to New
Zealand, at all events not just yet. We shall tnivel
about Europe, completing her education. I)on'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 tliat she was naturally
thoughtful, earnest, prone to reverie ; her beauty had still
to ripen, and gave much promise for the years lu'tween
twenty and thirty. Last of all appeared ^Irs. 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 l>ear so long
with the proximity of ^Ins. Jacox.
502 BORN IN EXILE
' A natural question occurs to me/ remarked Earwaker,
as they were returning. ' Wlio 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. Eeligion, 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 show^ed
eager interest in the details of literary manufacture.
' Mr. Earwaker ! ' cried her mother, wdien 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 w^ere yet in store. INIalkin 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 tiling. She wept and bewailed herself. 'How
BOKN I\ KXILK 503
can you think of hauv^ inaiTied liko a costennonger ?
Mr. :Nralkin, you will break iny heart, iiuieeil ^you
will ! ' And she wrote an ejaculatory letter to Kirwaker,
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 inevitaljle.
Grin and bear it.'
' I can't ! I won't ! It shall 1)6 a runaway match !
1 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 etVected a compromise ;
the marriage was to V)e at a church, but in the greatest
possible privacy. Xo 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 j)resent, when, on
a morning of June, Malkiu and Ik'lla were declared by
the Church to be henceforth one and indivisible. The bride
wore a graceful travelling costume ; the l^ridegrooni was
in corresponding attire.
'Heaven l)e thanked, that's over!' exclaimed Malkiii,
as he issued from the portal. * Bella, we have twenty-
three minutes to get to the railway station. I>on't
cry ! ' he whispered to her. ' I can't stand that ! '
*No, no; don't be afraid,' she whisi)ered back. ' W'y
have said good-bye already.'
'Capital! That was very thoughtful of you.— (Jood-
bye, all ! Shall write from Taris, Earwaker. Ninetr-cn
minutes ; we shall just manage it I '
He sprang into tlie cab, and away it clattered.
A letter^ from Taris, a letter from Strasburg, from
Berlin, jMunich— letters about once a fortniglit. From
Bella also came an occasional note, a pretty contrast
to the incoherent enthusiasm of lier husl)and's com-
positions. i\Ii(lway in September she announcetl their
departure from a retreat in Switzerland.
504 BORN IN EXILE
' 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 w^e 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 new^s as possible. Especially
have you heard anything more of Mr. Peak ? '
November the pair spent in Kome, 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 look-
ing round. It was Peak; not a doubt of it. I might
have been uncertain about his face, but the voice
Ijrought back that conversation at your rooms too
unmistakably — long ago as it was. He w^as 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 tlie Eoman 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
Os^jcdale 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 w^ell. This keeps me in
low spirits. The other day I was half decided to start
BOKX IX KXILK 505
for London. I am miserably alone, want to see a
friend. AVhat a gloriuns ])lace Staple Inn seemed to
me as I lay in the hosi>ital ! Troof Ijonv low 1 liad
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. L'p then*,
I shall get my health back. The people are of lu)
account — boarding-house a('([uaintances— but they may
lead to better. I never in my life suffered so from
loneliness.'
This was the eighteenth of November. (.)n tin* twenty-
eightli the postman delivered a letter of an ap])eanince
which puzzled Earwaker. The stamp was Austrian, the
mark ' Wien.' From Peak, therefore. lUit 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 Englisli,
written, or rather scrawled, in a hand there was no
'III agahi, and alone. If 1 die, act for me. Write to
Mrs. l*eak, Twybridge.'
Beneath was added, M. K. Earwaker, Staj.le inn.
London.'
He turned hurriedly to the foreign writing. ^ Ear-
waker 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 Gcrhrkr Hcrr, scarcely a word yielded sen.se to
his anxious eyes. Ha : One he had made o\\i—g*'st"r}»n.
Crumpling the papers into his pocket, he hastened
out, and knocked at the door of an ac«[uaintancf in
another part of the Inn. This was a man who haii
probably more skill in (Jermaii cursive. Uetween them,
they extracted the essence of the letter.
He who wrote was the landlord (^f an hotel in
506 BORN IN EXILE
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 hills be
sent ?
The man of letters walked slowly back to ]jis own
abode.
^ • Dead, too, in exile ! ' was his thought. ' Poor old
fellow ! '
THE END
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