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 euckland ! ' ' 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;de 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 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;iiniiiatits. 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 reclinelanation/ 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- 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 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 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 noticeeeii 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 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 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 broaical 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.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^ 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 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 inciut, 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 yut 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 gooy 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 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 anf 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 tanion 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'\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 .MOKKl.SON AND GIUH, PK1XTEK«, EDINBURGH i In crown ^vo^ cloth, p rice ^s. THE PHILOSOPHER'S WINDOW AND OTHER STORIES LADY LIxNDSAV AtTHOK OK 'hERTHA's EAKL ' It is full of ih;it tender grace which can only l)c the acconip.ininicnt of a very loving and real genius,'— .-/A? A/«Az. 'With a distinct touch of originality.'— r/zt- DMkmaii. •Always refined, graceful, and thoughtful.'— 7"/i•''»• Journal. '.Ml are worth reading.' — The GentlciK'oman. ' And poetical they are — these ten stories.' — A'e/i,:;ious Rn'inc of Kci'icwi. ' A volume of brightly written short stories.' — The Obsen-er. 'Sad in subject, but happy in treatment.'— /I <■I\i'i »•( -H Ill extra /cap. Zvo, cloth, price '^s. 6d. UNDER TWO SKIES H Collection of Stories BY E. W. HORNUNG AUTHOR OF 'a BRIDE FROM THE BUSH* 'Clever and workmanlike stories, manly and gentle in feelinj.' — T/ic Bookman. 'On the whole, this is an excellent collection of stories.' — Glasgmo Herald. 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