Born in Exile (32 page)

Immediately after luncheon the young man set forth, and did not
reappear until 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 find 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 worthless. 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
woman
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.'

'Really? We hoped to have you for a week.'

'Longer next time.'

They descended together. Now that Louis no longer abode here (he
had decided at length for medicine, and was at work in London), the
family as a rule spent very quiet evenings. By ten o'clock Mrs
Warricombe and Fanny had retired, and Sidwell was left either to
talk with her father, or to pursue the calm meditations which
seemed to make her independent of companionship as often as she
chose.

'Are they all gone?' Buckland asked, finding a vacant room.

'Father is no doubt in the study.'

'It occurs to me—. Do 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 hope nothing may ever disturb
us.'

'And to the end of your life you will scent yourself with
sweetbrier? Do try a bit of mint for a change.'

'Certainly, if it will please you.'

'Seriously, I think you might all come to town for next winter.
You are rusting, all of you. Father was never so dull, and mother
doesn't seem to know how to pass the days. It wouldn't be bad for
Louis to be living with you instead of in lodgings. Do just think
of it. It's ages since you heard a concert, or saw a picture.'

Sidwell mused, and her brother watched her askance.

'I don't know whether the others would care for it,' she said,
'but I am not tempted by a winter of fog.'

'Fog? Pooh! Well, there is an occasional fog, just now and then,
but it's much exaggerated. Who ever thinks of the weather in
England? Fanny might have a time at Bedford College or some such
place-she learns nothing here. Think it over. Father would be
delighted to get among the societies, and so on.'

He repeated his arguments in many forms, and Sidwell listened
patiently, until they were joined by Mr. Warricombe, whereupon the
subject dropped; to be resumed, however, in correspondence, with a
persistency which Buckland seldom exhibited 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. One
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. Moorhouse, who
also conversed with the theologian and found him 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 I ever read anything more irresistible.'

The book was Hugh Miller's
Testimony of the Rocks
, a
richly bound copy belonging to Mrs. Warricombe.

'I daresay you know it very well; it's the chapter in which he
discusses, with perfect gravity, whether it would have been
possible for Noah to collect examples of all living creatures in
the ark. He decides that it wouldn't—that the deluge
must
have spared a portion of the earth; but the details of his argument
are delicious, especially this place where he says that all the
insects could have been brought together only "at enormous expense
of miracle"! I suspected a secret smile; but no—that's out of the
question. "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 Sidwell. 'Miracle
can be but miracle, however great or small its extent.'

'Isn't it strange, reading a book of this kind nowadays? What a
leap we have made! I should think there's hardly a country curate
who would be capable of bringing this argument into a sermon.'

'I don't know,' returned Sidwell, smiling. 'One still hears
remarkable sermons.'

'What will Mr. Peak's be like?'

They exchanged glances. Sylvia wore a look of reflective
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. I suppose he will deal chiefly with the moral
teaching of Christianity.'

'Do you think him strong as a moralist?' inquired Sylvia.

'He has very decided opinions about the present state of our
civilisation.'

'So I find. 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 exaggeration. '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 with the
brim. Here, in the shade, bees were humming; from the house came
faint notes of a piano—Fanny practising a mazurka of Chopin.

'But never, I suppose, one who found a pleasure in attacking
Christianity?'

'A girl who was at school with me in London,' Sylvia replied,
with an air of amused reminiscence. 'Marcella Moxey. Didn't I ever
speak to you of her?'

'I think not.'

'She was bitter against religion of every kind.'

'Because her mother made her learn collects, I dare say?'
suggested Sidwell, in a tone of gentle satire.

'No, no. Marcella was about eighteen then, and had neither
father nor mother.—(How Fanny's touch improves!)—She was a born
atheist, in the fullest sense of the word.'

'And detestable?'

'Not to me—I rather liked her. She was remarkably honest, and I
have sometimes thought that in morals, on the whole, she stood far
above most women. She hated falsehood—hated it with all her heart,
and a story of injustice maddened her. When I think of Marcella it
helps me to picture the Russian 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 her before women are
civilised.'

'How I should like to ask her,' said Sidwell, 'on what she
supported her morality?'

'Put the problem to Mr. Peak,' suggested the other, gaily. 'I
fancy he wouldn't find it insoluble.'

Mrs. Warricombe and Mrs. Moorhouse appeared in the distance,
walking hither under parasols. The girls rose to meet them, and
were presently engaged in less interesting colloquy.

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
this business was anything but agreeable; it reminded him, with
humiliating force, how far he had strayed from the path indicated
to his self-respecting manhood. Defeat would have strengthened in
overwhelming revolt 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 enterprise seemed to prosper, and success
emboldened his hopes.

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 hint 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 by his imagination,
but as herself the object of his converging desires. Comparison of
her with others had no result but the deepening of that impression
she had at first made upon him. Sidwell exhibited all the qualities
which most appealed to him in her class; in addition, she had the
charms of a personality which he could not think of common
occurrence. He was yet far from understanding her; she exercised
his powers of observation, 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 excellence, some hitherto
unmarked grace of person or mind whereon to meditate. He had never
approached a woman who possessed this power at once of fascinating
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, pure being.

Rare, 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 reciprocation, 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
development of the psychological conscience, are unfavourable to
any relation between the sexes, save those which originate in pure
animalism, or in reasoning less or more generous. Never having
experienced any feeling which he could dignify with the name of
love, Godwin had no criterion in himself whereby to test the
emotions now besetting him. In a man of his age this was an unusual
state of things, for when the ardour which will bear analysis has
at length declared itself, it is wont to be moderated by 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, this
must be something either 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 throbbing, 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 testrum, and
I am only dallying with fancies which might spring up as often as I
encountered a charming girl.