Born in Exile (51 page)

'I am not angry with you, Buckland,' she replied, gently. 'You
have done what you were plainly obliged to do.'

'That's a sensible way of putting it. Let us say goodbye with
friendliness then.'

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 endeavoured 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.

What must be her practical course? If she went back to London
without addressing another word to him, he must understand her
silence as a final farewell. In that case his departure from Exeter
would, no doubt, speedily follow, and there was little likelihood
that she would ever again see him. Were Godwin a vulgar schemer, he
would not so readily relinquish the advantage he had gained; he
would calculate upon the weakness of a loving woman, and make at
least one effort to redeem his position. As it was, she could
neither hope nor fear that he would try to see her again. Yet she
wished to see him, desired it ardently.

And yet—for each impulse of ardour was followed by a cold fit of
reasoning—might not his abandonment of the position bear a meaning
such as Buckland would of course attribute to it? If he were
hopeless of the goodwill of her parents, what profit would it be to
him to retain her love? She was no heiress; supposing him actuated
by base motive, her value in his eyes came merely of his regarding
her as a means to an end.

But this was to reopen the question of whether or not he truly
loved her. No; he was forsaking her because he thought it
impossible for her to pardon the deceit he had undeniably
practised—with whatever palliating circumstances. He was overcome
with shame. He imagined her indignant, scornful.

Why had she written such a short, cold note, the very thing to
produce in his mind a conviction of her resentment?

Hereupon came another paroxysm of tearful misery. It was
intensified by a thought she had half consciously been repressing
ever since the conversation with her brother. Was it true that Miss
Moxey had had it in her power to strip Godwin of a disguise? What,
then, were the relations existing between him and that strangely
impressive woman? How long had they known each other? It was now
all but certain that a strong intellectual sympathy united their
minds—and perhaps there had been something more.

She turned her face upon the pillow and moaned.

And from the Moxeys Buckland had derived his information. What
was it he said—something about 'an odd look' on Miss Moxey's face
when that friend of theirs talked of Peak? Might not such a look
signify a conflict between the temptation to injure and the desire
to screen?

Sidwell constructed a complete romance. Ignorance of the past of
both persons concerned allowed her imagination free play. There was
no limit to the possibilities of self-torment.

The desire to see Godwin took such hold upon her, that she had
already begun to think over the wording of another note to be sent
to him the first thing in the morning. His reply had been
insufficient: simple justice required that she should hear him in
his own defence before parting with him for ever. If she kept
silence, he would always remember her with bitterness, and this
would make her life-long sorrow harder to bear. Sidwell was one of
those few women whose love, never demonstrative, never exigent,
only declares itself in all its profound significance when it is
called upon to pardon. What was likely to be the issue of a meeting
with Godwin she could not foresee. It seemed all but impossible for
their intercourse to continue, and their coming face to face might
result in nothing but distress to both, better avoided; yet
judgment yielded to emotion. Yesterday—only yesterday—she had
yielded herself to the joy of loving, and before her consciousness
had had time to make itself familiar with its new realm, before her
eyes had grown accustomed to the light suddenly shed about her, she
was bidden to think of what had happened as only a dream. Her heart
refused to make surrender of its hope. Though it could be held only
by an encouragement of recognised illusion, she preferred to dream
yet a little longer. Above all, she must taste the luxury of
forgiving her lover, of making sure that her image would not dwell
in his mind as that of a self-righteous woman who had turned coldly
from his error, perhaps from his repentance.

A little after midnight, she rose from bed, slipped on her
dressing-gown, and sat down by the still burning lamp to write what
her passion dictated:

'Why should you distrust my ability, or my
willingness to understand you? It would have been so much better if
you had sent what you first wrote. These few lines do not even let
me know whether you think yourself to blame. Why do you leave me to
form a judgment of things as they appear on the surface? If you
wish
to explain, if you sincerely feel that I am in danger
of wronging you by misconstruction, come to me as soon as you have
received this note. If you will not come, then at least write to
me—the letter you at first thought of sending. This afternoon
(Friday) I return to London, but you know my address there. Don't
think because I wrote so briefly that I have judged you.
S. W.'

To have committed this to paper was a relief. In the morning she
would read it over and consider again whether she wished to send
it.

On the table lay
The Critical
. She opened it once more at
the page that concerned her, and glanced over the first few lines.
Then, having put the lamp nearer to the bed, she again lay down,
not to sleep but to read.

This essay was not so repugnant to her mind or her feelings as
when she first became acquainted with it. Its bitterness no longer
seemed to be directed against herself. There was much in it with
which she could have agreed at any time during the last six months,
and many strokes of satire, which till the other day would have
offended her, she now felt to be legitimate. As she read on, a kind
of anger such as she had never experienced trembled along her
nerves. Was it not flagrantly true that English society at large
made profession of a faith which in no sense whatever it could be
said sincerely to hold? Was there not every reason to believe that
thousands of people keep up an ignoble formalism, because they
feared the social results of declaring their severance from the
religion of the churches? This was a monstrous evil; she had never
till this moment understood the scope of its baneful effects. But
for the prevalence of such a spirit of hypocrisy, Godwin Peak would
never have sinned against his honour. Why was it not declared in
trumpet-tones of authority, from end to end of the Christian world,
that Christianity, as it has been understood through the ages, can
no longer be accepted? For that was the truth, the truth, the
truth
!

She lay back, quivering as if with terror. For an instant her
soul had been filled with hatred of the religion for which she
could once have died. It had stood before her as a power of
darkness and ignorance, to be assailed, crushed, driven from the
memory of man.

Last night she had hardly slept, and now, though her body was
numb with weariness, her mind kept up a feverish activity. She was
bent on excusing Godwin, and the only way in which she could do so
was by arraigning the world for its huge dishonesty. In a condition
between slumber and waking, she seemed to plead for him before a
circle of Pharisaic accusers. Streams of silent eloquence rushed
through her brain, and the spirit which prompted her was closely
akin to that of 'The New Sophistry'. Now and then, for a few
seconds, she was smitten with a consciousness of extraordinary
change in her habits of thought. She looked about her with wide,
fearful eyes, and endeavoured to see things in the familiar aspect.
As if with physical constraint her angry imagination again overcame
her, until at length from the penumbra of sleep she passed into its
profoundest gloom.

To wake when dawn was pale at the window. A choking odour
reminded her that she had not extinguished the lamp, which must
have gone out for lack of oil. She opened the window, took a
draught of water, and addressed herself to sleep again. But in
recollecting what the new day meant for her, she had spoilt the
chances of longer rest. Her head ached; all worldly thoughts were
repulsive, yet she could not dismiss them. She tried to repeat the
prayers she had known since childhood, but they were meaningless,
and a sense of shame attached to their utterance.

When the first gleam of sun told her that it was past eight o
clock, she made an effort and rose.

At breakfast Mrs. Warricombe talked of the departure for London.
She mentioned an early train; by getting ready as soon as the meal
was over, they could easily reach the station in time. Sidwell made
no direct reply and seemed to assent; but when they rose from the
table, she said, nervously:

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

'Why, Sidwell?'

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

Her mother knew that expostulation was useless, but could not
refrain from a long harangue made up of warning and reproof.

'You have very little consideration for me,' was her final
remark. 'Now we shan't get home till after dark, and of course my
throat will be bad again.'

Glad of the anti-climax, Sidwell replied that the day was much
warmer, and that with care no harm need come of the journey.

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

'Don't be angry with me, mother. You don't know how grieved I am
to distress you so. I can't help it, dear; indeed, I can't. Won't
you sacrifice a few hours to put my mind at rest?'

Mrs. Warricombe once more gave expression to her outraged
feelings. Sidwell could only listen silently with bent head.

If Godwin were coming at all, he would be here by eleven
o'clock. Sidwell had learnt that her letter was put into his hands.
She asked him to come at once, and nothing but a resolve not to
meet her could delay him more than an hour or two.

At half-past ten the bell sounded. She was sitting in the
library with her back turned to the door. When a voice announced
'Mr. Peak', she did not at once rise, and with a feeling akin to
terror she heard the footstep slowly approaching. It stopped at
some distance from her; then, overcoming a weakness which
threatened to clog her as in a nightmare, she stood up and looked
round.

Peak wore neither overcoat nor gloves, but otherwise was dressed
in the usual way. As Sidwell fixed her eyes upon him, he threw his
hat into a chair and came a step or two nearer. Whether he had
passed the night in sleep or vigil could not be determined; but his
look was one of shame, and he did not hold himself so upright as
was his wont.

'Will you come and sit down?' said Sidwell, pointing to a chair
not far from that on which one of her hands rested.

He moved forward, and was about to pass near her, when Sidwell
involuntarily held her hand to him. He took it and gazed into her
face with a melancholy smile.

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

He relinquished her fingers, which he had scarcely pressed, and
stood with his arms behind his back.

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

'What is true?'

'All that you have heard from your brother.'

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

They looked at each other. Peak's lips were set as if in
resistance of emotion, and a frown wrinkled his brows. Sidwell's
gaze was one of fear and appeal.

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

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

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

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

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

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