Born in Exile (63 page)

'His mate must be somewhere,' thought the man of letters, 'but
he will never find her.'

In his acceptance of Sidwell's reply, Peak did not care to ask
himself whether the delay of its arrival had any meaning one way or
another. Decency would hardly have permitted her to answer such a
letter by return of post; of course she waited a day or so.

But the interval meant more than this.

Sylvia Moorhouse was staying with her friend. The death of Mrs
Moorhouse, and the marriage of the mathematical brother, had left
Sylvia homeless, though not in any distressing sense; her
inclination was to wander for a year or two, and she remained in
England only until the needful arrangements could be concluded.

'You had better come with me,' she said to Sidwell, as they
walked together on the lawn after luncheon.

The other shook her head.

'Indeed, you had better.—What are you doing here? What are you
going to make of your life?'

'I don't know.'

'Precisely. Yet one ought to live on some kind of plan. I think
it is time you got away from Exeter; it seems to me you are finding
its atmosphere
morbific
.'

Sidwell laughed at the allusion.

'You know,' she said, 'that the reverend gentleman is shortly to
be married?'

'Oh yes, I have heard all about it. But is he forsaking the
Church?'

'Retiring only for a time, they say.'

'Forgive the question, Sidwell—did he honour you with a
proposal?'

'Indeed, no!'

'Some one told me it was imminent, not long ago.'

'Quite a mistake,' Sidwell answered, with her grave smile. 'Mr
Chilvers had a singular manner with women in general. It was meant,
perhaps, for subtle flattery; he may have thought it the most
suitable return for the female worship he was accustomed to
receive.'

Mr. Warricombe was coming towards them. He brought a new subject
of conversation, and as they talked the trio drew near to the gate
which led into the road. The afternoon postman was just entering;
Mr Warricombe took from him two letters.

'One for you, Sylvia, and—one for you, Sidwell.'

A slight change in his voice caused Sidwell to look at her
father as he handed her the letter. In the same moment she
recognised the writing of the address. It was Godwin Peak's, and
undoubtedly her father knew it.

With a momentary hesitation Mr. Warricombe continued his talk
from the point at which he had broken off, but he avoided his
daughter's look, and Sidwell was too well aware of an uneasiness
which had fallen upon him. In a few minutes he brought the chat to
an end, and walked away towards the house.

Sidwell held her letter tightly. Conversation was no longer
possible for her; she had a painful throbbing of the heart, and
felt that her face must be playing traitor. Fortunately, Sylvia
found it necessary to write a reply to the missive she had
received, and her companion was soon at liberty to seek
solitude.

For more than an hour she remained alone. However unemotional
the contents of the letter, its arrival would have perturbed her
seriously, as in the two previous instances; what she found on
opening the envelope threw her into so extreme an agitation that it
was long before she could subdue the anguish of disorder in all her
senses. She had tried to believe that Godwin Peak was henceforth
powerless to affect her in this way, write what he would. The
romance of her life was over; time had brought the solution of
difficulties to which she looked forward; she recognised the
inevitable, as doubtless did Godwin also. But all this was
self-deception. The passionate letter delighted as much as it
tortured her; in secret her heart had desired this, though reason
suppressed and denied the hope. No longer need she remember with
pangs of shame the last letter she had written, and the cold
response; once again things were as they should be—the lover
pleading before her—she with the control of his fate. The injury to
her pride was healed, and in the thought that perforce she must
answer with a final 'No', she found at first more of solace than of
distress.

Subsidence of physical suffering allowed her to forget this
emotion, in its nature unavowable. She could think of the news
Godwin sent, could torment herself with interpretations of Marcella
Moxey's behaviour, and view in detail the circumstances which
enabled Godwin to urge a formal suit. Among her various thoughts
there recurred frequently a regret that this letter had not reached
her, like the other two, unobserved. Her father had now learnt that
she was in correspondence with the disgraced man; to keep silence
would be to cause him grave trouble; yet how much better if fortune
had only once more favoured her, so that the story might have
remained her secret, from beginning to end.

For was not this the end?——

At the usual time she went to the drawing-room, and somehow
succeeded in conversing as though nothing had disturbed her. Mr
Warricombe was not seen till dinner. When he came forth, Sidwell
noticed his air of preoccupation, and that he avoided addressing
her. The evening asked too much of her self-command; she again
withdrew, and only came back when the household was ready for
retiring. In bidding her father goodnight, she forced herself to
meet his gaze; he looked at her with troubled inquiry, and she felt
her cheek redden.

'Do you want to get rid of me?' asked Sylvia, with wonted
frankness, when her friend drew near.

'No. Let us go to the glass-house.'

Up there on the roof Sidwell often found a retreat when her
thoughts were troublesome. Fitfully, she had resumed her
water-colour drawing, but as a rule her withdrawal to the
glass-house was for reading or reverie. Carrying a small lamp, she
led the way before Sylvia, and they sat down in the chairs which on
one occasion had been occupied by Buckland Warricombe and Peak.

The wind, rarely silent in this part of Devon, blew boisterously
from the south-west. A far-off whistle, that of a train speeding up
the valley on its way from Plymouth, heightened the sense of
retirement and quietude always to be enjoyed at night here under
the stars.

'Have you been thinking over my suggestion?' asked Sylvia, when
there had been silence awhile.

'No,' was the murmured reply.

'Something has happened, I think.'

'Yes. I should like to tell you, Sylvia, but'——

'But'——

'I
must
tell you! I can't keep it in my own mind, and you
are the only one'——

Sylvia was surprised at the agitation which suddenly revealed
itself in her companion's look and voice. She became serious, her
eyes brightening with intellectual curiosity. Feminine expressions
of sympathy were not to be expected from Miss Moorhouse; far more
reassuring to Sidwell was the kind attentiveness with which her
friend bent forward.

'That letter father handed me to-day was from Mr. Peak.'

'You hear from him?'

'This is the third time—since he went away. At our last
meeting'—her voice dropped—'I pledged my faith to him.—Not
absolutely. The future was too uncertain'——

The gleam in Sylvia's eyes grew more vivid. She was profoundly
interested, and did not speak when Sidwell's voice failed.

'You never suspected this?' asked the latter, in a few
moments.

'Not exactly that. What I did suspect was that Mr. Peak's
departure resulted from—your rejection of him.'

'There is more to be told,' pursued Sidwell, in tremulous
accents. 'You must know it all—because I need your help. No one
here has learnt what took place between us. Mr. Peak did not go
away on that account. But—you remember being puzzled to explain his
orthodoxy in religion?'

She paused. Sylvia gave a nod, signifying much.

'He never believed as he professed,' went on Sidwell, hurriedly.
'You were justified in doubting him. He concealed the
truth—pretended to champion the old faiths'——

For an instant she broke off, then hastened through a
description of the circumstances which had brought about Peak's
discovery. Sylvia could not restrain a smile, but it was softened
by the sincere kindliness of her feeling.

'And it was after this,' she inquired impartially, 'that the
decisive conversation between you took place?'

'No; just before Buckland's announcement. We met again, after
that.—Does it seem incredible to you that I should have let the
second meeting end as it did?'

'I think I understand. Yes, I know you well enough to follow it.
I can even guess at the defence he was able to urge.'

'You can?' asked Sidwell, eagerly. 'You see a possibility of his
defending himself?'

'I should conjecture that it amounted to the old proverb, "All's
fair in love and war". And, putting aside a few moral prejudices,
one can easily enough absolve him.—The fact is, I had long ago
surmised that his motives in taking to such a career had more
reference to this world than the next. You know, I had several long
talks with him; I told you how he interested me. Now I can piece
together my conclusions.'

'Still,' urged Sidwell, 'you must inevitably regard him as
ignoble—as guilty of base deceit. I must hide nothing from you,
having told so much. Have you heard from anyone about his early
life?'

'Your mother told me some old stories.'

Sidwell made an impatient gesture. In words of force and ardour,
such as never before had been at her command, she related all she
knew of Godwin's history prior to his settling at Exeter, and
depicted the mood, the impulses, which, by his own confession, had
led to that strange enterprise. Only by long exercise of an
impassioned imagination could she thus thoroughly have identified
herself with a life so remote from her own. Peak's pleading for
himself was scarcely more impressive. In listening, Sylvia
understood how completely Sidwell had cast off the beliefs for
which her ordinary conversation seemed still to betray a
tenderness.

'I know,' the speaker concluded, 'that he cannot in that first
hour have come to regard me with a feeling strong enough to
determine what he then undertook. It was not I as an individual,
but all of us here, and the world we represented. Afterwards, he
persuaded himself that he had felt love for me from the beginning.
And I, I tried to believe it—because I wished it true; for his
sake, and for my own. However it was, I could not harden my heart
against him. A thousand considerations forbade me to allow him
further hope; but I refused to listen—no, I
could
not
listen. I said I would remain true to him. He went away to take up
his old pursuits, and if possible to make a position for himself.
It was to be our secret. And in spite of everything. I hoped for
the future.'

Silence followed, and Sidwell seemed to lose herself in
distressful thought.

'And now,' asked her friend, 'what has come to pass?'

'Do you know that Miss Moxey is dead?'

'I haven't heard of it.'

'She is dead, and has left Mr. Peak a fortune.—His letter of
today tells me this. And at the same time he claims my
promise.'

Their eyes met. Sylvia still had the air of meditating a most
interesting problem. Impossible to decide from her countenance how
she regarded Sidwell's position.

'But why in the world,' she asked, 'should Marcella Moxey have
left her money to Mr. Peak?'

'They were friends,' was the quick reply. 'She knew all that had
befallen him, and wished to smooth his path.'

Sylvia put several more questions, and to all of them Sidwell
replied with a peculiar decision, as though bent on making it clear
that there was nothing remarkable in this fact of the bequest. The
motive which impelled her was obscure even to her own mind, for
ever since receiving the letter she had suffered harassing doubts
where now she affected to have none. 'She knew, then,' was Sylvia's
last inquiry, 'of the relations between you and Mr. Peak?'

'I am not sure—but I think so. Yes, I think she must have
known.'

'From Mr. Peak himself, then?'

Sidwell was agitated.

'Yes—I think so. But what does that matter?'

The other allowed her face to betray perplexity.

'So much for the past,' she said at length. 'And now?'——

'I have not the courage to do what I wish.'

There was a long silence.

'About your wish,' asked Sylvia at length, 'you are not at all
doubtful?'

'Not for one moment.—Whether I err in my judgment of him could
be proved only by time; but I know that if I were free, if I stood
alone'——

She broke off and sighed. 'It would mean, I suppose,' said the
other, 'a rupture with your family?'

'Father would not abandon me, but I should darken the close of
his life. Buckland would utterly cast me off; mother would wish to
do so.—You see, I cannot think and act simply as a woman, as a
human being. I am bound to a certain sphere of life. The fact that
I have outgrown it, counts for nothing. I cannot free myself
without injury to people whom I love. To act as I wish would be to
outrage every rule and prejudice of the society to which I belong.
You yourself—you know how you would regard me.'

Sylvia replied deliberately.

'I am seeing you in a new light, Sidwell. It takes a little time
to reconstruct my conception of you.'

'You think worse of me than you did.'

'Neither better nor worse, but differently. There has been too
much reserve between us. After so long a friendship, I ought to
have known you more thoroughly. To tell the truth, I have thought
now and then of you and Mr. Peak; that was inevitable. But I went
astray; it seemed to me the most unlikely thing that you should
regard him with more than a doubtful interest. I knew, of course,
that he had made you his ideal, and I felt sorry for him.'

'I seemed to you unworthy?'——