Born in Exile (27 page)

'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 metaphysical powers of
the multitude!'

'Trenchant! But say, rather, in the universal self-interest.
That's the trait of human nature which we have in mind when we
speak of enlightenment. The aim of practical Radicalism is to
instruct men's selfishness. Astonishing how capable it is of being
instructed! The mistake of the Socialist lies in his crediting men
with 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 old acquaintance; he had imagined
him less acute. Gratified by the smile of interest, Warricombe
added:

'There are forces of madness; I have shown you that I make
allowance for them. But they are only dangerous so long as
privilege allies itself with hypocrisy. The task of the modern
civiliser is to sweep away sham idealisms.'

'I agree with you,' Godwin replied.

With sudden change of mood, Buckland began to speak of an
indifferent topic of the day, and in a few minutes they sat down to
dinner.

Not 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,' Godwin replied, with
deliberation; 'one can get hold of books 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? Of course I quite understand
how tolerant the Church is becoming: I know what latitude it
permits in its servants. But what do you propose to yourself?'

'Precisely what you call the work of the civiliser—to attack
sham ideals.'

'As for instance—?'

'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 symbolical—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
was 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 thought.

'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 acquaintance? I trust there's no need to assure you
that I know the meaning of discretion.'

An appeal to Buckland's generosity seldom failed. Yes, it was
true that he had more than once encouraged the hope now frankly
expressed. Indulging a correspondent frankness, he might explain
that Peak's position was so distasteful to him that it disturbed
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 agreeable 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. Warricombe turned at
once to a safe topic—that of contemporary fiction, and they chatted
pleasantly enough for the rest of the evening.

Not many days after this, Godwin received by post an envelope
which contained certain proof sheets, and therewith a note in which
the editor of
The Critical Review
signified his acceptance
of a paper entitled 'The New Sophistry'. The communication was
originally addressed 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 Rotherhithe.
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 few faults
of phrase, were still uncorrected. What a capital piece of writing
it was! What a flagellation of M'Naughten and all his tribe! If
this did not rouse echoes in the literary world—

Through the long day he sat in languor or paced his room like
one made restless by pain. Only when the gloom of nightfall obliged
him to light his lamp did he at length sit down to the table and
carefully revise the proofs, pen in hand. When he had made up the
packet for post, he wrote to Earwaker.

'I had forgotten all about this thing. Proofs have gone to
Dolby. I have not signed; probably he would object to my doing so.
As it is, the paper can be ascribed to anyone, and attention thus
excited. We shall see paragraphs attributing it to men of
mark—perhaps scandal will fix it on a bishop. In any case, don't
let out the secret. I beg this seriously, and for a solid reason.
Not a word to anyone, however intimate. If Dolby betrays
your
name, grin and bear it. I depend upon your
friendship.'

In a by-way which declines from the main thoroughfare of Exeter,
and bears the name of Longbrook Street, is a row of small houses
placed above long strips of sloping garden. They are old and plain,
with no architectural feature calling for mention, unless it be the
latticed porch which gives the doors an awkward quaintness. Just
beyond, the road crosses a hollow, and begins the ascent of a hill
here interposed between the city and the inland-winding valley of
Exe. The little terrace may be regarded as urban or rural,
according to the tastes and occasions of those who dwell there. In
one direction, a walk of five minutes will conduct to the middle of
High Street, and in the other it takes scarcely longer to reach the
open country.

On the upper floor of one of these cottages, Godwin Peak had
made his abode. Sitting-room and bedchamber, furnished with homely
comfort, answered to his bachelor needs, and would allow of his
receiving without embarrassment any visitor whom fortune might send
him. Of quietness he was assured, for a widow and her son, alike
remarkable for sobriety of demeanour, were the only persons who
shared the house with him. Mrs. Roots could not compare in grace
and skill with the little Frenchwoman who had sweetened his
existence at Peckham Rye, but her zeal made amends for natural
deficiency, and the timorous respect with which she waited upon him
was by no means disagreeable to Godwin. Her reply to a request or
suggestion was always, 'If you please, sir.' Throughout the day she
went so tranquilly about her domestic duties, that Godwin seldom
heard anything except the voice of the cuckoo-clock, a pleasant
sound to him. Her son, employed at a nurseryman's, was a great
sinewy fellow with a face of such ruddiness that it seemed to
diffuse warmth; on Sunday afternoon, whatever the state of the sky,
he sat behind the house in his shirt-sleeves, and smoked a pipe as
he contemplated the hart's-tongue which grew there upon a
rockery.

'The gentleman from London'—so Mrs. Roots was wont to style her
lodger in speaking with neighbours—had brought his books with him;
they found place on a few shelves. His microscope had its stand by
the window, and one or two other scientific implements lay about
the room. The cabinets bequeathed to him by Mr. Gunnery he had sent
to Twybridge, to remain in his mother's care. In taking the
lodgings, he described himself merely as a student, and gave his
landlady to understand that he hoped to remain under her roof for
at least a year. Of his extreme respectability, the widow could
entertain no doubt, for he dressed with aristocratic finish,
attended services at the Cathedral and elsewhere very frequently,
and made the most punctual payments. Moreover, a casual remark had
informed her that he was on friendly terms with Mr. Martin
Warricombe, whom her son knew as a gentleman of distinction. He
often sat up very late at night, but, doubtless, that was the
practice of Londoners. No lodger could have given less trouble, or
have acknowledged with more courtesy all that was done for his
convenience.

No one ever called upon Mr. Peak, but he was often from home for
many hours together, probably on visits to great people in city or
country. It seemed rather strange, however, that the postman so
seldom brought anything for him. Though he had now been more than
two months in the house, he had received only three letters, and
those at long intervals.

Noticeable was the improvement in his health since his arrival
here. The pallor of his cheeks was giving place to a wholesome
tinge; his eye was brighter; he showed more disposition to
converse, and was readier with pleasant smiles. Mrs. Roots even
heard him singing in his bedroom—though, oddly enough, it was a
secular song on Sunday morning. The weekly bills for food, which at
first had been very modest, grew richer in items. Godwin had, in
fact, never felt so well. He extended his walks in every direction,
sometimes rambling up the valley to sleepy little towns where he
could rest in the parlours of old inns, sometimes striking across
country to this or that point of the sea-coast, or making his way
to the nearer summits of Dartmoor, noble in their wintry
desolation. He marked with delight every promise of returning
spring. When he could only grant himself a walk of an hour or two
in the sunny afternoon, there was many a deep lane within easy
reach, where the gorse gleamed in masses of gold, and the little
oak-trees in the hedges were ruddy with last year's clinging
leafage, and catkins hung from the hazels, and the fresh green of
sprouting ivy crept over bank and wall. Had he now been in London,
the morning would have awakened him to the glow of sunrise, he felt
the sweet air breathing health into fog and slush and misery. As it
was, when he looked out upon his frame and vigour into his mind.
There were moments when he could all but say of himself that he was
at peace with the world.

As on a morning towards the end of March, when a wind from the
Atlantic swept spaces of brightest blue amid the speeding clouds,
and sang joyously as it rushed over hill and dale. It was the very
day for an upland walk, for a putting forth of one's strength in
conflict with boisterous gusts and sudden showers, that give a
taste of earth's nourishment. But Godwin had something else in
view. After breakfast, he sat down to finish a piece of work which
had occupied him for two or three days, a translation from a German
periodical. His mind wrought easily, and he often hummed an air as
his pen moved over the paper. When the task was completed, he
rolled his papers and the pamphlet together, put them into the
pocket of his overcoat, and presently went forth.

Twenty minutes' walk brought him to the Warricombes' house. It
was his second call within the present week, but such assiduity had
not hitherto been his wont. Though already summoned twice or thrice
by express invitation, he was sparing of voluntary visits. Having
asked for Mr. Warricombe, he was forthwith conducted to the study.
In the welcome which greeted his appearance, he could detect no
suspicion of simulated warmth, though his ear had unsurpassable
discrimination.

'Have you looked through it?' Martin exclaimed, as he saw the
foreign periodical in his visitor's hand.

'I have written a rough translation'——

'Oh, how could you think of taking such trouble! These things
are sent to me by the dozen—I might say, by the cartload. My
curiosity would have been amply satisfied if you had just told me
the drift of the thing.'

'It seemed to me,' said Peak, modestly, 'that the paper was
worth a little careful thought. I read it rapidly at first, but
found myself drawn to it again. It states the point of view of the
average scientific mind with such remarkable clearness, that I
wished to think it over, and the best way was to do so pen in
hand.'