Born in Exile (42 page)

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 whose 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
which 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 his 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 when he said good-night. A smile
that meant more than civility; he was convinced of it. But memory
would not support him through half-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
difficulties 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 Sidwell were ever to be his
wife, the end could only 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 possibilities 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.

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 that
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 Warricombes 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 indifference to all religious dogmas,
yet was singularly tolerant and displayed a moral fervour which
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 had his reasons) Sidwell
made the most of this opportunity of studying the modern world.
Only a few days after her arrival in London, she became acquainted
with a Mr. Walsh, a brother of that heresiarch, the Whitelaw
Professor, whose name was still obnoxious to her mother. He was a
well-favoured man of something between thirty and forty, brilliant
in conversation, personally engaging, and known by his literary
productions, which found small favour with conservative readers.
With surprise, Sidwell in a short time became aware that Mr. Walsh
had a frank liking for her society. He was often to be seen in Mrs.
Warricombe'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 subjects enabled 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 Mr. 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
these 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, I am always friendly. But nothing more.'

'Don't you think there's a danger of his misunderstanding you,
Sidwell?'

'I don't, mother. Mr. Walsh understands that we differ
irreconcilably on subjects of the first importance. I have never
allowed him to lose sight of that.'

Intellectual differences 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 she 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 had not been out for
several days, Buckland took an opportunity of calling at the house
early one morning. He found her alone in a small drawing-room, and
sat down 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 asked, 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. No 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, I daresay.'

'Met her when I was last down yonder.'

Sidwell had long since heard from her friend of Miss Moxey'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 something from the Walworths.'

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.

Buckland moved uneasily, and became silent.

'Oh, not particularly.'

'I dined with Walsh yesterday,' he said, at length, struggling
to shake off the obvious dreariness that oppressed him. 'He suits
me; we can get on together.'

'No doubt.'

'But you don't dislike him, I think?'

'Implying that I dislike
you
,' said Sidwell,
lightsomely.

'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. 'Supposes you
were asked to define Miss Moorhouse'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 between her position and
yours.'

'Because she is hypocritical!' 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 subjects 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.'

'I understand her perfectly,' Buckland went on, in the same
irritated voice. 'There are plenty of women like her—with brains
enough, but utter and contemptible cowards. Cowards even to
themselves, perhaps. 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 piece of grave counsel ready to
offer him, but he was clearly in no mood to listen, so she
postponed it.

A day or two after this, she received a letter from Sylvia. Miss
Moorhouse was anything but a good correspondent; she often
confessed her inability to compose anything but the briefest and
driest statement of facts. With no little surprise, therefore,
Sidwell found that 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
communications.

'But you know well enough my dilatory 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.'

At this point Sylvia had carefully obliterated two lines,
blackening the page into unsightliness. In vain Sidwell pored 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: