Born in Exile (45 page)

Marcella's eyes gleamed strangely. Not with the light of
friendly welcome, though for that it could be mistaken. She rose
quietly, and stepped forward with a movement which again seemed to
betoken eagerness of greeting. In presenting the newcomer to Mr.
Warricombe, she spoke with an uncertain voice. Buckland was more
than formal. The stranger's aspect impressed him far from
favourably, and he resented as an impudence the hearty hand-grip to
which he perforce submitted.

'I come to plead with you,' exclaimed Malkin, turning to
Marcella, in his abrupt, excited way. 'After accepting your
invitation to dine, I find that the thing is utterly and absolutely
impossible. I had entirely forgotten an engagement of the very
gravest nature. I am conscious of behaving in quite an unpardonable
way.'

Marcella laughed down his excuses. She had suddenly become so
mirthful that Christian looked at her in surprise, imagining that
she was unable to restrain her sense of the ridiculous in Malkin's
demeanour.

'I have hurried up from Wrotham,' pursued the apologist. 'Did I
tell you, Moxey, that I had taken rooms down there, to be able to
spend a day or two near my friends the Jacoxes occasionally? On the
way here, I looked in at Staple Inn, but Earwaker is away
somewhere. What an odd thing that people will go off without
letting one know! It's such common ill-luck of mine to find people
gone away—I'm really astonished to find you at home, Miss
Moxey.'

Marcella looked at Warricombe and laughed.

'You must understand that subjectively,' she said, with nervous
gaiety which again excited her brother's surprise. 'Please don't be
discouraged by it from coming to see us again; I am very rarely out
in the afternoon.'

'But,' persisted Malkin, 'it's precisely my ill fortune to hit
on those rare moments when people
are
out!—Now, I never meet
acquaintances in the streets of London; but, if I happen to be
abroad, as likely as not I encounter the last person I should
expect to find. Why, you remember, I rush over to America for
scarcely a week's stay, and there I come across a man who has
disappeared astonishingly from the ken of all his friends!'

Christian looked at Marcella. She was leaning forward, her lips
slightly parted, her eyes wide as if in gaze at something that
fascinated her. He saw that she spoke, but her voice was hardly to
be recognised.

'Are you quite sure of that instance, Mr. Malkin?'

'Yes, I feel quite sure, Miss Moxey. Undoubtedly it was
Peak!'

Buckland Warricombe, who had been waiting for a chance of
escape, suddenly wore a look of interest. He rapidly surveyed the
trio. Christian, somewhat out of countenance, tried to answer
Malkin in a tone of light banter.

'It happens, my dear fellow, that Peak has not left England
since we lost sight of him.'

'What? He has been heard of? Where is he then?'

'Mr. Warricombe can assure you that he has been living for a
year at Exeter.'

Buckland, perceiving that he had at length come upon something
important to his purposes, smiled genially.

'Yes, I have had the pleasure of seeing Peak down in Devon from
time to time.'

'Then it was really an illusion!' cried Malkin. 'I was too
hasty. Yet that isn't a charge that can be often brought against
me, I think. Does Earwaker know of this?'

'He has lately heard,' replied Christian, who in vain sought for
a means of checking Malkin's loquacity. 'I thought he might have
told you.'

'Certainly not. The thing is quite new to me. And what is Peak
doing down there, pray? Why did he conceal himself?'

Christian gazed appealingly at his sister. She returned the look
steadily, but neither stirred nor spoke. It was Warricombe's voice
that next sounded:

'Peak's behaviour seems mysterious,' he began, with ironic
gravity. 'I don't pretend to understand him. What's your view of
his character, Mr. Malkin?'

'I know him very slightly indeed, Mr. Warricombe. But I have a
high opinion of his powers. I wonder he does so little. After that
article of his in
The Critical
'——

Malkin became aware of something like agonised entreaty on
Christian's countenance, but this had merely the effect of
heightening his curiosity.

'In
The Critical
?' said Warricombe, eagerly. 'I didn't
know of that. What was the subject?'

'To be sure, it was anonymous,' went on Malkin, without a
suspicion of the part he was playing before these three excited
people. 'A paper called "The New Sophistry", a tremendous bit of
satire.'

Marcella's eyes closed as if a light had flashed before them;
she drew a short sigh, and at once seemed to become quite at ease,
the smile with which she regarded Warricombe expressing a calm
interest.

'That article was Peak's?' Buckland asked, in a very quiet
voice.

Christian at last found his opportunity.

'He never mentioned it to you? Perhaps he thought he had gone
rather too far in his Broad Churchism, and might be
misunderstood.'

'Broad Churchism?' cried Malkin. 'Uncommonly broad, I must
say!'

And he laughed heartily; Marcella seemed to join in his
mirth.

'Then it would surprise you,' said Buckland, in the same quiet
tone as before, 'to hear that Peak is about to take Orders?'

'Orders?—For what?'

Christian laughed. The worst was over; after all, it came as a
relief.

'Not for wines,' he replied. 'Mr. Warricombe means that Peak is
going to be ordained.'

Malkin's amazement rendered him speechless. He stared from one
person to another, his features strangely distorted.

'You can hardly believe it?' pressed Buckland.

The reply was anticipated by Christian saying:

'Remember, Malkin, that you had no opportunity of studying Peak.
It's not so easy to understand him.'

'But I don't see,' burst out the other, 'how I could possibly so
mis
understand him! What has Earwaker to say?'

Buckland rose from his seat, advanced to Marcella, and offered
his hand. She said mechanically, 'Must you go?' but was incapable
of another word. Christian came to her relief, performed the
needful civilities, and accompanied his acquaintance to the foot of
the stairs. Buckland had become grave, stiff, monosyllabic;
Christian made no allusion to the scene thus suddenly interrupted,
and they parted with a formal air.

Malkin remained for another quarter of an hour, when the
muteness of his companions made it plain to him that he had better
withdraw. He went off with a sense of having been mystified, half
resentful, and vastly impatient to see Earwaker.

The cuckoo clock in Mrs. Roots's kitchen had just struck three.
A wind roared from the north-east, and light thickened beneath a
sky which made threat of snow. Peak was in a mood to enjoy the
crackling fire; he settled himself with a book in his easy-chair,
and thought with pleasure of two hours' reading, before the
appearance of the homely teapot.

Christmas was just over—one cause of the feeling of relief and
quietness which possessed him. No one had invited him for Christmas
Eve or the day that followed, and he did not regret it. The letter
he had received from Martin Warricombe was assurance enough that
those he desired to remember him still did so. He had thought of
using this season for his long postponed visit to Twybridge, but
reluctance prevailed. All popular holidays irritated and depressed
him; he loathed the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb. It was
all over, and the sense of that afforded him a brief content.

This book, which he had just brought from the circulating
library, was altogether to his taste. The author, Justin Walsh, he
knew to be a brother of Professor Walsh, long ago the object of his
rebellious admiration. Matter and treatment rejoiced him. No
intellectual delight, though he was capable of it in many forms, so
stirred his spirit as that afforded him by a vigorous modern writer
joyously assailing the old moralities. Justin Walsh was a modern of
the moderns; at once man of science and man of letters; defiant
without a hint of popular cynicism, scornful of English reticences
yet never gross. '
Oui, repondit Pococurante, il est beau
d'ecrire ce qu 'on pense; c'est le privilege de l'homme
.' This
stood by way of motto on the title-page, and Godwin felt his nerves
thrill in sympathetic response.

What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend! Now a man
like this surely had companionship enough and of the kind he
wished? He wrote like one who associates freely with the educated
classes both at home and abroad. Was he married? Where would
he
seek his wife? The fitting mate for him would doubtless
be found among those women, cosmopolitan and emancipated, whose
acquaintance falls only to men in easy circumstances and of good
social standing, men who travel much, who are at home in all the
great centres of civilisation.

As Peak meditated, the volume fell upon his knee. Had it not
lain in his own power to win a reputation like that which Justin
Walsh was achieving? His paper in
The Critical Review
,
itself a decided success, might have been followed up by others of
the same tenor. Instead of mouldering in a dull cathedral town, he
might now be living and working in France or Germany. His money
would have served one purpose as well as the other, and two or
three years of determined effort——

Mrs. Roots showed her face at the door.

'A gentleman is asking for you, sir,—Mr. Chilvers.'

'Mr. Chilvers? Please ask him to come up.'

He threw his book on to the table, and stood in expectancy.
Someone ascended the stairs with rapid stride and creaking boots.
The door was flung open, and a cordial but affected voice burst
forth in greeting.

'Ha, Mr. Peak! I hope you haven't altogether forgotten me?
Delighted to see you again!'

Godwin gave his hand, and felt it strongly pressed, whilst
Chilvers gazed into his face with a smiling wistfulness which could
only be answered with a grin of discomfort. The Rev. Bruno had
grown very tall, and seemed to be in perfect health; but the
effeminacy of his brilliant youth still declared itself in his
attitudes, gestures, and attire. He was dressed with marked
avoidance of the professional pattern. A hat of soft felt but not
clerical, fashionable collar and tie, a sweeping ulster, and
beneath it a frock-coat, which was doubtless the pride of some West
End tailor. His patent-leather boots were dandiacally diminutive;
his glove fitted like that of a lady who lives but to be
bien
gantee
. The feathery hair, which at Whitelaw he was wont to pat
and smooth, still had its golden shimmer, and on his face no growth
was permitted.

'I had heard of your arrival here, of course,' said Peak, trying
to appear civil, though anything more than that was beyond his
power. 'Will you sit down?'

'This is the "breathing time o' the day" with you, I hope? I
don't disturb your work?'

'I was only reading this book of Walsh's. Do you know it?'

But for some such relief of his feelings, Godwin could not have
sat still. There was a pleasure in uttering Walsh's name. Moreover,
it would serve as a test of Chilvers' disposition.

'Walsh?' He took up the volume. 'Ha! Justin Walsh. I know him. A
wonderful book! Admirable dialectic! Delicious style!'

'Not quite orthodox, I fancy,' replied Godwin, with a curling of
the lips.

'Orthodox? Oh, of course not, of course not! But a rich vein of
humanity. Don't you find that?—Pray allow me to throw off my
overcoat. Ha, thanks!—A rich vein of humanity. Walsh is by no means
to be confused with the nullifidians. A very broad-hearted,
large-souled man; at bottom the truest of Christians. Now and then
he effervesces rather too exuberantly. Yes, I admit it. In a review
of his last book, which I was privileged to write for one of our
papers, I ventured to urge upon him the necessity of
restraint
; it seems to me that in this new work he exhibits
more self-control, an approach to the serene fortitude which I
trust he may attain. A man of the broadest brotherliness. A most
valuable ally of renascent Christianity.'

Peak was hardly prepared for this strain. He knew that Chilvers
prided himself on 'breadth', but as yet he had enjoyed no
intercourse with the broadest school of Anglicans, and was
uncertain as to the limits of modern latitudinarianism. The
discovery of such fantastic liberality in a man whom he could not
but dislike and contemn gave him no pleasure, but at least it
disposed him to amusement rather than antagonism. Chilvers'
pronunciation and phraseology were distinguished by such original
affectation that it was impossible not to find entertainment in
listening to him. Though his voice was naturally thin and piping,
he managed to speak in head notes which had a ring of robust
utterance. The sound of his words was intended to correspond with
their virile warmth of meaning. In the same way he had cultivated a
habit of the muscles which conveyed an impression that he was
devoted to athletic sports. His arms occasionally swung as if
brandishing dumb-bells, his chest now and then spread itself to the
uttermost, and his head was often thrown back in an attitude
suggesting self-defence.

'So you are about to join us,' he exclaimed, with a look of
touching interest, much like that of a ladies' doctor speaking
delicately of favourable symptoms. Then, as if consciously
returning to the virile note, 'I think we shall understand each
other. I am always eager to study the opinions of those among us
who have scientific minds. I hear of you on all hands; already you
have strongly impressed some of the thinking people in Exeter.'

Peak crossed his legs and made no reply.

'There is distinct need of an infusion of the scientific spirit
into the work of the Church. The churchman hitherto has been, as a
matter of course, of the literary stamp; hence much of our trouble
during the last half-century. It behoves us to go in for
science—physical, economic—science of every kind. Only thus can we
resist the morbific influences which inevitably beset an
Established Church in times such as these. I say it boldly. Let us
throw aside our Hebrew and our Greek, our commentators ancient and
modern! Let us have done with polemics and with compromises! What
we have to do is to construct a spiritual edifice on the basis of
scientific revelation. I use the word revelation advisedly. The
results of science are the divine message to our age; to neglect
them, to fear them, is to remain under the old law whilst the new
is demanding our adherence, to repeat the Jewish error of bygone
time. Less of St Paul, and more of Darwin! Less of Luther, and more
of Herbert Spencer!'