Born in Exile (48 page)

'You are glad on that account?'

'Yes; indeed I am.'

'Dare I think you mean more than a civil phrase?'

'I mean quite simply all that my words imply. I have thought of
you, though certainly without bitterness. No one's conversation in
London interested me so much as yours.'

Soothed with an exquisite joy, Godwin felt his eyes moisten. For
a moment he was reconciled to all the world, and forgot the
hostilities of a lifetime.

'And will it still be so, now, when you go back?' he asked, in a
soft tone.

'I am sure it will.'

'Then it will be strange if I ever feel bitterly again.'

Sidwell smiled.

'You could have said nothing that could please me more. Why
should your life be troubled by these dark moods? I could
understand it if you were still struggling with—with doubts, with
all manner of uncertainties about your course'——

She hesitated, watching his face.

'You think I have chosen well?' said Godwin, meeting her
look.

Sidwell's eyes were at once averted.

'I hope,' she said, 'we may talk of that again very soon. You
have told me much of yourself, but I have said little or nothing of
my own—difficulties. It won't be long before we come back from
London, and then'——

Once more their eyes met steadily.

'You think,' Godwin asked, 'that I am right in aiming at a life
of retirement?'

'It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be useful
anywhere; but most useful, surely, among people of active
mind.'

'Perhaps I shan't be able to choose. Remember that I am seeking
for a livelihood as well as for a sphere of usefulness.'

His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no means of
learning whether Sidwell would bring her husband a dowry
substantial enough to be considered. Though he could not feel that
she had betrothed herself to him, their talk was so nearly that of
avowed lovers that perchance she would disclose whatever might help
to put his mind at rest. The thought revived his painful
self-consciousness; it was that of a schemer, yet would not the
curse of poverty have suggested it to any man?

'Perhaps you won't be able to choose—at first,' Sidwell
assented, thereby seeming to answer his unspoken question. 'But I
am sure my father will use whatever influence he has.'

Had he been seated near enough, he would have been tempted to
the boldness of taking her hand. What more encouragement did he
await? But the distance between them was enough to check his
embarrassed impulses. He could not even call her 'Sidwell'; it
would have been easier a few minutes ago, before she had begun to
speak with such calm friendliness. Now, in spite of everything, he
felt that to dare such a familiarity must needs call upon him the
reproof of astonished eyes.

'You return to-morrow?' he asked, suddenly.

'I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are
home again.'

'A promise to be cheerful wouldn't mean much. But it
does
mean much that I can think of what you have said to-day.'

Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to
rise. It was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave
face, and the flowing outlines of her figure. Why could he not say
to her, 'I love you; give me your hands; give me your lips'? Such
words seemed impossible. Yet passion thrilled in him as he watched
the grace of her movements, the light and shadow upon her features.
She had risen and come a step or two forward.

'I think you look taller—in that dress.'

The words rather escaped him than were spoken. His need was to
talk of common things, of trifles, that so he might come to feel
humanly.

Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.

'Do I? Do you like the dress?'

'Yes. It becomes you.'

'Are you critical in such things?'

'Not with understanding. But I should like to see you every day
in a new and beautiful dress.'

'Oh, I couldn't afford it!' was the laughing reply.

He offered his hand; the touch of her warm, soft fingers fired
his blood.

'Sidwell!'

It was spoken at last, involuntarily, and he stood with his eyes
on hers, her hand crushed in his.

'Some day!' she whispered.

If their lips met, the contact was so slight as to seem
accidental; it was the mere timorous promise of a future kiss. And
both were glad of the something that had imposed restraint.

When Sidwell went up to her mother's sitting-room, a servant had
just brought tea.

'I hear that Mr. Peak has been,' said Mrs. Warricombe, who
looked puffy and uncomfortable after her sleep. 'Emma was going to
take tea to the study, but I thought it unnecessary. How could he
know that we were here?'

'I met him this morning on my way into the town.'

'Surely it was rather inconsiderate of him to call.'

'He asked if he might.'

Mrs. Warricombe turned her head and examined Sidwell.

'Oh! And did he stay long?'

'Not very long,' replied Sidwell, who was in quiet
good-humour.

'I think it would have been better if you had told him by the
servant that I was not well enough to see callers. You didn't
mention that he might be coming.'

Mrs. Warricombe's mind worked slowly at all times, and at
present she was suffering from a cold.

'Why didn't you speak of it, Sidwell?'

'Really—I forgot,' replied the daughter, lightly.

'And what had he to say?'

'Nothing new, mother. Is your head better, dear?'

There was no answer. Mrs. Warricombe had conceived a vague
suspicion which was so alarming that she would not press inquiries
alluding to it. The encouragement given by her husband to Godwin
Peak in the latter's social progress had always annoyed her, though
she could not frame solid objections. To be sure, to say of a man
that he is about to be ordained meets every possible question that
society can put; but Mrs. Warricombe's uneasiness was in part due
to personal dislike. Oftener than not, she still thought of Peak as
he appeared some eleven years ago—an evident plebeian, without
manners, without a redeeming grace. She knew the story of his
relative who had opened a shop in Kingsmill; plebeian, without
manners, without a redeeming grace. She knew the story of his
relative who had opened a shop in Kingsmill; thinking of that now,
she shuddered.

Sidwell began to talk of indifferent matters, and Peak was not
again mentioned.

Her throat being still troublesome, Mrs. Warricombe retired very
soon after dinner. About nine o'clock Sidwell went to the library,
and sat down at her father's writing-table, purposing a letter to
Sylvia. She penned a line or two, but soon lapsed into reverie, her
head on her hands. Of a sudden the door was thrown open, and there
stood Buckland, fresh from travel.

'What has brought you?' exclaimed his sister, starting up
anxiously, for something in the young man's look seemed
ominous.

'Oh, nothing to trouble about. I had to come down—on business.
Mother gone to bed?'

Sidwell explained.

'All right; doesn't matter. I suppose I can sleep here? Let them
get me a mouthful of something; cold meat, anything will do.'

His needs were quickly supplied, and before long he was smoking
by the library fire.

'I was writing to Sylvia,' said his sister, glancing at her
fragmentary letter.

'Oh!'

'You know she is at Salisbury?'

'Salisbury? No, I didn't.'

His carelessness proved to Sidwell that she was wrong in
conjecturing that his journey had something to do with Miss
Moorhouse. Buckland was in no mood for conversation; he smoked for
a quarter of an hour whilst Sidwell resumed her writing.

'Of course you haven't seen Peak?' fell from him at length.

His sister looked at him before replying.

'Yes. He called this afternoon.'

'But who told him you were here?'

His brows were knitted, and he spoke very abruptly. Sidwell gave
the same explanation as to her mother, and had further to reply
that she alone received the caller.

'I see,' was Buckland's comment.

Its tone troubled Sidwell.

'Has your coming anything to do with Mr. Peak?'

'Yes, it has. I want to see him the first thing to-morrow.

'Can you tell me what about?'

He searched her face, frowning.

'Not now. I'll tell you in the morning.'

Sidwell saw herself doomed to a night of suspense. She could not
confess how nearly the mystery concerned her. Had Buckland made
some discovery that irritated him against Peak? She knew he was
disposed to catch at anything that seemed to tell against Godwin's
claims to respectful treatment, and it surely must be a grave
affair to hurry him on so long a journey. Though she could imagine
no ground of fear, the situation was seriously disturbing.

She tried to go on with her letter, but failed. As Buckland
smoked in silence, she at length rose and said she would go
upstairs.

'All right! Shall see you at breakfast. Good-night!'

At nine next morning Mrs. Warricombe sent a message to Buckland
that she wished to see him in her bedroom. He entered
hurriedly.

'Cold better, mother? I have only just time to drink a cup of
coffee. I want to catch Peak before he can have left home.'

'Mr. Peak? Why? I was going to speak about him.'

'What were you going to say?' Buckland asked, anxiously.

His mother began in a roundabout way which threatened long
detention. In a minute or two Buckland had gathered enough to
interrupt her with the direct inquiry:

'You don't mean that there's anything between him and
Sidwell?'

'I do hope not; but I can't imagine why she should—really,
almost make a private appointment. I am very uneasy, Buckland. I
have hardly slept. Sidwell is rather—you know'——

'The deuce! I can't stop now. Wait an hour or two, and I shall
have seen the fellow. You needn't alarm yourself. He will probably
have disappeared in a few days.'

'What do you mean?' Mrs. Warricombe asked, with nervous
eagerness.

'I'll explain afterwards.'

He hurried away. Sidwell was at the breakfast-table. Her eyes
seemed to declare that she had not slept well. With an
insignificant word or two, the young man swallowed his cup of
coffee, and had soon left the house.

The wrath which illumined Buckland's countenance as he strode
rapidly towards Longbrook Street was not unmingled with joy. In the
deep pocket of his ulster lay something heavy which kept striking
against his leg, and every such contact spurred him with a sense of
satisfaction. All his suspicions were abundantly justified. Not
only would his father and Sidwell be obliged to confess that his
insight had been profounder than theirs, but he had the pleasure of
standing justified before his own conscience. The philosophy by
which he lived was strikingly illustrated and confirmed.

He sniffed the morning air, enjoyed the firmness of the frozen
ground, on which his boots made a pleasant thud. To be sure, the
interview before him would have its disagreeableness, but Buckland
was not one of those over-civilised men who shrink from every scene
of painful explanation. The detection of a harmful lie was
decidedly congenial to him—especially when he and his had been made
its victims. He was now at liberty to indulge that antipathetic
feeling towards Godwin Peak which sundry considerations had
hitherto urged him to repress. Whatever might have passed between
Peak and Sidwell, he could not doubt that his sister's peace was
gravely endangered; the adventurer (with however much or little
sincerity) had been making subtle love to her. Such a thought was
intolerable. Buckland's class-prejudice asserted itself with brutal
vigour now that it had moral indignation for an ally.

He had never been at Peak's lodgings, but the address was long
since noted. Something of disdain came into his eyes as he
approached the row of insignificant houses. Having pulled the bell,
he stood at his full height, looking severely at the number painted
on the door.

Mrs. Roots opened to him, and said that her lodger was at home.
He gave his name, and after waiting for a moment was led to the
upper floor. Godwin, who had breakfasted later than usual, still
sat by the table. On Warricombe's entrance, he pushed back his
chair and rose, but with deliberate movement, scarcely smiling.
That Buckland made no offer of a friendly hand did not surprise
him. The name of his visitor had alarmed him with a sudden
presentiment. Hardening his features, he stood in expectancy.

'I want to have a talk with you,' Buckland began. 'You are at
leisure, I hope?'

'Pray sit down.'

Godwin pointed to a chair near the fire, but Warricombe, having
thrown his hat on to a side table, seated himself by one of the
windows. His motions proved that he found it difficult to support a
semblance of courtesy.

'I have come down from London on purpose to see you. Unless I am
strangely misinformed you have been guilty of conduct which I
shouldn't like to call by its proper name.'

Remembering that he was in a little house, with thin partitions,
he kept his voice low, but the effort this cost him was obvious. He
looked straight at Peak, who did not return the gaze.

'Indeed?' said Godwin, coldly. 'What is my crime?'

'I am told that you have won the confidence of my relatives by
what looks like a scheme of gross dishonesty.'

'Indeed? Who has told you so?'

'No one in so many words. But I happened to come across certain
acquaintances of yours in London—people who know you very well
indeed; and I find that they regard your position here as
altogether incredible. You will remember I had much the same
feeling myself. In support of their view it was mentioned to me
that you had published an article in
The Critical
—the date
less than a year ago, observe. The article was anonymous, but I
remember it very well. I have re-read it, and I want you to tell me
how the views it expresses can be reconciled with those you have
maintained in conversation with my father.'