Born in Exile (50 page)

Sidwell could not close her ears against the argument. But her
features were still set in an expression of resentment, and she
kept silence lest her voice should sound tearful.

'And don't be tempted by personal feeling,' pursued her brother,
'to make light of hypocrisy—especially this kind. The man who can
act such a part as Peak's has been for the last twelve months must
be capable of any depravity. It is difficult for you to estimate
his baseness, because you are only half convinced that any one can
really be an enemy of religious faith. You suspect a lurking belief
even in the minds of avowed atheists. But take the assurance from
me that a man like Peak (and I am at one with him in this matter)
regards with absolute repugnance every form of supernaturalism. For
him to affect belief in your religion, is a crime against
conscience. Peak has committed this crime with a mercenary
motive,—what viler charge could be brought against him?'

Without looking at him, his sister replied:

'Whether he is guilty or not, I can't yet determine. But the
motive of his life here was not mercenary.'

'Then how would you describe it?' Buckland asked, in
astonishment.

'I only know that it can't be called mercenary.'

'Then the distinction you draw must be a very fine one.—He has
abandoned the employment by which he lived, and by his own
admission he looks to the Church for means of support. It was
necessary for him to make interest with people of social position;
the closer his relations with them the better. From month to month
he has worked skilfully to establish his footing in this house, and
among your friends. What do you call this?'

She had no verbal answer to make, but her look declared that she
held to another interpretation.

'Well,' Buckland added, impatiently, 'we will hear father's
opinion. He, remember, has been deceived in a very gross and cruel
way. Possibly he may help you to see the thing in all its
hatefulness.'

Sidwell turned to him.

'You go to London this afternoon?'

'In an hour or two,' he replied, consulting his watch.

'Is it any use my asking you to keep silence about everything
until I am back in town?'

Buckland frowned and hesitated.

'To mother as well as father, you mean?'

'Yes. Will you do me this kindness?'

'Answer me a question, Sidwell. Have you any thought of seeing
Peak?'

'I can't say,' she replied, in agitation. 'I must leave myself
free. I have a right to use my own judgment.'

'Don't see him! I beg you not to see him!'

He was so earnest that Sidwell suspected some other reason in
his request than regard for her dignity.

'I must leave myself free,' she repeated, with shaking voice.
'In any case I shall be back in London to-morrow evening—that is,
if—but I am sure mother will wish to go. Grant me this one
kindness; say nothing here or there till I am back and have seen
you again.'

He turned a deaf ear, for the persistency with which she
resisted proof of Peak's dishonour had begun to alarm him. Who
could say what miserable folly she might commit in the next
four-and-twenty hours? The unavoidable necessity of his own return
exasperated him; he wished to see her safe back in London, and
under her father's care.

'No,' he exclaimed, with a gesture of determination; 'I can't
keep such a thing as this secret for another hour. Mother must know
at once—especially as you mean to invite that fellow into the house
again.—I have half a mind to telegraph to Godolphin that I can't
possibly be with him to-night.'

Sidwell regarded him and spoke with forced composure.

'Do as seems right to you, Buckland. But don't think that by
remaining here you would prevent me from seeing Mr. Peak, if I wish
to do so. That is treating me too much like a child. You have done
your part—doubtless your duty; now I must reflect and judge for
myself. Neither you nor anyone else has authority over me in such
circumstances.'

'Very well. I have no authority, as you say, but common sense
bids me let mother know how the case stands.'

And angrily he left the room.

The Critical
still lay where it had fallen. When Sidwell
had stood a while in confused thought, her eye turned to it, and
she went hurriedly to take it up. Yes, that was the first thing to
be done, to read those pages with close care. For this she must
have privacy. She ran upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom.

But did not at once begin to read. It concerned her deeply to
know whether Peak had so expressed himself in this paper, that no
room was left for doubt as to his convictions; but another question
pressed upon her with even more urgency—could it be true that he
did not love her? If Buckland were wholly right, then it mattered
little in what degree she had been misled by intellectual
hypocrisy.

It was impossible to believe that Peak had made love to her in
cold blood, with none but sordid impulses. The thought was so
humiliating that her mind resolutely rejected it; and she had no
difficulty in recalling numberless minutiae of behaviour—nuances of
look and tone such as abide in a woman's memory—any one of which
would have sufficed to persuade her that he felt genuine emotion.
How had it come to pass that a feeling of friendly interest, which
did not for a moment threaten her peace, changed all at once to an
agitation only the more persistent the more she tried to subdue
it,—how, if it were not that her heart responded to a passionate
appeal, effectual as only the sincerest love can prove? Prior to
that long talk with Godwin, on the eve of her departure for London,
she had not imagined that he loved her; when they said good-bye to
each other, she knew by her own sensations all that the parting
meant to him. She felt glad, instead of sorry, that they were not
to meet again for several months; for she wished to think of him
calmly and prudently, now that he presented himself to her
imagination in so new an aspect. The hand-clasp was a mutual
assurance of fidelity.

'I should never have loved him, if he had not first loved me. Of
that I am as firmly convinced as of my own existence. It is not in
my nature to dream romances. I never did so even as a young girl,
and at this age I am not likely to fall into a foolish
self-deception. I had often thought about him. He seemed to me a
man of higher and more complex type than those with whom I was
familiar; but most surely I never attributed to him even a
corresponding interest in me. I am neither vain, nor very anxious
to please; I never suffered because men did not woo me; I have only
moderate good looks, and certainly no uncommon mental
endowments.—If he had been attracted by Sylvia, I should have
thought it natural; and I more than once suspected that Sylvia was
disposed to like him. It seemed strange at first that his choice
should have fallen upon me; yet when I was far away from him, and
longed so to sit once more by him and hear him talk, I understood
that it might be in my power to afford him the companionship he
needed.—Mercenary? If I had been merely a governess in the house,
he would have loved me just the same!'

Only by a painful effort could she remind herself that the ideal
which had grown so slowly was now defaced. He loved her, but it was
not the love of an honest man. After all, she had no need to peruse
this writing of his; she remembered so well how it had impressed
her when she read it on its first appearance, how her father had
spoken of it. Buckland's manifold evidence was irresistible. Why
should Peak have concealed his authorship? Why had he disappeared
from among the people who thoroughly knew him?

She had loved a dream. What a task would it be to distinguish
between those parts of Peak's conversation which represented his
real thoughts, and those which were mockery of his listeners! The
plan of a retired life which he had sketched to her—was it all
falsehood? Impossible, for his love was inextricably blended with
the details. Did he imagine that the secret of his unbelief could
be preserved for a lifetime, and that it would have no effect
whatever upon his happiness as a man? This seemed a likely reading
of the problem. But what a multitude of moral and intellectual
obscurities remained! The character which had seemed to her nobly
simple was become a dark and dread enigma.

She knew so little of his life. If only it could all be laid
bare to her, the secret of his position would be revealed.
Buckland's violence altogether missed its mark; the dishonour of
such a man as Godwin Peak was due to no gross incentive.

It was probable that, in talk with her father, he had been
guilty of more deliberate misrepresentation than had marked his
intercourse with the rest of the family. Her father, she felt sure,
had come to regard him as a valuable source of argument in the
battle against materialism. Doubtless the German book, which Peak
was translating, bore upon that debate, and consequently was used
as an aid to dissimulation. Thinking of this, she all but shared
her brother's vehement feeling. It pained her to the inmost heart
that her father's generous and candid nature should thus have been
played upon. The deceit, as it concerned herself alone, she could
forgive; at least she could suspend judgment until the accused had
offered his defence—feeling that the psychology of the case must
till then be beyond her powers of analysis. But the wrong done to
her father revolted her.

A tap at the door caused her to rise, trembling. She remembered
that by this time her mother must be aware of the extraordinary
disclosure, and that a new scene of wretched agitation had to be
gone through.

'Sidwell!'

It was Mrs. Warricombe's voice, and the door opened.

'Sidwell!—What
does
all this mean? I don't understand
half that Buckland has been telling me.'

The speaker's face was mottled, and she stood panting, a hand
pressed against her side.

'How very, very imprudent we have been! How wrong of father not
to have made inquiries! To think that such a man should have sat at
our table!'

'Sit down, mother; don't be so distressed,' said Sidwell,
calmly. 'It will all very soon be settled.'

'Of course not a word must be said to anyone. How very fortunate
that we shall be in London till the summer! Of course he must leave
Exeter.'

'I have no doubt he will. Let us talk as little of it as
possible, mother. We shall go back to-morrow'——

'This afternoon! We will go back with Buckland. That is decided.
I couldn't sleep here another night.'

'We must remain till to-morrow,' Sidwell replied, with quiet
determination.

'Why? What reason can there be?'

Mrs. Warricombe's voice was suspended by a horrible surmise.

'Of course we shall go to-day, Sidwell,' she continued, in
nervous haste. 'To think of that man having the impudence to call
and sit talking with you! If I could have dreamt'——

'Mother,' said Sidwell, gravely, 'I am obliged to see Mr. Peak,
either this evening or to-morrow morning.'

'To—to
see
him——? Sidwell! What can you mean?'

'I have a reason for wishing to hear from his own lips the whole
truth.'

'But we
know
the whole truth!—What can you be thinking
of, dear? Who is this Mr. Peak that you should ask him to come and
see you, under
any
circumstances?'

It would never have occurred to Sidwell to debate with her
mother on subtle questions of character and motive, but the
agitation of her nerves made it difficult for her to keep silence
under these vapid outcries. She desired to be alone; commonplace
discussion of the misery that had come upon her was impossible. A
little more strain, and she would be on the point of tears, a
weakness she was resolute to avoid.

'Let me think quietly for an hour or two,' she said, moving
away. 'It's quite certain that I must stay here till to-morrow.
When Buckland has gone, we can talk again.'

'But, Sidwell'——

'If you insist, I must leave the house, and find a refuge
somewhere else.'

Mrs. Warricombe tossed her head.

'Oh, if I am not permitted to speak to you! I only hope you
won't have occasion to remember my warning! Such extraordinary
behaviour was surely never known! I should have thought'——

Sidwell was by this time out of the room. Safe in privacy she
sat down as if to pen a letter. From an hour's agitated thought,
the following lines resulted:

'My brother has told me of a conversation he held with you this
morning. He says you admit the authorship of an article which seems
quite inconsistent with what you have professed in our talks. How
am I to understand this contradiction? I beg that you will write to
me at once. I shall anxiously await your reply.'

This, with her signature, was all. Having enclosed the note in
an envelope, she left it on her table and went down to the library,
where Buckland was sitting alone in gloomy reverie. Mrs. Warricombe
had told him of Sidwell's incredible purpose. Recognising his
sister's independence, and feeling sure that if she saw Peak it
could only be to take final leave of him, he had decided to say no
more. To London he must perforce return this afternoon, but he had
done his duty satisfactorily, and just in time. It was plain that
things had gone far between Peak and Sidwell; the latter's
behaviour avowed it. But danger there could be none, with 'The New
Sophistry' staring her in the eyes. Let her see the fellow, by all
means. His evasions and hair-splittings would complete her
deliverance.

'There's a train at 1.53,' Buckland remarked, rising, 'and I
shall catch it if I start now. I can't stay for the discomfort of
luncheon. You remain here till to-morrow, I understand?'

'Yes.'

'It's a pity you are angry with me. It seems to me I have done
you a kindness.'