Born in Exile

by George Gissing

  '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 eye
s 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.

  CHAPTER III

  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.'

  He drew from his pocket the incriminating periodical, turned it back at the article headed 'The New Sophistry', and held it out for inspection.

  'Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory.'

  'Needless, thank you,' returned Godwin, with a smile—in which the vanity of an author had its part.

  Had Marcella betrayed him? He had supposed she knew nothing of this article, but Earwaker had perhaps spoken of it to Moxey before receiving the injunction of secrecy. On the other hand, it might be Earwaker himself from whom Warricombe had derived his information. Not impossible for the men to meet, and Earwaker's indignation might have led him to disregard a friend's confidence.

  The details mattered little. He was face to face with the most serious danger that could befall him, and already he had strung himself to encounter it. Yet even in the same moment he asked, 'Is it worth while?'

  'Did you write this?' Buckland inquired.

  'Yes, I wrote it.'

  'Then I wait for your explanation.'

  'You mustn't expect me to enter upon an elaborate defence,' Godwin replied, taking his pipe from the mantelpiece and beginning to fill it. 'A man charged with rascality can hardly help getting excited—and that excitement, to one in your mood, seems evidence against him. Please to bear in mind that I have never declared myself an orthodox theologian. Mr. Warricombe is well acquainted with my views; to you I have never explained them.'

  'You mean to say that my father knew of this article?'

  'No. I have not spoken of it.'

  'And why not?'

  'Because, for one thing, I shouldn't write in that way now; and, for another, the essay seems to imply more than I meant when I did write it.'

  '"Seems to imply"——? I understand. You wish to represent that this attack on M'Naughten involves no attack on Christianity?'

  'Not on Christianity as I understand it.'

  Buckland's face expressed profound disgust, but he controlled his speech.

  'Well, I foresaw this. You attacked a new sophistry, but there is a newer sophistry still, and uncommonly difficult it is to deal with. Mr. Peak, I have a plain word to say to you. More than a year ago you asked me for my goodwill, to aid you in getting a social position. Say what you like, I see now that you dealt with me dishonestly. I can no longer be your friend in any sense, and I shall do my best to have you excluded from my parents' house. My father will re-read this essay—I have marked the significant passages throughout—and will form his own judgment; I know what it will be.'

  'You are within your rights.'

  'Undoubtedly,' replied Buckland, with polished insolence, as he rose from his seat. 'I can't forbid you to go to the house again, but—I hope we mayn't meet there. It would be very unpleasant.'

  Godwin was still pressing down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He smiled, and glanced about the room. Did Warricombe know how far things had gone between him and Sidwell? Whether or no, it was certain now that Sidwell would be informed of this disastrous piece of authorship—and the result?

  What did it matter? There is no struggling against destiny. If he and Sidwell were ever fated to come together, why, these difficulties would all be surmounted. If, as seemed more than likely, he was again to be foiled on the point of success—he could bear it, perhaps even enjoy the comedy.

  'There is no possibility of arguing against determined anger,' he said, quietly. 'I am not at all inclined to plead for justice: one only does that with a friend who desires to be just. My opinions are utterly distasteful to you, and personal motives have made you regard me as—a scoundrel to be got rid of. Well, there's an end of it. I don't see what is to be gained by further talk.'

  This was a dismissal. Godwin felt the necessity of asserting himself thus far.

  'One question,' said Warricombe, as he put the periodical back into his pocket. 'What do you mean by my "personal motives"?'

  Their eyes met for an instant.

  'I mean the motives which you have spoken of.'

  It was Buckland's hope that Peak might reveal his relations with Sidwell, but he shrank from seeming to know anything of the matter. Clearly, no light was to be had from this source.

  'I am afraid,' he said, moving to the door, 'that you will find my motives shared by all the people whose acquainta
nce you have made in Exeter.'

  And without further leave-taking he departed.

  There was a doubt in his mind. Peak's coolness might be the audacity of rascaldom; he preferred to understand it so; but it might have nothing to do with baseness.

  'Confound it!' he muttered to himself, irritably. 'In our times life is so deucedly complicated. It used to be the easiest thing to convict a man of religious hypocrisy; nowadays, one has to bear in mind such a multiplicity of fine considerations. There's that fellow Bruno Chilvers: mightn't anyone who had personal reasons treat him precisely as I have treated Peak? Both of them may be honest. Yet in Peak's case all appearances are against him—just because he is of low birth, has no means, and wants desperately to get into society. The fellow is a scoundrel; I am convinced of it. Yet his designs may be innocent. How, then, a scoundrel?——

  'Poor devil! Has he really fallen in love with Sidwell?——

  'Humbug! He wants position, and the comfort it brings. And if he hadn't acted like a blackguard—if he had come among us telling the truth—who knows? Sidwell wouldn't then have thought of him, but for my own part I would willingly have given him a hand. There are plenty of girls who have learned to think for themselves.'

  This was an unhappy line of reflection. It led to Sylvia Moorhouse—and to grinding of the teeth. By the time he reached the house, Buckland was again in remorseless mood.

  He would have it out with Sidwell. The desire of proving to her that he had been right from the first overrode all thought of the pain he might inflict.

  She was in the library. At breakfast he had noticed her heavy eyes, and that she made only a pretence of eating. She was now less unlike herself, but her position at the window showed that she had been waiting impatiently.

  'Isn't mother coming down to-day?' he asked.

  'Yes; after luncheon she will go out for an hour, if it keeps fine.'

  'And to-morrow you return?'

  'If mother feels able to travel.'

  He had The Critical in his hand, and stood rustling the pages with his fingers.

  'I have been to see Peak.'