Immediately upon his uncle’s departure, Godwin disappeared; Mrs. Peak caught only a glimpse of him as he went by the parlour window. In a short time Oliver came home, and, having learned what had happened, joined his mother and sister in a dull, intermittent1 conversation on the subject of Godwin’s future difficulties.
‘He won’t go back to Whitelaw,’ declared the lad. ‘He said he wouldn’t.’
‘People must be above such false shame,’ was Charlotte’s opinion. ‘I can’t see that it will make the slightest difference in his position or his prospects2.’
Whereupon her mother’s patience gave way.
‘Don’t talk such nonsense, Charlotte! You understand perfectly3 well how serious it will be. I never knew anything so cruel.’
‘I was never taught,’ persisted the girl, with calm obstinacy4, ‘that one ought to be ashamed of one’s relatives just because they are in a humble5 position.’
Oliver brought the tedious discussion to an end by clamouring for supper. The table was laid, and all were about to sit down when Godwin presented himself. To the general astonishment6, he seemed in excellent spirits, and ate more heartily7 than usual. Not a word was spoken of Uncle Andrew, until Mrs. Peak and her elder son were left alone together; then Godwin remarked in a tone of satisfied decision:
‘Of course, this is the end of my work at Whitelaw. We must make new plans, mother.’
‘But how can we, dear? What will Lady Whitelaw say?’
‘I have to think it out yet. In a day or two I shall very likely write a letter to Lady Whitelaw. There’s no need, you know, to go talking about this in Twybridge. Just leave it to me, will you?’
‘It’s not a subject I care to talk about, you may be sure. But I do hope you won’t do anything rash, Godwin.’
‘Not I. To tell you the truth, I’m not at all sorry to leave. It was a mistake that I went in for the Arts course—Greek, and Latin, and so on, you know; I ought to have stuck to science. I shall go back to it now. Don’t be afraid. I’ll make a position for myself before long. I’ll repay all you have spent on me.’
To this conclusion had he come. The process of mind was favoured by his defeat in all the Arts subjects; in that direction he could see only the triumphant9 Chilvers, a figure which disgusted him with Greeks, Romans, and all the ways of literature. As to his future efforts he was by no means clear, but it eased him greatly to have cast off a burden of doubt; his theorising intellect loved the sensation of life thrown open to new, however vague, possibilities. At present he was convinced that Andrew Peak had done him a service. In this there was an indication of moral cowardice10, such as commonly connects itself with intense pride of individuality. He desired to shirk the combat with Chilvers, and welcomed as an excuse for doing so the shame which another temper would have stubbornly defied.
Now he would abandon his B.A. examination,—a clear saving of money. Presently it might suit him to take the B.Sc. instead; time enough to think of that. Had he but pursued the Science course from the first, who at Whitelaw could have come out ahead of him? He had wasted a couple of years which might have been most profitably applied11: by this time he might have been ready to obtain a position as demonstrator in some laboratory, on his way perhaps to a professorship. How had he thus been led astray? Not only had his boyish instincts moved strongly towards science, but was not the tendency of the age in the same direction? Buckland Warricombe, who habitually12 declaimed against classical study, was perfectly right; the world had learned all it could from those hoary13 teachers, and must now turn to Nature. On every hand, the future was with students of the laws of matter. Often, it was true, he had been tempted14 by the thought of a literary career; he had written in verse and prose, but with small success. An attempt to compose the Prize Poem was soon abandoned in discouragement; the essay he sent in had not been mentioned. These honours had fallen to Earwaker, with whom it was not easy to compete on such ground. No, he was not born a man of letters. But in science, granted fair opportunity, he might make a name. He might, and he would!
On the morrow, splendour of sunshine drew him forth15 to some distance from the town. He went along the lanes singing; now it was holiday with him, and for the first time he could enjoy the broad golden daylight, the genial16 warmth. In a hollow of grassy17 fields, where he least expected to encounter an acquaintance, it was his chance to come upon Christian18 Moxey, stretched at full length in the company of nibbling19 sheep. Since the dinner at Mr. Moxey’s, he had neither seen nor heard of Christian, who, it seemed probable, was back at his work in Rotherhithe. As their looks met, both laughed.
‘I won’t get up,’ said Christian; ‘the effort would be too great. Sit down and let us have a talk.’
‘I disturb your thoughts,’ answered Godwin.
‘A most welcome disturbance20; they weren’t very pleasant just then. In fact, I have come as far as this in the hope of escaping them. I’m not much of a walker, are you?’
‘Well, yes, I enjoy a good walk.’
‘You are of an energetic type,’ said Christian, musingly21. ‘You will do something in life. When do you go up for Honours?’
‘I have decided22 not to go in at all.’
‘Indeed; I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I have half made up my mind not to return to Whitelaw.’
Observing his hearer’s look of surprise, Godwin asked himself whether it signified a knowledge of his footing at Whitelaw. The possibility of this galled23 him; but it was such a great step to have declared, as it were in public, an intention of freeing himself, that he was able to talk on with something of aggressive confidence.
‘I think I shall go in for some practical work of a scientific kind. It was a mistake for me to pursue the Arts course.’
Christian looked at him earnestly.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Yes, I feel sure of it.’
There was silence. Christian beat the ground with his stick.
‘Your state of mind, then,’ he said at length, ‘is more like my own than I imagined. I, too, have wavered for a long time between literature and science, and now at last I have quite decided—quite—that scientific study is the only safe line for me. The fact is, a man must concentrate himself. Not only for the sake of practical success, but—well, for his own sake.’
He spoke8 lazily, dreamily, propped24 upon his elbow, seeming to watch the sheep which panted at a few yards from him.
‘I have no right,’ he pursued, with a shadow of kindly25 anxiety on his features, ‘to offer you advice, but—well, if you will let me insist on what I have learned from my own experience. There’s nothing like having a special line of work and sticking to it vigorously. I, unfortunately, shall never do anything of any account,—but I know so well the conflict between diverging26 tastes. It has played the deuce with me, in all sorts of ways. At Zurich I utterly27 wasted my time, and I’ve done no better since I came back to England. Don’t think me presumptuous28. I only mean—well, it is so important to—to go ahead in one line.’
His air of laughing apology was very pleasant. Godwin felt his heart open to the kind fellow.
‘No one needs the advice more than I,’ he replied. ‘I am going back to the line I took naturally when I first began to study at all.’
‘But why leave Whitelaw?’ asked Christian, gently.
‘Because I dislike it—I can’t tell you why.’
With ready tact29 Moxey led away from a subject which he saw was painful.
‘Of course there are many other places where one can study just as well.’
‘Do you know anything of the School of Mines in London?’ Godwin inquired, abruptly30.
‘I worked there myself for a short time.’
‘Then you could tell me about the—the fees, and so on?’
Christian readily gave the desired information, and the listener mused31 over it.
‘Have you any friends in London?’ Moxey asked, at length.
‘No. But I don’t think that matters. I shall work all the harder.’ ‘Perhaps so,’ said the other, with some hesitation32. And he added thoughtfully, ‘It depends on one’s temperament33. Doesn’t answer to be too much alone—I speak for myself at all events. I know very few people in London—very few that I care anything about. That, in fact, is one reason why I am staying here longer than I intended.’ He seemed to speak rather to himself than to Godwin; the half-smile on his lips expressed a wish to disclose circumstances and motives34 which were yet hardly a suitable topic in a dialogue such as this. ‘I like the atmosphere of a—of a comfortable home. No doubt I should get on better—with things in general—if I had a home of my own. I live in lodgings35, you know; my sister lives with friends. Of course one has a sense of freedom, but then’—
His voice murmured off into silence, and again he beat the ground with his cane36. Godwin was strongly interested in this broken revelation; he found it difficult to understand Moxey’s yearning37 for domesticity, all his own impulses leading towards quite a contrary ideal. To him, life in London lodgings made rich promise; that indeed would be freedom, and full of all manner of high possibilities!
Each communed with his thoughts. Happening to glance at Christian, Godwin was struck with the graceful38 attitude in which the young man reclined; he himself squatted39 awkwardly on the grass, unable to abandon himself in natural repose40, even as he found it impossible to talk with the ease of unconsciousness. The contrast, too, between his garments, his boots, and those of the Londoner was painful enough to him. Without being a dandy, Christian, it was evident, gave a good deal of thought to costume. That kind of thing had always excited Godwin’s contempt, but now he confessed himself envious41; doubtless, to be well dressed was a great step towards the finished ease of what is called a gentlemanly demeanour, which he knew he was very far from having attained42.
‘Well,’ exclaimed Christian, unexpectedly, ‘if I can be of ever so little use to you, pray let me. I must get back to town in a few days, but you know my address. Write to me, I beg, if you wish for any more information.’
The talk turned to less difficult topics. Godwin made inquiries43 about Zurich, then about Switzerland in general.
‘Did you see much of the Alps?’
‘Not as a climber sees them. That sort of thing isn’t in my way; I haven’t the energy—more’s the pity. Would you like to see a lot of good photographs I brought back? I have them here; brought them to show the girls.’
In spite of the five Miss Moxeys and Christian’s sister, Peak accepted the invitation to walk back with his companion, and presently they began to stroll towards Twybridge.
‘I have an absurd tendency to dream—to lose myself amid ideals—I don’t quite know how to express it,’ Christian resumed, when both had been silent for some minutes. ‘That’s why I mean to go in earnestly for science—as a corrective. Fortunately, I have to work for my living; otherwise, I should moon my life away—no doubt. My sister has ten times as much energy—she knows much more than I do already. What a splendid thing it is to be of an independent character! I had rather be a self-reliant coal-heaver than a millionaire of uncertain will. My uncle—there’s a man who knows his own mind. I respect those strong practical natures. Don’t be misled by ideals. Make the most of your circumstances. Don’t aim at—but I beg your pardon; I don’t know what right I have to lecture you in this way.’ And he broke off with his pleasant, kind-hearted laugh, colouring a little.
They reached Mr. Moxey’s house. In a garden chair on the lawn sat Miss Janet, occupied with a book. She rose to meet them, shook hands with Godwin, and said to her cousin:
‘The postman has just left a letter for you—forwarded from London.’
‘Indeed? I’m going to show Mr. Peak my Swiss photographs. You wouldn’t care to come and help me in the toil44 of turning them over?’
‘O lazy man!’
Her laugh was joyous45. Any one less prejudiced than Peak would have recognised the beauty which transformed her homely46 features as she met Christian’s look.
On the hall table lay the letter of which Janet had spoken. Christian took it up, and Godwin, happening at that moment to observe him, caught the tremor47 of a sudden emotion on lip and eyelid48. Instantly, prompted by he knew not what perception, he turned his gaze to Janet, and in time to see that she also was aware of her cousin’s strong interest in the letter, which was at once put away in Christian’s pocket.
They passed into the sitting-room49, where a large portfolio50 stood against the back of a chair. The half-hour which ensued was to Godwin a time of uneasiness. His pleasure in the photographs suffered disturbance from a subtle stress on his nerves, due to something indeterminable in the situation, of which he formed a part. Janet’s merry humour seemed to be subdued51. Christian was obviously forcing himself to entertain the guest whilst his thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as possible, Godwin rose to depart. He was just saying good-bye to Janet, when Marcella entered the room. She stood still, and Christian said, hurriedly:
‘It’s possible, Marcella, that Mr. Peak will be coming to London before long. We may have the pleasure of seeing him there.’
‘You will be glad, I’m sure,’ answered his sister. Then, as if forcing herself to address Peak directly, she faced to him and added, ‘It isn’t easy to find sympathetic companions.’
‘I, at all events, haven’t found very many,’ Godwin replied, meaning to speak in a tone only half-serious, but conscious at once that he had made what might seem an appeal for sympathy. Thereupon his pride revolted, and in a moment drove him from the room.
Christian followed, and at the front door shook hands with him. Nervous impatience52 was unmistakable in the young man’s look and words. Again Godwin speculated on the meaning of this, and wondered, in connection therewith, what were the characteristics which Marcella Moxey looked for in a ‘sympathetic companion’.
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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51
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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