‘Pereunt et imputantur.’
Godwin Peak read the motto beneath the clock in Exeter Cathedral, and believed it of Christian1 origin. Had he known that the words were found in Martial2, his rebellious3 spirit would have enjoyed the consecration4 of a phrase from such an unlikely author. Even as he must have laughed had he stood in the Vatican before the figures of those two Greek dramatists who, for ages, were revered5 as Christian saints.
His ignorance preserved him from a clash of sentiments. This afternoon he was not disposed to cynicism; rather he welcomed the softening6 influence of this noble interior, and let the golden sunlight form what shapes it would—heavenly beam, mystic aureole—before his mind’s eye. Architecture had no special interest for him, and the history of church or faith could seldom touch his emotions; but the glorious handiwork of men long dead, the solemn stillness of an ancient sanctuary7, made that appeal to him which is independent of names.
‘Pereunt et imputantur.’
He sat down where the soft, slow ticking of the clock could guide his thoughts. This morning he had left London by the earliest train, and after a night in Exeter would travel westward8 by leisurely9 stages, seeing as much as possible of the coast and of that inland scenery which had geological significance. His costume declared him bent10 on holiday, but, at the same time, distinguished11 him with delicate emphasis from the tourist of the season. Trustworthy sartorial12 skill had done its best for his person. Sitting thus, he had the air of a gentleman who enjoys no unwonted ease. He could forget himself in reverie, and be unaware14 of soft footfalls that drew near along the aisle15.
But the sound of a young voice, subdued16 yet very clear, made claim upon his attention.
‘Sidwell!—Sidwell!’
She who spoke17 was behind him; on looking up, he saw that a lady just in front had stopped and turned to the summons; smiling, she retraced18 her steps. He moved, so as to look discreetly19 in the backward direction, and observed a group of four persons, who were occupied with a tablet on the wall: a young man (not long out of boyhood), a girl who might be a year or two younger, and two ladies, of whom it could only be said that they were mature in the beauty of youth, probably of maidenhood—one of them, she who had been called back by the name of ‘Sidwell’.
Surely an uncommon21 name. From a guide-book, with which he had amused himself in the train, he knew that one of the churches of Exeter was dedicated23 to St. Sidwell, but only now did his recollection apprise24 him of a long past acquaintance with the name of the saint. Had not Buckland Warricombe a sister called Sidwell? And—did he only surmise25 a connection between the Warricombes and Devon? No, no; on that remote day, when he went out with Buckland to the house near Kingsmill, Mr. Warricombe spoke to him of Exeter,—mentioning that the town of his birth was Axminster, where William Buckland, the geologist26, also was born; whence the name of his eldest27 son. How suddenly it all came back!
He rose and moved apart to a spot whence he might quietly observe the strangers. ‘Sidwell’, once remarked, could not be confused with the companion of her own age; she was slimmer, shorter (if but slightly), more sedate28 in movement, and perhaps better dressed—though both were admirable in that respect. Ladies, beyond a doubt. And the young man—
At this distance it was easy to deceive oneself, but did not that face bring something back? Now, as he smiled, it seemed to recall Buckland Warricombe—with a difference. This might well be a younger brother; there used to be one or two.
They were familiar with the Cathedral, and at present appeared to take exclusive interest in certain mural monuments. For perhaps ten minutes they lingered about the aisle, then, after a glance at the west window, went forth29. With quick step, Godwin pursued them; he issued in time to see them entering an open carriage, which presently drove away towards High Street.
For half an hour he walked the Cathedral Close. Not long ago, on first coming into that quiet space, with its old houses, its smooth lawns, its majestic30 trees, he had felt the charm peculiar31 to such scenes—the natural delight in a form of beauty especially English. Now, the impression was irrecoverable; he could see nothing but those four persons, and their luxurious32 carriage, and the two beautiful horses which had borne them—whither? As likely as not the identity he had supposed for them was quite imaginary; yet it would be easy to ascertain33 whether a Warricombe family dwelt at Exeter. The forename of Buckland’s father—? He never had known it. Still, it was worth while consulting a directory.
He walked to his hotel.
Yes, the name Warricombe stood there, but it occurred more than once. He sought counsel of the landlord. Which of these Warricombes was a gentleman of position, with grown-up sons and daughters? To such a description answered Martin Warricombe, Esquire, well known in the city. His house was in the Old Tiverton Road, out beyond St Sidwell’s, two miles away; anyone in that district would serve as guide to it.
With purpose indefinite, Godwin set forth in the direction suggested. At little more than a saunter, he passed out of High Street into its continuation, where he soon descried34 the Church of St. Sidwell, and thence, having made inquiry35, walked towards the Old Tiverton Road. He was now quite beyond the town limits, and few pedestrians36 came in sight; if he really wished to find the abode37 of Martin Warricombe, he must stop the first questionable38 person. But to what end this inquiry? He could not even be certain that Martin was the man he had in mind, and even were he right in all his conjectures39, what had he to do with the Warricombes?
Ten years ago the family had received him courteously40 as Buckland’s fellow-student; he had spent an hour or two at their house, and subsequently a few words had passed when they saw him on prize-day at Whitelaw. To Buckland he had never written; he had never since heard of him; that name was involved in the miserable42 whirl of circumstances which brought his College life to a close, and it was always his hope that Buckland thought no more of him. Even had there been no disagreeable memories, it was surely impossible to renew after this interval43 so very slight an acquaintance. How could they receive him, save with civilly mild astonishment44?
An errand-boy came along, whistling townwards, a big basket over his head. No harm in asking where Mr. Warricombe lived. The reply was prompt: second house on the right hand, rather a large one, not a quarter of a mile onward45.
Here, then. The site was a good one. From this part of the climbing road one looked over the lower valley of the Exe, saw the whole estuary46, and beyond that a horizon of blue sea. Fair, rich land, warm under the westering sun. The house itself seemed to be old, but after all was not very large; it stood amid laurels47, and in the garden behind rose a great yew-tree. No person was visible; but for the wave-like murmur48 of neighbouring pines, scarce a sound would have disturbed the air.
Godwin walked past, and found that the road descended49 into a deep hollow, whence between high banks, covered with gorse and bracken and many a summer flower, it led again up a hill thick planted with firs; at the lowest point was a bridge over a streamlet, offering on either hand a view of soft green meadows. A spot of exquisite51 retirement52: happy who lived here in security from the struggle of life!
It was folly53 to spoil his enjoyment54 of country such as this by dreaming impossible opportunities. The Warricombes could be nothing to him; to meet with Buckland would only revive the shame long ago outlived. After resting for a few minutes he turned back, passed the silent house again, delighted himself with the wide view, and so into the city once more, where he began to seek the remnants of its old walls.
The next morning was Sunday, and he had planned to go by the Plymouth train to a station whence he could reach Start Point; but his mood was become so unsettled that ten o’clock, when already he should have been on his journey, found him straying about the Cathedral Close. A mere55 half-purpose, a vague wavering intention, which might at any moment be scattered56 by common sense, drew his steps to the door of the Cathedral, where people were entering for morning service; he moved idly within sight of the carriages which drew up. Several had discharged their freightage of tailoring and millinery, when two vehicles, which seemed companions, stopped at the edge of the pavement, and from the second alighted the young ladies whom Godwin had yesterday observed; their male companion, however, was different. The carriage in advance also contained four persons: a gentleman of sixty, his wife, a young girl, and the youth of yesterday. It needed but a glance to inform Godwin that the oldest of the party was Mr. Warricombe, Buckland’s father; ten years had made no change in his aspect. Mrs. Warricombe was not less recognisable. They passed at once into the edifice57, and he had scarcely time to bestow58 a keen look upon Sidwell.
That was a beautiful girl; he stood musing59 upon the picture registered by his brain. But why not follow, and from a neighbouring seat survey her and the others at his leisure? Pooh! But the impulse constrained60 him. After all, he could not get a place that allowed him to see Sidwell. Her companion, however, the one who seemed to be of much the same age, was well in view. Sisters they could not be; nothing of the Warricombe countenance61 revealed itself in those handsome but strongly-marked features. A beautiful girl, she also, yet of a type that made slight appeal to him. Sidwell was all he could imagine of sweet and dignified62; more modest in bearing, more gracile, more—
Monday at noon, and he still walked the streets of Exeter. Early this morning he had been out to the Old Tiverton Road, and there, on the lawn amid the laurels, had caught brief glimpse of two female figures, in one of which he merely divined Sidwell. Why he tarried thus he did not pretend to explain to himself. Rain had just come on, and the lowering sky made him low-spirited; he mooned about the street under his umbrella.
And at this rate, might vapour away his holiday. Exeter was tedious, but he could not make up his mind to set forth for the sea-shore, where only his own thoughts awaited him. Packed away in his wallet lay geological hammer, azimuth compass, clinometer, miniature microscope,—why should he drag all that lumber63 about with him? What to him were the bygone millions of ages, the hoary64 records of unimaginable time? One touch of a girl’s hand, one syllable65 of musical speech,—was it not that whereof his life had truly need?
As remote from him, however, as the age of the pterodactyl. How often was it necessary to repeat this? On a long voyage, such as he had all but resolved to take, one might perchance form acquaintances. He had heard of such things; not impossibly, a social circle might open to him at Buenos Ayres. But here in England his poor origin, his lack of means would for ever bar him from the intimacy66 of people like the Warricombes.
He loitered towards the South–Western station, dimly conscious of a purpose to look for trains. Instead of seeking the time-tables he stood before the bookstall and ran his eye along the titles of new novels; he had half a mind to buy one of Hardy’s and read himself into the temper which suited summer rambles68. But just as his hand was stretched forth, a full voice, speaking beside him, made demand for a London weekly paper. Instantly he turned. The tones had carried him back to Whitelaw; the face disturbed that illusion, but substituted a reality which threw him into tremor69.
His involuntary gaze was met with one of equal intensity70. A man of his own years, but in splendid health and with bright eyes that looked enjoyment of life, suddenly addressed him.
‘Godwin Peak—surely—?’
‘Buckland Warricombe, no less surely.’
They shook hands with vigour71, laughing in each other’s faces; then, after a moment’s pause, Warricombe drew aside from the bookstall, for sake of privacy.
‘Why did we lose sight of each other?’ he asked, flashing a glance at Godwin’s costume. ‘Why didn’t you write to me at Cambridge? What have you been doing this half-century?’
‘I have been in London all the time.’
‘I am there most of the year. Well, I rejoice to have met you. On a holiday?’
‘Loitering towards Cornwall.’
‘In that case, you can come and have lunch with me at my father’s house. It’s only a mile or two off. I was going to walk, but we’ll drive, if you like.’
There was no refusing, and no possibility of reflection. Buckland’s hearty72 manner made the invitation in itself a thoroughly73 pleasant one, and before Peak could sufficiently74 command his thoughts to picture the scene towards which he was going they were walking side by side through the town. In appearance, Warricombe showed nothing of the revolutionary which, in old days, he aimed at making himself, and his speech had a suavity75 which no doubt resulted from much intercourse76 with the polished world; Godwin was filled with envious77 admiration78 of his perfect physique, and the mettle79 which kept it in such excellent vigour. Even for a sturdy walker, it was no common task to keep pace with Buckland’s strides; Peak soon found himself conversing80 rather too breathlessly for comfort.
‘What is your latest record for the mile?’ he inquired.
Warricombe, understanding at once the reference to his old athletic82 pastime and its present application, laughed merrily, and checked his progress.
‘A bad habit of mine; it gets me into trouble with everyone. By-the-bye, haven’t you become a stronger man than used to seem likely? I’m quite glad to see how well you look.’
The sincerity83 of these expressions, often repeated, put Godwin far more at his ease than the first moment’s sensation had promised. He too began to feel a genuine pleasure in the meeting, and soon bade defiance84 to all misgivings85. Delicacy86 perhaps withheld87 Warricombe from further mention of Whitelaw, but on the other hand it was not impossible that he knew nothing of the circumstances which tormented88 Godwin’s memory. On leaving the College perchance he had lost all connection with those common friends who might have informed him of subsequent jokes and rumours89. Unlikely, to be sure; for doubtless some of his Whitelaw contemporaries encountered him at Cambridge; and again, was it not probable that the younger Warricombe had become a Whitelaw student? Then Professor Gale—no matter! The Warricombes of course knew all about Andrew Peak and his dining-rooms, but they were liberal-minded, and could forgive a boy’s weakness, as well as overlook an acquaintance’s obscure origin. In the joy of finding himself exuberantly90 welcomed by a man of Buckland’s world he overcame his ignoble92 self-consciousness.
‘Did you know that we were in this part of the country?’ Warricombe asked, once more speeding ahead.
‘I always thought of you in connection with Kingsmill.’
‘We gave up Thornhaw seven years ago. My father was never quite comfortable out of Devonshire. The house I am taking you to has been in our family for three generations. I have often tried to be proud of the fact, but, as you would guess, that kind of thing doesn’t come very natural to me.’
In the effort to repudiate93 such sentiment, Buckland distinctly betrayed its hold upon him. He imagined he was meeting Godwin on equal ground, but the sensibility of the proletarian could not thus be deceived. There was a brief silence, during which each looked away from the other.
‘Still keep up your geology?’ was Warricombe’s next question.
‘I can just say that I haven’t forgotten it all.’
‘I’m afraid that’s more than I can. During my Cambridge time it caused disagreeable debates with my father. You remember that his science is of the old school. I wouldn’t say a word to disparage94 him. I believe the extent of his knowledge is magnificent; but he can’t get rid of that old man of the sea, the Book of Genesis. A few years ago I wasn’t too considerate in argument, and I talked as I oughtn’t to have done, called names, and so on. The end of it was, I dropped science altogether, having got as much out of it as I needed. The good old pater has quite forgiven my rudeness. At present we agree to differ, and get on capitally. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you. There are some visitors with us; a Miss Moorhouse and her brother. I think you’ll like them. Couldn’t you stay overnight?’
Godwin was unable to reply on the instant, and his companion proceeded with the same heartiness95.
‘Just as you like, you know. But do stay if you can. On Wednesday morning I must go back to town. I act as secretary to Godolphin, the member for Slacksea.’
Peak’s acquaintance with current politics was slight, but Mr. Ellis Godolphin, the aristocratic Radical97, necessarily stood before his imagination with some clearness of outline. So this was how life had dealt with Buckland. The announcement was made with a certain satisfaction, as if it implied more than the hearer would readily appreciate. Again there was a slight shrinking on Godwin’s part; it would be natural for him to avow98 his own position, and so leave no room for misunderstandings, but before he could shape a phrase Buckland was again questioning.
‘Do you ever see any of the old fellows?’
‘I have met one or two of them, by chance.’
As if his tact99 informed him that this inquiry had been a mistake, Warricombe resumed the subject of his family.
‘My brother Louis is at home—of course you can’t remember him; he was a youngster when you were at Thornhaw. The younger boy died some years ago, a pony100 accident; cut up my father dreadfully. Then there’s my sister Sidwell, and my sister Fanny—that’s all of us. I can’t quite answer for Louis, but the rest are of the old school. Liberal enough, don’t be afraid. But—well, the old school.’
As Godwin kept silence, the speaker shot a glance at him, keenly scrutinising. Their eyes did not meet; Peak kept his on the ground.
‘Care much about politics nowadays?’
‘Not very much.’
‘Can’t say that I do myself,’ pursued Buckland. ‘I rather drifted into it. Godolphin, I daresay, has as little humbug103 about him as most parliamentarians; we stick to the practical fairly well. I shall never go into the House on my own account. But there’s a sort of pleasure in being in the thick of public movements. I’m not cut out for debate; should lose my temper, and tell disagreeable truths—which wouldn’t do, you know. But behind the scenes—it isn’t bad, in a way.’
A longer pause obliged Godwin to speak of himself.
‘My life is less exciting. For years I have worked in a manufacturing laboratory at Rotherhithe.’
‘So science has carried the day with you, after all. It used to be very doubtful.’
This was a kind and pleasant way of interpreting necessity. Godwin felt grateful, and added with a smile:
‘I don’t think I shall stick to it much longer. For one thing, I am sick of town. Perhaps I shall travel for a year or two; perhaps—I’m in a state of transition, to tell the truth.’
Buckland revolved104 this information; his face told that he found it slightly puzzling.
‘You once had thoughts of literature.’
‘Long given up.’
‘Leisure would perhaps revive them?’
‘Possibly; but I think not.’
They were now quitting the town, and Peak, unwilling105 to appear before strangers in a state of profuse106 perspiration107, again moderated his friend’s speed. They began to talk about the surrounding country, a theme which occupied them until the house was reached. With quick-beating heart, Godwin found himself at the gate by which he had already twice passed. Secure in the decency108 of his apparel, and no longer oppressed by bashfulness, he would have gone joyously109 forward but for the dread101 of a possible ridiculous association which his name might revive in the thoughts of Mr. and Mrs. Warricombe. Yet Buckland—who had no lack of kindly111 feeling—would hardly have brought him here had the reception which awaited him been at all dubious112.
‘If we don’t come across anyone,’ said Warricombe, ‘we’ll go straight up to my room.’
But the way was not clear. Within the beautiful old porch sat Sidwell Warricombe and her friend of the striking countenance, whom Godwin now knew as Miss Moorhouse. Buckland addressed his sister in a tone of lively pleasure.
‘Whom do you think I have met and brought home with me? Here is my old friend, Godwin Peak.’
Under the two pairs of female eyes, Godwin kept a calm, if rather stern, face.
‘I should have had no difficulty in recognising Mr. Peak,’ said Sidwell, holding out her hand. ‘But was the meeting quite by chance?’
To Godwin himself the question was of course directed, with a look of smiling interest—such welcome as could not have been improved upon; she listened to his reply, then presented him to Miss Moorhouse. A slight languor113 in her movements and her voice, together with the beautiful coldness of her complexion114, made it probable that she did not share the exuberant91 health manifest in her two brothers. She conversed116 with mature self-possession, yet showed a slight tendency to abstractedness. On being addressed, she regarded the speaker steadily117 for an instant before shaping her answer, which always, however trifling118 the subject, seemed carefully worded. In these few moments of dialogue, Godwin reached the conclusion that Sidwell had not much sense of humour, but that the delicacy of her mind was unsurpassable.
In Miss Moorhouse there was no defect of refinement119, but her conversation struck a note of sprightliness120 at once more energetic and more subtle than is often found in English girls. Thus, though at times she looked so young that it might be doubted whether she had long been out of her teens, at others one suspected her older than Sidwell. The friends happened to be as nearly as possible of an age, which was verging121 to twenty-six.
When he spoke to Miss Moorhouse, Buckland’s frank tone subdued itself. He watched her face with reverent122 attention, smiled when she smiled, and joined in her laughter with less than his usual volume of sound. In acuteness he was obviously inferior to her, and there were moments when he betrayed some nervousness under her rejoinders. All this was matter of observation for Peak, who had learnt to exercise his discernment even whilst attending to the proprieties123.
The sounding of the first luncheon124-bell left the young men free to go upstairs. When at length they presented themselves in the drawing-room, Mrs. Warricombe and her younger daughter sat there alone. The greeting of his hostess did not quite satisfy Godwin, though it was sufficiently courteous41; he remembered that ten years ago Mrs. Warricombe had appeared to receive him with some restraint, and his sensation in renewing her acquaintance was one of dislike. But in a moment the master of the house joined them, and no visitor could have had a more kindly welcome than that he offered to his son’s friend. With genial125 tact, Mr. Warricombe ignored the interval since his last conversation with Godwin, and spoke as if this visit were the most natural thing in the world.
‘Do you already know the country about Exeter?’
‘I have seen very little of it yet.’
‘Oh, then, we must show you our points of view. Our own garden offers a glimpse of the river-mouth and a good prospect126 of Haldon—the ridge50 beyond the Exe; but there are many much better points within easy reach. You are in no hurry, I hope?’
Louis Warricombe and Miss Moorhouse’s brother were away on a long walk; they did not return for lunch. Godwin was glad of this, for time had wrought127 the change in him that he felt more at ease in female society than under the eyes of young men whose social position inclined them to criticism. The meal proved as delightful128 as luncheon is wont13 to be in a luxurious country-house, when brilliant sunshine gleams on the foliage129 visible from windows, and the warmth of the season sanctions clear colours in costume. The talk was wholly of country pleasures. It afforded the visitor no little satisfaction to be able to make known his acquaintance with parts of England to which the Warricombes had not penetrated130. Godwin learnt that the family were insular131 in their tastes; a mention by Miss Moorhouse of continental132 scenes led the host to avow a strong preference for his own country, under whatever aspect, and Sidwell murmured her sympathy.
No less introspective than in the old days, though he could better command his muscles, Peak, after each of his short remarks, made comparison of his tone and phraseology with those of the other speakers. Had he still any marks of the ignoble world from which he sprang? Any defect of pronunciation, any native awkwardness of utterance133? Impossible to judge himself infallibly, but he was conscious of no vulgar mannerism134. Though it was so long since he left Whitelaw, the accent of certain of the Professors still remained with him as an example: when endeavouring to be graceful135, he was wont to hear the voice of Dr Nares, or of Professor Barber who lectured on English Literature. More recently he had been observant of Christian Moxey’s speech, which had a languid elegance136 worth imitating in certain particulars. Buckland Warricombe was rather a careless talker, but it was the carelessness of a man who had never needed to reflect on such a matter, the refinement of whose enunciation137 was assured to him from the nursery. That now was a thing to be aimed at. Preciseness must be avoided, for in a young man it seemed to argue conscious effort: a loose sentence now and then, a colloquialism138 substituted for the more grammatical phrase.
Heaven be thanked that he was unconcerned on the point of garb139! Inferiority in that respect would have been fatal to his ease. His clothes were not too new, and in quality were such as he had the habit of wearing. The Warricombes must have immediately detected any pretentiousness140, were it but in a necktie; that would impress them more unfavourably than signs of poverty. But he defied inspection141. Not Sidwell herself, doubtless sensitive in the highest degree, could conceive a prejudice against him on this account.
His misgivings were overcome. If these people were acquainted with the ‘dining-rooms’ joke, it certainly did not affect their behaviour to him, and he could hope, by the force of his personality, to obliterate142 from their minds such disagreeable thoughts as they might secretly entertain. Surely he could make good his claim to be deemed a gentleman. To Buckland he had declared his position, and no shame attached to it. A man of scientific tastes, like Mr. Warricombe, must consider it respectable enough. Grant him a little time, and why should he not become a recognised friend of this family?
If he were but resident in Exeter.
For the first time, he lost himself in abstraction, and only an inquiry from Sidwell recalled him.
‘You have seen the Cathedral, Mr. Peak?’
‘Oh yes! I attended service there yesterday morning.’
Had he reflected, perhaps he would not have added this circumstance; even in speaking he suffered a confused doubtfulness. But as soon as the words were uttered, he felt strangely glad. Sidwell bestowed143 upon him an unmistakable look of approval; her mother gazed with colder interest; Mr. Warricombe regarded him, and mused22; Buckland, a smile of peculiar meaning on his close lips, glanced from him to Miss Moorhouse.
‘Ah, then, you heard Canon Grayling,’ remarked the father of the family, with something in his tone which answered to Sidwell’s facial expression. ‘How did you like his sermon?’
Godwin was trifling with a pair of nut-crackers, but the nervousness evident in his fingers did not prevent him from replying with a natural air of deliberation.
‘I was especially struck with the passage about the barren fig-tree.’
The words might have expressed a truth, but in that case a tone of sarcasm144 must have winged them. As it was, they involved either hypocrisy145 or ungenerous irony146 at the expense of his questioner. Buckland could not but understand them in the latter sense; his face darkened. At that moment, Peak met his eye, and encountered its steady searching gaze with a perfectly147 calm smile. Half-a-dozen pulsings of his heart—violent, painful, and the fatal hour of his life had struck.
‘What had he to say about it?’ Buckland asked, carelessly.
Peak’s reply was one of those remarkable148 efforts of mind—one might say, of character—which are sometimes called forth, without premeditation, almost without consciousness, by a profound moral crisis. A minute or two ago he would have believed it impossible to recall and state in lucid149 terms the arguments to which, as he sat in the Cathedral, he had barely given ear; he remembered vaguely150 that the preacher (whose name he knew not till now) had dwelt for a few moments on the topic indicated, but at the time he was indisposed to listen seriously, and what chance was there that the chain of thought had fixed151 itself in his memory? Now, under the marvelling152 regard of his conscious self, he poured forth an admirable rendering153 of the Canon’s views, fuller than the original—more eloquent154, more subtle. For five minutes he held his hearers in absorbed attention, even Buckland bending forward with an air of genuine interest; and when he stopped, rather suddenly, there followed a silence.
‘Mr. Peak,’ said the host, after a cough of apology, ‘you have made that clearer to me than it was yesterday. I must thank you.’
Godwin felt that a slight bow of acknowledgment was perhaps called for, but not a muscle would obey his will. He was enervated155; perspiration stood on his forehead. The most severe physical effort could not have reduced him to a feebler state.
Sidwell was speaking:
‘Mr. Peak has developed what Canon Grayling only suggested.’
‘A brilliant effort of exegesis,’ exclaimed Buckland, with a good-natured laugh.
Again the young men exchanged looks. Godwin smiled as one might under a sentence of death. As for the other, his suspicion had vanished, and he now gave way to frank amusement. Luncheon was over, and by a general movement all went forth on to the lawn in front of the house. Mr. Warricombe, even more cordial than hitherto, named to Godwin the features of the extensive landscape.
‘But you see that the view is in a measure spoilt by the growth of the city. A few years ago, none of those ugly little houses stood in the mid-distance. A few years hence, I fear, there will be much more to complain of. I daresay you know all about the ship-canal: the story of the countess, and so forth?’
Buckland presently suggested that the afternoon might be used for a drive.
‘I was about to propose it,’ said his father. ‘You might start by the Stoke Canon Road, so as to let Mr. Peak have the famous view from the gate; then go on towards Silverton, for the sake of the reversed prospect from the Exe. Who shall be of the party?’
It was decided156 that four only should occupy the vehicle, Miss Moorhouse and Fanny Warricombe to be the two ladies. Godwin regretted Sidwell’s omission157, but the friendly informality of the arrangement delighted him. When the carriage rolled softly from the gravelled drive, Buckland holding the reins158, he felt an animation159 such as no event had ever produced in him. No longer did he calculate phrases. A spontaneous aptness marked his dialogue with Miss Moorhouse, and the laughing words he now and then addressed to Fanny. For a short time Buckland was laconic160, but at length he entered into the joyous110 tone of the occasion. Earwaker would have stood in amazement161, could he have seen and heard the saturnine162 denizen163 of Peckham Rye.
The weather was superb. A sea-breeze mitigated164 the warmth of the cloudless sun, and where a dark pine-tree rose against the sky it gave the azure165 depths a magnificence unfamiliar166 to northern eyes.
‘On such a day as this,’ remarked Miss Moorhouse, dividing her look between Buckland and his friend, ‘one feels that there’s a good deal to be said for England.’
‘But for the vile167 weather,’ was Warricombe’s reply, ‘you wouldn’t know such enjoyment.’
‘Oh, I can’t agree with that for a moment! My capacity for enjoyment is unlimited168. That philosophy is unworthy of you; it belongs to a paltry169 scheme called “making the best of things”.’
‘In which you excel, Miss Moorhouse.’
‘That she does!’ agreed Fanny—a laughing, rosy-cheeked maiden20.
‘I deny it! No one is more copious170 in railing against circumstances.’
‘But you turn them all to a joke,’ Fanny objected.
‘That’s my profound pessimism171. I am misunderstood. No one expects irony from a woman.’
Peak found it difficult not to gaze too persistently172 at the subtle countenance. He was impelled173 to examine it by a consciousness that he himself received a large share of Miss Moorhouse’s attention, and a doubt as to the estimation in which she held him. Canon Grayling’s sermon and Godwin’s comment had elicited174 no remark from her. Did she belong to the ranks of emancipated175 women? With his experience of Marcella Moxey, he welcomed the possibility of this variation of the type, but at the same time, in obedience176 to a new spirit that had strange possession of him, recognised that such phenomena177 no longer aroused his personal interest. By the oddest of intellectual processes he had placed himself altogether outside the sphere of unorthodox spirits. Concerning Miss Moorhouse he cared only for the report she might make of him to the Warricombes.
Before long, the carriage was stopped that he might enjoy one of the pleasantest views in the neighbourhood of the city. A gate, interrupting a high bank with which the road was bordered, gave admission to the head of a great cultivated slope, which fell to the river Exe; hence was suddenly revealed a wide panorama178. Three well-marked valleys—those of the Creedy, the Exe, and the Culm—spread their rural loveliness to remote points of the horizon; gentle undulations, with pasture and woodland, with long winding179 roads, and many a farm that gleamed white amid its orchard180 leafage, led the gaze into regions of evanescent hue181 and outline. Westward, a bolder swell182 pointed183 to the skirts of Dartmoor. No inappropriate detail disturbed the impression. Exeter was wholly hidden behind the hill on which the observers stood, and the line of railway leading thither184 could only be descried by special search. A foaming185 weir186 at the hill’s foot blended its soft murmur with that of the fir branches hereabouts; else, no sound that the air could convey beyond the pulsing of a bird’s note.
All had alighted, and for a minute or two there was silence. When Peak had received such geographical187 instruction as was needful, Warricombe pointed out to him a mansion188 conspicuous189 on the opposite slope of the Exe valley, the seat of Sir Stafford Northcote. The house had no architectural beauty, but its solitary190 lordship amid green pastures and tracts191 of thick wood declared the graces and privileges of ancestral wealth. Standing81 here alone, Godwin would have surveyed these possessions of an English aristocrat96 with more or less bitterness; envy would, for a moment at all events, have perturbed192 his pleasure in the natural scene. Accompanied as he was, his emotion took a form which indeed was allied193 to envy, but had nothing painful. He exulted194 in the prerogatives195 of birth and opulence196, felt proud of hereditary197 pride, gloried that his mind was capable of appreciating to the full those distinctions which, by the vulgar, are not so much as suspected. Admitted to equal converse115 with men and women who represented the best in English society, he could cast away the evil grudge198, the fierce spirit of self-assertion, and be what nature had proposed in endowing him with large brain, generous blood, delicate tissues. What room for malignancy? He was accepted by his peers, and could regard with tolerance199 even those ignoble orders of mankind amid whom he had so long dwelt unrecognised.
A bee hummed past him, and this sound—of all the voices of nature that which most intenerates—filled his heart to overflowing200. Moisture made his eyes dim, and at the impulse of a feeling of gratitude201, such as only the subtlest care of psychology202 could fully102 have explained, he turned to Buckland, saying:
‘But for my meeting with you I should have had a lonely and not very cheerful holiday. I owe you a great deal.’
Warricombe laughed, but as an Englishman does when he wishes to avoid show of emotion.
‘I am very glad indeed that we did meet. Stay with us over tomorrow. I only wish I were not obliged to go to London on Wednesday.—Look, Fanny, isn’t that a hawk203, over Cowley Bridge?’
‘Do you feel you would like to shoot it?’ asked Miss Moorhouse—who a moment ago had very closely examined Peak’s face.
‘To shoot it—why do you ask that?’
‘Confess that you felt the desire.’
‘Every man does,’ replied Buckland, ‘until he has had a moment to recover himself. That’s the human instinct.’
‘The male human instinct. Thank you for your honesty.’
They drove on, and by a wide circuit, occasionally stopping for the view, returned to the Old Tiverton Road, and so home. By this time Louis Warricombe and Mr. Moorhouse were back from their walk. Reposing204 in the company of the ladies, they had partaken of such refreshments205 as are lawful206 at five o’clock, and now welcomed with vivacity207 the later arrivals. Moorhouse was something older than Buckland, a sallow-cheeked man with forehead and eyes expressive208 of much intelligence. Till of late he had been a Cambridge tutor, but was now privately209 occupied in mathematical pursuits. Louis Warricombe had not yet made up his mind what profession to follow, and to aid the process of resolve had for the present devoted210 himself to physical exercise.
Tea-cup in hand, Godwin seated himself by Sidwell, who began by inquiring how the drive had pleased him. The fervour of his reply caused her to smile with special graciousness, and their conversation was uninterrupted for some minutes. Then Fanny came forward with a book of mosses211, her own collection, which she had mentioned to Peak as they were talking together in the carriage.
‘Do you make special study of any science?’ Sidwell asked, when certain remarks of Godwin’s had proved his familiarity with the things he was inspecting.
‘It is long since I worked seriously at anything of the kind,’ he answered; adding in a moment, ‘except at chemistry—that only because it is my business.’
‘Organic or inorganic212 chemistry?’ inquired Fanny, with the promptness of a schoolgirl who wishes to have it known that her ideas are no longer vague.
‘Organic for the most part,’ Godwin replied, smiling at her. ‘And of the most disagreeable kind.’
Sidwell reflected, then put another question, but with some diffidence.
‘I think you were once fond of geology?’
It was the first allusion213 to that beginning of their acquaintance, ten years ago. Peak succeeded in meeting her look with steadiness.
‘Yes, I still like it.’
‘Father’s collections have been much improved since you saw them at Thornhaw.’
‘I hope Mr. Warricombe will let me see them.’
Buckland came up and made an apology for drawing his friend aside.
‘Will you let us send for your traps? You may just as well have a room here for a night or two.’
Perpetually imagining some kind chance that might associate him with civilised people, Godwin could not even pack his portmanteau for a ramble67 to Land’s End without stowing away a dress suit. He was thus saved what would have been an embarrassment214 of special annoyance215. Without hesitation216, he accepted Buckland’s offer, and named the hotel at which the luggage was deposited.
‘All right; the messenger shall explain. Our name’s well enough known to them. If you would like to look up my father in his study, he’ll be delighted to go over his collections with you. You still care for that kind of thing?’
‘Most certainly. How can you doubt it?’
Buckland smiled, and gave no other reply.
‘Ask Fanny to show you the way when you care to go.’ And he left the room.
收听单词发音 |
1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sartorial
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| adj.裁缝的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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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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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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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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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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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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51
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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54
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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57
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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59
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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60
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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61
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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62
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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63
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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64
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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66
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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67
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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68
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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69
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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73
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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77
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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78
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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81
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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85
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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exuberantly
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| adv.兴高采烈地，活跃地，愉快地 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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100
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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101
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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102
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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103
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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104
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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105
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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106
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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107
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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108
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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109
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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110
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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111
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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112
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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113
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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114
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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115
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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116
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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117
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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118
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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119
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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120
sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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121
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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122
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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123
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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124
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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125
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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126
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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127
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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128
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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129
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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130
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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131
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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132
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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133
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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134
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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135
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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136
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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137
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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138
colloquialism
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| n.俗话，白话，口语 | |
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139
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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140
pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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141
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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142
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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143
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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145
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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146
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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147
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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148
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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149
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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150
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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151
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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152
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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153
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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154
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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155
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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157
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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158
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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159
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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160
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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161
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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162
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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163
denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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164
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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166
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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167
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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168
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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169
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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170
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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171
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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172
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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173
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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177
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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178
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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179
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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180
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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181
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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182
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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183
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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184
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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185
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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186
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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187
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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188
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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189
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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190
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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191
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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192
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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194
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
prerogatives
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| n.权利( prerogative的名词复数 )；特权；大主教法庭；总督委任组成的法庭 | |
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196
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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197
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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198
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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199
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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200
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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201
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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202
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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203
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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204
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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205
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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206
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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207
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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208
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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209
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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210
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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211
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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212
inorganic
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| adj.无生物的；无机的 | |
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213
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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214
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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215
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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216
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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