This summer Peak became a semi-graduate of London University. To avoid the risk of a casual meeting with acquaintances, he did not go to London, but sat for his examination at the nearest provincial1 centre. The revival2 of boyish tremors4 at the successive stages of this business was anything but agreeable; it reminded him, with humiliating force, how far he had strayed from the path indicated to his self-respecting manhood. Defeat would have strengthened in overwhelming revolt all the impulses which from time to time urged him to abandon his servile course. But there was no chance of his failing to satisfy the examiners. With ‘Honours’ he had now nothing to do; enough for his purpose that in another year’s time he would write himself Bachelor of Arts, and thus simplify the clerical preliminaries. In what quarter he was to look for a curacy remained uncertain. Meanwhile his enterprise seemed to prosper5, and success emboldened6 his hopes.
Hopes which were no longer vague, but had defined themselves in a way which circumstances made inevitable7. Though he had consistently guarded himself against the obvious suggestions arising out of his intercourse8 with the Warricombe family, though he still emphasised every discouraging fact, and strove to regard it as axiomatic9 that nothing could be more perilous10 to his future than a hint of presumption11 or self-interest in word or deed beneath that friendly roof, it was coming to pass that he thought of Sidwell not only as the type of woman pursued by his imagination, but as herself the object of his converging12 desires. Comparison of her with others had no result but the deepening of that impression she had at first made upon him. Sidwell exhibited all the qualities which most appealed to him in her class; in addition, she had the charms of a personality which he could not think of common occurrence. He was yet far from understanding her; she exercised his powers of observation, analysis, conjecture14, as no other person had ever done; each time he saw her (were it but for a moment) he came away with some new perception of her excellence15, some hitherto unmarked grace of person or mind whereon to meditate16. He had never approached a woman who possessed17 this power at once of fascinating his senses and controlling his intellect to a glad reverence18. Whether in her presence or musing19 upon her in solitude20, he found that the unsparing naturalism of his scrutiny21 was powerless to degrade that sweet, pure being.
Rare, under any circumstances, is the passionate22 love which controls every motive23 of heart and mind; rarer still that form of it which, with no assurance of reciprocation24, devotes exclusive ardour to an object only approachable through declared obstacles. Godwin Peak was not framed for romantic languishment25. In general, the more complex a man’s mechanism27, and the more pronounced his habit of introspection, the less capable is he of loving with vehemence28 and constancy. Heroes of passion are for the most part primitive29 natures, nobly tempered; in our time they tend to extinction30. Growing vulgarism on the one hand, and on the other a development of the psychological conscience, are unfavourable to any relation between the sexes, save those which originate in pure animalism, or in reasoning less or more generous. Never having experienced any feeling which he could dignify32 with the name of love, Godwin had no criterion in himself whereby to test the emotions now besetting33 him. In a man of his age this was an unusual state of things, for when the ardour which will bear analysis has at length declared itself, it is wont35 to be moderated by the regretful memory of that fugacious essence which gave to the first frenzy36 of youth its irrecoverable delight. He could not say in reply to his impulses: If that was love which overmastered me, this must be something either more or less exalted37. What he did say was something of this kind: If desire and tenderness, if frequency of dreaming rapture38, if the calmest approval of the mind and the heart’s most exquisite39, most painful throbbing40, constitute love,—then assuredly I love Sidwell. But if to love is to be possessed with madness, to lose all taste of life when hope refuses itself, to meditate frantic41 follies42, to deem it inconceivable that this woman should ever lose her dominion43 over me, or another reign44 in her stead,—then my passion falls short of the true testrum, and I am only dallying45 with fancies which might spring up as often as I encountered a charming girl.
All things considered, to encourage this amorous46 preoccupation was probably the height of unwisdom. The lover is ready at deluding47 himself, but Peak never lost sight of the extreme unlikelihood that he should ever become Martin Warricombe’s son-inlaw, of the thousand respects which forbade his hoping that Sidwell would ever lay her hand in his. That deep-rooted sense of class which had so much influence on his speculative48 and practical life asserted itself, with rigid49 consistency50, even against his own aspirations51; he attributed to the Warricombes more prejudice on this subject than really existed in them. He, it was true, belonged to no class whatever, acknowledged no subordination save that of the hierarchy52 of intelligence; but this could not obscure the fact that his brother sold seeds across a counter, that his sister had married a haberdasher, that his uncle (notoriously) was somewhere or other supplying the public with cheap repasts. Girls of Sidwell’s delicacy53 do not misally themselves, for they take into account the fact that such misalliance is fraught54 with elements of unhappiness, affecting husband as much as wife. No need to dwell upon the scruples55 suggested by his moral attitude; he would never be called upon to combat them with reference to Sidwell’s future.
What, then, was he about? For what advantage was he playing the hypocrite? Would he, after all, be satisfied with some such wife as the average curate may hope to marry?
A hundred times he reviewed the broad question, by the light of his six months’ experience. Was Sidwell Warricombe his ideal woman, absolutely speaking? Why, no; not with all his glow of feeling could he persuade himself to declare her that. Satisfied up to a certain point, admitted to the sphere of wealthy refinement56, he now had leisure to think of yet higher grades, of the women who are not only exquisite creatures by social comparison but rank by divine right among the foremost of their race. Sidwell was far from intolerant, and held her faiths in a sincerely ethical57 spirit. She judged nobly, she often saw with clear vision. But must not something of kindly58 condescension59 always blend with his admiring devotedness60? Were it but possible to win the love of a woman who looked forth61 with eyes thoroughly62 purged63 from all mist of tradition and conventionalism, who was at home among arts and sciences, who, like himself, acknowledged no class and bowed to no authority but that of the supreme64 human mind!
Such women are to be found in every age, but how many of them shine with the distinctive65 ray of womanhood? These are so rare that they have a place in the pages of history. The truly emancipated66 woman—it was Godwin’s conviction—is almost always asexual; to him, therefore, utterly67 repugnant. If, then, he were not content to waste his life in a vain search for the priceless jewel, which is won and worn only by fortune’s supreme favourites, he must acquiesce68 in the imperfect marriage commonly the lot of men whose intellect allows them but little companionship even among their own sex: for that matter, the lot of most men, and necessarily so until the new efforts in female education shall have overcome the vice69 of wedlock70 as hitherto sanctioned. Nature provides the hallucination which flings a lover at his mistress’s feet. For the chill which follows upon attainment71 she cares nothing—let society and individuals make their account with that as best they may. Even with a wife such as Sidwell the process of disillusion72 would doubtless have to be faced, however liberal one’s allowances in the forecast.
Reflections of this colour were useful; they helped to keep within limits the growth of agitating73 desire. But there were seasons when Godwin surrendered himself to luxurious74 reverie, hours of summer twilight75 which forbade analysis and listened only to the harmonies of passion. Then was Sidwell’s image glorified76, and all the delights promised by such love as hers fired his imagination to intolerable ecstasy77. O heaven! to see the smile softened78 by rosy79 warmth which would confess that she had given her heart—to feel her supple80 fingers intertwined with his that clasped them—to hear the words in which a mind so admirable, instincts so delicate, would make expression of their tenderness! To live with Sidwell—to breathe the fragrance81 of that flower of womanhood in wedded82 intimacy83—to prove the devotion of a nature so profoundly chaste84! The visionary transport was too poignant85; in the end it drove him to a fierce outbreak of despairing wrath86. How could he dream that such bliss87 would be the reward of despicable artifice88, of calculated dishonour89? Born a rebel, how could his be the fate of those happy men who are at one with the order of things? The prophecy of a heart wrung90 with anguish26 foretold91 too surely that for him was no rapturous love, no joy of noble wedlock. Solitude, now and for ever, or perchance some base alliance of the flesh, which would involve his later days in sordid92 misery93.
In moods of discouragement he thought with envy of his old self, his life in London lodgings94, his freedom in obscurity. It belongs to the pathos95 of human nature that only in looking back can one appreciate the true value of those long tracts96 of monotonous97 ease which, when we are living through them, seem of no account save in relation to past or future; only at a distance do we perceive that the exemption98 from painful shock was in itself a happiness, to be rated highly in comparison with most of those disturbances99 known as moments of joy. A wise man would have entertained no wish but that he might grow old in that same succession of days and weeks and years. Without anxiety concerning his material needs (certainly the most substantial of earthly blessings), his leisure not inadequate101 to the gratification of a moderate studiousness, with friends who offered him an ever-ready welcome,—was it not much? If he were condemned102 to bachelorhood, his philosophy was surely capable of teaching him that the sorrows and anxieties he thus escaped made more than an offset103 against the satisfactions he must forego. Reason had no part in the fantastic change to which his life had submitted, nor was he ever supported by a hope which would bear his cooler investigation104.
And yet hope had her periods of control, for there are times when the mind wearies of rationality, and, as it were in self-defense, in obedience105 to the instinct of progressive life, craves106 a specious107 comfort. It seemed undeniable that Mr. Warricombe regarded him with growth of interest, invited his conversation more unreservedly. He began to understand Martin’s position with regard to religion and science, and thus could utter himself more securely. At length he ventured to discourse108 with some amplitude109 on his own convictions—the views, that is to say, which he thought fit to adopt in his character of a liberal Christian110. It was on an afternoon of early August that this opportunity presented itself. They sat together in the study, and Martin was in a graver mood than usual, not much disposed to talk, but a willing listener. There had been mention of a sermon at the Cathedral, in which the preacher declared his faith that the maturity111 of science would dispel112 all antagonisms113 between it and revelation.
‘The difficulties of the unbeliever,’ said Peak, endeavouring to avoid a sermonising formality, though with indifferent success, ‘are, of course, of two kinds; there’s the theory of evolution, and there’s modern biblical criticism. The more I study these objections, the less able I am to see how they come in conflict with belief in Christianity as a revealed religion.’
‘Yet you probably had your time of doubt?’ remarked the other, touching114 for the first time on this personal matter.
‘Oh, yes; that was inevitable. It only means that one’s development is imperfect. Most men who confirm themselves in agnosticism are kept at that point by arrested moral activity. They give up the intellectual question as wearisome, and accept the point of view which flatters their prejudices: thereupon follows a blunting of the sensibilities on the religious side.’
‘There are men constitutionally unfitted for the reception of spiritual truth,’ said Martin, in a troubled tone. He was playing with a piece of string, and did not raise his eyes.
‘I quite believe that. There’s our difficulty when we come to evidences. The evidences of science are wholly different in kind from those of religion. Faith cannot spring from any observation of phenomena115, or scrutiny of authorities, but from the declaration made to us by the spiritual faculty116. The man of science can only become a Christian by the way of humility117—and that a kind of humility he finds it difficult even to conceive. One wishes to impress upon him the harmony of this faith with the spiritual voice that is in every man. He replies: I know nothing of that spiritual voice. And if that be true, one can’t help him by argument.’
Peak had constructed for himself, out of his reading, a plausible118 system which on demand he could set forth with fluency119. The tone of current apologetics taught him that, by men even of cultivated intellect, such a position as he was now sketching120 was deemed tenable; yet to himself it sounded so futile121, so nugatory122, that he had to harden his forehead as he spoke123. Trial more severe to his conscience lay in the perceptible solicitude124 with which Mr Warricombe weighed these disingenuous125 arguments. It was a hateful thing to practise such deception126 on one who probably yearned127 for spiritual support. But he had committed himself to this course, and must brave it out.
‘Christianity,’ he was saying presently—appropriating a passage of which he had once made careful note—‘is an organism of such vital energy that it perforce assimilates whatever is good and true in the culture of each successive age. To understand this is to learn that we must depend rather on constructive128, than on defensive129, apology. That is to say, we must draw evidence of our faith from its latent capacities, its unsuspected affinities130, its previsions, its adaptability131, comprehensiveness, sympathy, adequacy to human needs.’
‘That puts very well what I have always felt,’ replied Mr Warricombe. ‘Yet there will remain the objection that such a faith may be of purely132 human origin. If evolution and biblical criticism seem to overthrow133 all the historic evidences of Christianity, how convince the objectors that the faith itself was divinely given?’
‘But I cannot hold for a moment,’ exclaimed Peak, in the words which he knew his interlocutor desired to hear, ‘that all the historic evidences have been destroyed. That indeed would shake our position.’
He enlarged on the point, with display of learning, yet studiously avoiding the tone of pedantry134.
‘Evolution,’ he remarked, when the dialogue had again extended its scope, ‘does not touch the evidence of design in the universe; at most it can correct our imperfect views (handed down from an age which had no scientific teaching because it was not ripe for it) of the mode in which that design was executed, or rather is still being executed. Evolutionists have not succeeded in explaining life; they have merely discovered a new law relating to life. If we must have an explanation, there is nothing for it but to accept the notion of a Deity136. Indeed, how can there be religion without a divine author? Religion is based on the idea of a divine mind which reveals itself to us for moral ends. The Christian revelation, we hold, has been developed gradually, much of it in connection with secondary causes and human events. It has come down to us in anything but absolute purity—like a stream which has been made turbid137 by its earthly channel. The lower serves its purpose as a stage to the higher, then it falls away, the higher surviving. Hitherto, the final outcome of evolution is the soul in a bodily tenement138. May it not be that the perfected soul alone survives in the last step of the struggle for existence?’
Peak had been talking for more than a quarter of an hour. Under stress of shame and intellectual self-criticism (for he could not help confuting every position as he stated it) his mind often wandered. When he ceased speaking there came upon him an uncomfortable dreaminess which he had already once or twice experienced when in colloquy139 with Mr. Warricombe; a tormenting141 metaphysical doubt of his own identity strangely beset34 him. With involuntary attempt to recover the familiar self he grasped his own wrist, and then, before he was aware, a laugh escaped him, an all but mocking laugh, unsuitable enough to the spirit of the moment. Mr Warricombe was startled, but looked up with a friendly smile.
‘You fear,’ he said, ‘that this last speculation142 may seem rather fanciful to me?’
Godwin was biting his lip fiercely, and could not command himself to utterance143 of a word.
‘By no means, I assure you,’ added the other. ‘It appeals to me very strongly.’
Peak rose from his chair.
‘It struck me,’ he said, ‘that I had been preaching a sermon rather than taking part in a conversation. I’m afraid it is the habit of men who live a good deal alone to indulge in monologues144.’
On his return home, the sight of Bibel und Natur and his sheets of laborious145 manuscript filled him with disgust. It was two or three days before he could again apply himself to the translation. Yet this expedient146 had undoubtedly147 been of great service to him in the matter of his relations with Mr. Warricombe. Without the aid of Reusch he would have found it difficult to speak naturally on the theme which drew Martin into confidences and established an intimacy between them.
Already they had discussed in detail the first half of the book. How a man of Mr. Warricombe’s intelligence could take grave interest in an arid148 exegesis149 of the first chapter of Genesis, Godwin strove in vain to comprehend. Often enough the debates were perilously150 suggestive of burlesque151, and, when alone, he relieved himself of the laughter he had scarce restrained. For instance, there was that terrible thohu wabohu of the second verse, a phrase preserved from the original, and tossed into all the corners of controversy152. Was thohu wabohu the first condition of the earth, or was it merely a period of division between a previous state of things and creation as established by the Hexaemeron? Did light exist or not, previous to the thohu wabohu? Then, again, what kind of ‘days’ were the three which passed before the birth of the sun? Special interest, of course, attached to the successive theories of theology on the origin of geologic153 strata154. First came the ‘theory of restitution’, which explained unbiblical antiquity155 by declaring that the strata belonged to a world before the Hexaimeron, a world which had been destroyed, and succeeded by the new creation. Less objectionable was the ‘concordistic theory’, which interprets the ‘six days’ as so many vast periods of creative activity. But Reusch himself gave preference to the ‘ideal theory’, the supporters whereof (diligently adapting themselves to the progress of science) hold that the six days are not to be understood as consecutive156 periods at all, but merely as six phases of the Creator’s work.
By the exercise of watchfulness157 and dexterity158, Peak managed for the most part to avoid expression of definite opinions. His attitude was that of a reverent159 (not yet reverend) student. Mr. Warricombe was less guarded, and sometimes allowed himself to profess160 that he saw nothing but vain ingenuity161 in Reusch’s argument: as, for example, where the theologian, convinced that the patriarchs did really live to an abnormal age, suggests that man’s life was subsequently shortened in order that ‘sin might not flourish with such exuberance’. This passage caused Martin to smile.
‘It won’t do, it won’t do,’ he said, quietly. ‘Far better apply his rationalism here as elsewhere. These are wonderful old stories, not to be understood literally162. Nothing depends upon them nothing essential.’
Thereupon Peak mused163 anxiously. Not for the first time there occurred to him a thought which suited only too well with his ironic164 habits of mind. What if this hypocritic comedy were altogether superfluous165? What if Mr. Warricombe would have received him no less cordially had he avowed166 his sincere position, and contented167 himself with guarding against offensiveness? Buckland, it was true, had suffered in his father’s esteem168 on account of his unorthodoxy, but that young man had been too aggressive, too scornful. With prudence169, would it not have been possible to win Martin’s regard by fortifying170 the scientific rather than the dogmatic side of his intellect? If so, what a hopeless error had he committed!—But Sidwell? Was she liberal enough to take a personal interest in one who had renounced171 faith in revelation? He could not decide this question, for of Sidwell he knew much less than of her father. And it was idle to torment140 himself with such debate of the irreversible.
And, indeed, there seemed much reason for believing that Martin, whatever the extent of his secret doubts, was by temperament172 armed against agnosticism. Distinctly it comforted him to hear the unbelievers assailed—the friends of whom he spoke most heartily173 were all on the orthodox side; if ever a hint of gentle malice174 occurred in his conversation, it was when he spoke of a fallacy, a precipitate175 conclusion, detected in works of science. Probably he was too old to overcome this bias176.
His view of the Bible appeared to harmonise with that which Peak put forth in one of their dialogues. ‘The Scriptures177 were meant to be literally understood in primitive ages, and spiritually when the growth of science made it possible. Genesis was never intended to teach the facts of natural history; it takes phenomena as they appear to uninstructed people, and uses them only for the inculcation of moral lessons; it presents to the childhood of the world a few great elementary truths. And the way in which phenomena are spoken of in the Old Testament178 is never really incompatible179 with the facts as we know them nowadays. Take the miracle of the sun standing13 still, which is supposed to be a safe subject of ridicule180. Why, it merely means that light was miraculously181 prolonged; the words used are those which common people would at all times understand.’
(Was it necessary to have admitted the miracle? Godwin asked himself. At all events Mr. Warricombe nodded approvingly.)
‘Then the narrative182 of the creation of man; that’s not at all incompatible with his slow development through ages. To teach the scientific fact—if we yet really know it—would have been worse than useless. The story is meant to express that spirit, and not matter, is the source of all existence. Indeed, our knowledge of the true meaning of the Bible has increased with the growth of science, and naturally that must have been intended from the first. Things which do not concern man’s relation to the spiritual have no place in this book; they are not within its province. Such things were discoverable by human reason, and the knowledge which achieves has nothing to do with a divine revelation.’
To Godwin it was a grinding of the air, but the listener appeared to think it profitable.
With his clerical friend, Mr. Lilywhite, he rarely touched on matters of religion. The vicar of St. Ethelreda’s was a man well suited to support the social dignity of his Church. A gentleman before everything, he seemed incapable183 of prying184 into the state of a parishioner’s soul; you saw in him the official representative of a Divinity characterised by well-bred tolerance185. He had written a pleasant little book on the by-ways of Devon and Cornwall, which brought about his intimacy with the Warricombe household. Peak liked him more the better he knew him, and in the course of the summer they had one or two long walks together, conversing186 exclusively of the things of earth. Mr. Lilywhite troubled himself little about evolution; he spoke of trees and plants, of birds and animals, in a loving spirit, like the old simple naturalists187. Geology did not come within his sphere.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, ‘that I could never care much for it. Don’t think I’m afraid of it—not I! I feel the grandeur188 of its scope, just as I do in the case of astronomy; but I have never brought myself to study either science. A narrowness of mind, no doubt. I can’t go into such remote times and regions. I love the sunlight and the green fields of this little corner of the world—too well, perhaps: yes, perhaps too well.’
After one of these walks, he remarked to Mrs. Lilywhite:
‘It’s my impression that Mr. Peak has somehow been misled in his choice of a vocation189. I don’t think he’ll do as a churchman.’
‘Why not, Henry?’ asked his wife, with gentle concern, for she still spoke of Peak’s ‘quiet moral force’.
‘There’s something too restless about him. I doubt whether he has really made up his mind on any subject whatever. Well, it’s not easy to explain what I feel, but I don’t think he will take Orders.’
Calling at the vicarage one afternoon in September, Godwin found Mrs Lilywhite alone. She startled him by saying at once:
‘An old acquaintance of yours was with us yesterday, Mr. Peak.’
‘Who could that be, I wonder?’
He smiled softly, controlling his impulse to show quite another expression.
‘You remember Mr. Bruno Chilvers?’
‘Oh, yes!’
There was a constriction190 in his throat. Struggling to overcome it, he added:
‘But I should have thought he had no recollection of me.’
‘Quite the contrary, I assure you. He is to succeed Mr. Bell of St Margaret’s, at Christmas; he was down here only for a day or two, and called upon my husband with a message from an old friend of ours. It appears he used to know the Warricombes, when they lived at Kingsmill, and he had been to see them before visiting us; it was there your name was mentioned to him.’
Godwin had seated himself, and leaned forward, his hands grasping the glove he had drawn191 off.
‘We were contemporaries at Whitelaw College,’ he observed.
‘So we learnt from him. He spoke of you with the greatest interest; he was delighted to hear that you contemplated192 taking Orders. Of course we knew Mr. Chilvers by reputation, but my husband had no idea that he was coming to Exeter. What an energetic man he is! In a few hours he seemed to have met everyone, and to have learnt everything. My husband says he felt quite rebuked193 by such a display of vigour194!’
Even in his discomposure, graver than any that had affected195 him since his talks with Buckland Warricombe, Peak was able to notice that the Rev3. Bruno had not made a wholly favourable31 impression upon the Lilywhites. There was an amiable196 causticity197 in that mention of his ‘display of vigour’, such as did not often characterise Mrs Lilywhite’s comments. Finding that the vicar would be away till evening, Godwin stayed for only a quarter of an hour, and when he had escaped it irritated and alarmed him to reflect how unusual his behaviour must have appeared to the good lady.
The blow was aimed at his self-possession from such an unlikely quarter. In Church papers he had frequently come across Chilvers’s name, and the sight of it caused him a twofold disturbance100: it was hateful to have memories of humiliation198 revived, and perhaps still more harassing199 to be forced upon acknowledgment of the fact that he stood as an obscure aspirant200 at the foot of the ladder which his old rival was triumphantly201 ascending202. Bad enough to be classed in any way with such a man as Chilvers; but to be regarded as at one with him in religious faith, to be forbidden the utterance of scorn when Chilvers was extolled203, stung him so keenly that he rushed into any distraction204 to elude205 the thought. When he was suffering shame under the gaze of Buckland Warricombe he remembered Chilvers, and shrank as before a merited scoff206. But the sensation had not been abiding207 enough to affect his conduct. He had said to himself that he should never come in contact with the fellow, and that, after all, community of religious profession meant no more, under their respective circumstances, than if both were following law or physic.
But the unforeseen had happened. In a few months, the Rev. Bruno Chilvers would be a prominent figure about the streets of Exeter; would be frequently seen at the Warricombes’, at the Lilywhites’, at the houses of their friends. His sermons at St. Margaret’s would doubtless attract, and form a staple208 topic of conversation. Worse than all, his expressions of ‘interest’ and ‘delight’ made it probable that he would seek out his College competitor and offer the hand of brotherhood209. These things were not to be avoided—save by abandonment of hopes, save by retreat, by yielding to a hostile destiny.
That Chilvers might talk here and there of Whitelaw stories was comparatively unimportant. The Warricombes must already know all that could be told, and what other people heard did not much matter. It was the man himself that Peak could not endure. Dissembling had hitherto been no light task. The burden had more than once pressed so gallingly that its permanent support seemed impossible; but to stand before Bruno Chilvers in the attitude of humble210 emulation211, to give respectful ear whilst the popular cleric advised or encouraged, or bestowed212 pontifical213 praise, was comparable only to a searing of the flesh with red irons. Even with assured prospect214 of recompense in the shape of Sidwell Warricombe’s heart and hand, he could hardly submit to such an ordeal215. As it was, reason having so often convinced him that he clung to a visionary hope, the torture became gratuitous216, and its mere135 suggestion inspired him with a fierce resentment217 destructive of all his purposes.
For several days he scarcely left the house. To wrath and dread218 had succeeded a wretched torpor219, during which his mind kept revolving220 the thoughts prompted by his situation, turbidly221 and to no issue. He tasted all the bitterness of the solitude to which he had condemned himself; there was not a living soul with whom he could commune. At moments he was possessed with the desire of going straightway to London, and making Earwaker the confidant of all his folly222. But that demanded an exertion223 of which he was physically224 incapable. He thought of the old home at Twybridge, and was tempted225 also in that direction. His mother would welcome him with human kindness; beneath her roof he could lie dormant226 until fate should again point his course. He even wrote a letter saying that in all probability he should pay a visit to Twybridge before long. But the impulse was only of an hour’s duration, for he remembered that to talk with his mother would necessitate227 all manner of new falsehoods, a thickening of the atmosphere of lies which already oppressed him. No; if he quitted Exeter, it must be on a longer journey. He must resume his purpose of seeking some distant country, where new conditions of life would allow him to try his fortune at least as an honest adventurer. In many parts of colonial England his technical knowledge would have a value, and were there not women to be won beneath other skies—women perhaps of subtler charm than the old hidebound civilisation228 produced? Reminiscences of scenes and figures in novels he had read nourished the illusion. He pictured some thriving little town at the ends of the earth, where a young Englishman of good manners and unusual culture would easily be admitted to the intimacy of the richest families; he saw the ideal colonist229 (a man of good birth, but a sower of wild oats in his youth) with two or three daughters about him—beautiful girls, wondrously230 self-instructed—living amid romantic dreams of the old world, and of the lover who would some day carry them off (with a substantial share of papa’s wealth) to Europe and the scenes of their imagination.
The mind has marvellous methods of self-defence against creeping lethargy of despair. At the point to which he had been reduced by several days of blank despondency, Peak was able to find genuine encouragement in visions such as this. He indulged his fancy until the vital force began to stir once more within him, and then, with one angry sweep, all his theological books and manuscripts were flung out of sight. Away with this detestable mummery! Now let Bruno Chilvers pour his eloquence231 from the pulpit of St. Margaret’s, and rear to what heights he could the edifice232 of his social glory; men of that stamp were alone fitted to thrive in England. Was not he almost certainly a hypocrite, masking his brains (for brains he had) under a show of broadest Anglicanism? But his career was throughout consistent. He trod in the footsteps of his father, and with inherited aptitude233 moulded antique traditions into harmony with the taste of the times. Compared with such a man, Peak felt himself a bungler234. The wonder was that his clumsy lying had escaped detection.
Another day, and he had done nothing whatever, but was still buoyed235 up by the reaction of visionary hope. His need now was of communicating his change of purpose to some friendly hearer. A week had passed since he had exchanged a word with anyone but Mrs. Roots, and converse236 he must. Why not with Mr. Warricombe? That was plainly the next step: to see Martin and make known to him that after all he could not become a clergyman. No need of hinting a conscientious237 reason. At all events, nothing more definite than a sense of personal unfitness, a growing perception of difficulties inherent in his character. It would be very interesting to hear Mr. Warricombe’s replies.
A few minutes after this decision was taken, he set off towards the Old Tiverton Road, walking at great speed, flourishing his stick—symptoms of the nervous cramp238 (so to speak) which he was dispelling239. He reached the house, and his hand was on the bell, when an unexpected opening of the door presented Louis Warricombe just coming forth for a walk. They exchanged amiabilities, and Louis made known that his father and mother were away on a visit to friends in Cornwall.
‘But pray come in,’ he added, offering to reenter.
Peak excused himself, for it was evident that Louis made a sacrifice to courtesy. But at that moment there approached from the garden Fanny Warricombe and her friend Bertha Lilywhite, eldest240 daughter of the genial241 vicar; they shook hands with Godwin, Fanny exclaiming:
‘Don’t go away, Mr. Peak. Have a cup of tea with us—Sidwell is at home. I want to show you a strange sort of spleenwort that I gathered this morning.’
‘In that case,’ said her brother, smiling, ‘I may confess that I have an appointment. Pray forgive me for hurrying off, Mr. Peak.’
Godwin was embarrassed, but the sprightly242 girl repeated her summons, and he followed into the house.
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provincial
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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3
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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4
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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5
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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8
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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9
axiomatic
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| adj.不需证明的，不言自明的 | |
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10
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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11
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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12
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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13
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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14
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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15
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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16
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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17
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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18
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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19
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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20
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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21
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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22
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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23
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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24
reciprocation
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| n.互换 | |
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25
languishment
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| 衰弱，无力，呆滞 | |
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26
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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27
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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28
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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29
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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30
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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31
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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32
dignify
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| vt.使有尊严；使崇高；给增光 | |
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33
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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34
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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35
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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36
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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37
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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38
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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39
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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40
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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41
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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42
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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43
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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44
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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45
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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46
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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47
deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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48
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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49
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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50
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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51
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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52
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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53
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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54
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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55
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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57
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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58
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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59
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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60
devotedness
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61
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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62
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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63
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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64
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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65
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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66
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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67
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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68
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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69
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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70
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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71
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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72
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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73
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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74
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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75
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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76
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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77
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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78
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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79
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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80
supple
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|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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81
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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82
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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84
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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85
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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86
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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87
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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88
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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89
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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90
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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91
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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93
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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94
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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95
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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96
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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97
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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98
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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99
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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100
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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101
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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102
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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104
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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105
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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106
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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107
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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108
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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109
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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110
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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111
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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112
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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113
antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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114
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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115
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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116
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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117
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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118
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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119
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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120
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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121
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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122
nugatory
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| adj.琐碎的，无价值的 | |
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123
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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124
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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125
disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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126
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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127
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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129
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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130
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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131
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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132
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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133
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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134
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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135
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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136
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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137
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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138
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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139
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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140
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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141
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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142
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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143
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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144
monologues
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| n.（戏剧）长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 )；滔滔不绝的讲话；独角戏 | |
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145
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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146
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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147
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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148
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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149
exegesis
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| n.注释，解释 | |
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150
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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151
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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152
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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153
geologic
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| adj.地质的 | |
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154
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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155
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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156
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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157
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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158
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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159
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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160
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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161
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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162
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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163
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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164
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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165
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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166
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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167
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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168
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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169
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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170
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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171
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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172
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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173
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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174
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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175
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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176
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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177
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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178
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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179
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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180
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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181
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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182
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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183
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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184
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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185
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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186
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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187
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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188
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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189
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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190
constriction
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| 压缩； 紧压的感觉； 束紧； 压缩物 | |
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191
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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192
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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193
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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195
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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196
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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197
causticity
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| n.尖刻，苛性度，刻薄 | |
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198
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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199
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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200
aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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201
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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202
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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203
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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205
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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206
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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207
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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208
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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209
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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210
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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211
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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212
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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214
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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215
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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216
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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217
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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218
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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219
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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220
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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221
turbidly
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| 混浊地，浓密地 | |
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222
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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223
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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224
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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225
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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226
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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227
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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228
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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229
colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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230
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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231
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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232
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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233
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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234
Bungler
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| n.笨拙者，经验不够的人 | |
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235
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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236
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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237
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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238
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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239
dispelling
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的现在分词 ) | |
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240
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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241
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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242
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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