Three or four years ago, when already he had conceived the idea of trying his fortune in some provincial1 town, Peak persuaded himself that it would not be difficult to make acquaintances among educated people, even though he had no credentials2 to offer. He indulged his fancy and pictured all manner of pleasant accidents which surely, sooner or later, must bring him into contact with families of the better sort. One does hear of such occurrences, no doubt. In every town there is some one or other whom a stranger may approach: a medical man—a local antiquary—a librarian—a philanthropist; and with moderate advantages of mind and address, such casual connections may at times be the preface to intimacy3, with all resulting benefits. But experience of Exeter had taught him how slight would have been his chance of getting on friendly terms with any mortal if he had depended solely4 on his personal qualities. After a nine months’ residence, and with the friendship of such people as the Warricombes, he was daily oppressed by his isolation5 amid this community of English folk. He had done his utmost to adopt the tone of average polished life. He had sat at the tables of worthy6 men, and conversed7 freely with their sons and daughters; he exchanged greetings in the highways: but this availed him nothing. Now, as on the day of his arrival, he was an alien—a lodger8. What else had he ever been, since boyhood? A lodger in Kingsmill, a lodger in London, a lodger in Exeter. Nay9, even as a boy he could scarcely have been said to ‘live at home’, for from the dawn of conscious intelligence he felt himself out of place among familiar things and people, at issue with prevalent opinions. Was he never to win a right of citizenship10, never to have a recognised place among men associated in the duties and pleasures of life?
Sunday was always a day of weariness and despondency, and at present he suffered from the excitement of his conversation with Sidwell, followed as it had been by a night of fever. Extravagant11 hope had given place to a depression which could see nothing beyond the immediate12 gloom. Until mid-day he lay in bed. After dinner, finding the solitude13 of his little room intolerable, he went out to walk in the streets.
Not far from his door some children had gathered in a quiet corner, and were playing at a game on the pavement with pieces of chalk. As he drew near, a policeman, observing the little group, called out to them in a stern voice:
‘Now then! what are you doing there? Don’t you know what day it is?’
The youngsters fled, conscious of shameful14 delinquency.
There it was! There spoke15 the civic16 voice, the social rule, the public sentiment! Godwin felt that the policeman had rebuked17 him, and in doing so had severely18 indicated the cause of that isolation which he was condemned19 to suffer. Yes, all his life he had desired to play games on Sunday; he had never been able to understand why games on Sunday should be forbidden. And the angry laugh which escaped him as he went by the guardian20 of public morals declared the impossibility of his ever being at one with communities which made this point the prime test of worthiness21.
He walked on at a great speed, chafing22, talking to himself. His way took him through Heavitree (when Hooker saw the light here, how easy to believe that the Anglican Church was the noblest outcome of human progress!) and on and on, until by a lane with red banks of sandstone, thick with ferns, shadowed with noble boughs23, he came to a hamlet which had always been one of his favourite resorts, so peacefully it lay amid the exquisite24 rural landscape. The cottages were all closed and silent; hark for the reason! From the old church sounded an organ prelude25, then the voice of the congregation, joining in one of the familiar hymns26.
A significant feature of Godwin’s idiosyncrasy. Notwithstanding his profound hatred28 and contempt of multitudes, he could never hear the union of many voices in song but his breast heaved and a choking warmth rose in his throat. Even where prejudice wrought29 most strongly with him, it had to give way before this rush of emotion; he often hurried out of earshot when a group of Salvationists were singing, lest the involuntary sympathy of his senses should agitate30 and enrage31 him. At present he had no wish to draw away. He entered the churchyard, and found the leafy nook with a tombstone where he had often rested. And as he listened to the rude chanting of verse after verse, tears fell upon his cheeks.
This sensibility was quite distinct from religious feeling. If the note of devotion sounding in that simple strain had any effect upon him at all, it merely intensified32 his consciousness of pathos33 as he thought of the many generations that had worshipped here, living and dying in a faith which was at best a helpful delusion34. He could appreciate the beautiful aspects of Christianity as a legend, its nobility as a humanising power, its rich results in literature, its grandeur36 in historic retrospect37. But at no moment in his life had he felt it as a spiritual influence. So far from tending in that direction, as he sat and brooded here in the churchyard, he owed to his fit of tearfulness a courage which determined38 him to abandon all religious pretences39, and henceforth trust only to what was sincere in him—his human passion. The future he had sketched42 to Sidwell was impossible; the rural pastorate, the life of moral endeavour which in his excitement had seemed so nearly a genuine aspiration43 that it might perchance become reality—dreams, dreams! He must woo as a man, and trust to fortune for his escape from a false position. Sidwell should hear nothing more of clerical projects. He was by this time convinced that she held far less tenaciously44 than he had supposed to the special doctrines45 of the Church; and, if he had not deceived himself in interpreting her behaviour, a mutual46 avowal47 of love would involve ready consent on her part to his abandoning a career which—as he would represent it—had been adopted under a mistaken impulse. He returned to the point which he had reached when he set forth40 with the intention of bidding good-bye to the Warricombes—except that in flinging away hypocrisy48 he no longer needed to trample49 his desires. The change need not be declared till after a lapse50 of time. For the present his task was to obtain one more private interview with Sidwell ere she went to London, or, if that could not be, somehow to address her in unmistakable language.
The fumes51 were dispelled52 from his brain, and as he walked homeward he plotted and planned with hopeful energy. Sylvia Moorhouse came into his mind; could he not in some way make use of her? He had never yet been to see her at Budleigh Salterton. That he would do forthwith, and perchance the visit might supply him with suggestions.
On the morrow he set forth, going by train to Exmouth, and thence by the coach which runs twice a day to the little seaside town. The delightful54 drive, up hill and down dale, with its magnificent views over the estuary55, and its ever-changing wayside beauties, put him into the best of spirits. About noon, he alighted at the Rolle Arms, the hotel to which the coach conducts its passengers, and entered to take a meal. He would call upon the Moorhouses at the conventional hour. The intervening time was spent pleasantly enough in loitering about the pebbled56 beach. A south-west breeze which had begun to gather clouds drove on the rising tide. By four o’clock there was an end of sunshine, and spurts57 of rain mingled58 with flying foam59. Peak turned inland, pursued the leafy street up the close-sheltered valley, and came to the house where his friends dwelt.
In crossing the garden he caught sight of a lady who sat in a room on the ground floor; her back was turned to the window, and before he could draw near enough to see her better she had moved away, but the glimpse he had obtained of her head and shoulders affected60 him with so distinct an alarm that his steps were checked. It seemed to him that he had recognised the figure, and if he were right.—But the supposition was ridiculous; at all events so vastly improbable, that he would not entertain it. And now he descried61 another face, that of Miss Moorhouse herself, and it gave him a reassuring62 smile. He rang the door bell.
How happy—he said to himself—those men who go to call upon their friends without a tremor63! Even if he had not received that shock a moment ago, he would still have needed to struggle against the treacherous64 beating of his heart as he waited for admission. It was always so when he visited the Warricombes, or any other family in Exeter. Not merely in consequence of the dishonest part he was playing, but because he had not quite overcome the nervousness which so anguished65 him in earlier days. The first moment after his entering a drawing-room cost him pangs66 of complex origin.
His eyes fell first of all upon Mrs. Moorhouse, who advanced to welcome him. He was aware of three other persons in the room. The nearest, he could perceive without regarding her, was Sidwell’s friend; the other two, on whom he did not yet venture to cast a glance, sat—or rather had just risen—in a dim background. As he shook hands with Sylvia, they drew nearer; one of them was a man, and, as his voice at once declared, no other than Buckland Warricombe. Peak returned his greeting, and, in the same moment, gazed at the last of the party. Mrs. Moorhouse was speaking.
‘Mr. Peak—Miss Moxey.’
A compression of the lips was the only sign of disturbance67 that anyone could have perceived on Godwin’s countenance68. Already he had strung himself against his wonted agitation69, and the added trial did not sensibly enhance what he suffered. In discovering that he had rightly identified the figure at the window, he experienced no renewal70 of the dread71 which brought him to a stand-still. Already half prepared for this stroke of fate, he felt a satisfaction in being able to meet it so steadily72. Tumult73 of thought was his only trouble; it seemed as if his brain must burst with the stress of its lightning operations. In three seconds, he relived the past, made several distinct anticipations74 of the future, and still discussed with himself how he should behave this moment. He noted75 that Marcella’s face was bloodless; that her attempt to smile resulted in a very painful distortion of brow and lips. And he had leisure to pity her. This emotion prevailed. With a sense of magnanimity, which afterwards excited his wonder, he pressed the cold hand and said in a cheerful tone:
‘Our introduction took place long ago, if I’m not mistaken. I had no idea, Miss Moxey, that you were among Mrs. Moorhouse’s friends.’
‘Nor I that you were, Mr. Peak,’ came the answer, in a steadier voice than Godwin had expected.
Mrs. Moorhouse and her daughter made the pleasant exclamations76 that were called for. Buckland Warricombe, with a doubtful smile on his lips, kept glancing from Miss Moxey to her acquaintance and back again. Peak at length faced him.
‘I hoped we should meet down here this autumn.’
‘I should have looked you up in a day or two,’ Buckland replied, seating himself. ‘Do you propose to stay in Exeter through the winter?’
‘I’m not quite sure—but I think it likely.’
Godwin turned to the neighbour of whose presence he was most conscious.
‘I hope your brother is well, Miss Moxey?’
Their eyes encountered steadily.
‘Yes, he is quite well, thank you. He often says that it seems very long since he heard from you.’
‘I’m a bad correspondent.—Is he also in Devonshire?’
‘No. In London.’
‘What a storm we are going to have!’ exclaimed Sylvia, looking to the window. ‘They predicted it yesterday. I should like to be on the top of Westdown Beacon77—wouldn’t you, Miss Moxey?’
‘I am quite willing to go with you.’
‘And what pleasure do you look for up there?’ asked Warricombe, in a blunt, matter-of-fact tone.
‘Now, there’s a question!’ cried Sylvia, appealing to the rest of the company.
‘I agree with Mr. Warricombe,’ remarked her mother. ‘It’s better to be in a comfortable room.’
‘Oh, you Radicals78! What a world you will make of it in time!’
Sylvia affected to turn away in disgust, and happening to glance through the window she saw two young ladies approaching from the road.
‘The Walworths—struggling desperately80 with their umbrellas.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder if you think it unworthy of an artist to carry an umbrella,’ said Buckland.
‘Now you suggest it, I certainly do. They should get nobly drenched81.’
She went out into the hall, and soon returned with her friends—Miss Walworth the artist, Miss Muriel Walworth, and a youth, their brother. In the course of conversation Peak learnt that Miss Moxey was the guest of this family, and that she had been at Budleigh Salterton with them only a day or two. For the time he listened and observed, endeavouring to postpone82 consideration of the dangers into which he had suddenly fallen. Marcella had made herself his accomplice83, thus far, in disguising the real significance of their meeting, and whether she would betray him in her subsequent talk with the Moorhouses remained a matter of doubt. Of course he must have assurance of her disposition—but the issues involved were too desperate for instant scrutiny84. He felt the gambler’s excitement, an irrational85 pleasure in the consciousness that his whole future was at stake. Buckland Warricombe had a keen eye upon him, and doubtless was eager to strike a train of suspicious circumstances. His face, at all events, should give no sign of discomposure. Indeed, he found so much enjoyment86 in the bright gossip of this assembly of ladies that the smile he wore was perfectly87 natural.
The Walworths, he gathered, were to return to London in a week’s time. This meant, in all probability, that Marcella’s stay here would not be prolonged beyond that date. Perhaps he could find an opportunity of seeing her apart from her friends. In reply to a question from Mrs. Moorhouse, he made known that he proposed staying at the Rolle Arms for several days, and when he had spoken he glanced at Marcella. She understood him; he felt sure. An invitation to lunch here on the morrow was of course accepted.
Before leaving, he exchanged a few words with Buckland.
‘Your relatives will be going to town very soon, I understand.
Warricombe nodded.
‘Shall I see you at Exeter?’ Godwin continued.
‘I’m not sure. I shall go over tomorrow, but it’s uncertain whether I shall still be there when you return.’
The Radical79 was distinctly less amicable88 than even on the last occasion of their meeting. They shook hands in rather a perfunctory way.
Early in the evening there was a temporary lull89 in the storm; rain no longer fell, and in spaces of the rushing sky a few stars showed themselves. Unable to rest at the hotel, Peak set out for a walk towards the cliff summit called Westdown Beacon; he could see little more than black vacancies90, but a struggle with the wind suited his temper, and he enjoyed the incessant91 roar of surf in the darkness. After an hour of this buffeting92 he returned to the beach, and stood as close as possible to the fierce breakers. No person was in sight. But when he began to move towards the upper shore, three female figures detached themselves from the gloom and advanced in his direction. They came so near that their voices were audible, and thereupon he stepped up to them.
‘Are you going to the Beacon after all, Miss Moorhouse?’
Sylvia was accompanied by Agatha Walworth and Miss Moxey. She explained laughingly that they had stolen out, by agreement, whilst the males of their respective households still lingered at the dinner-table.
‘But Mr. Warricombe was right after all. We shall be blown to pieces. A very little of the romantic goes a long way, nowadays.’
Godwin was determined to draw Marcella aside. Seemingly she met his wish, for as all turned to regain93 the shelter of houses she fell behind her female companions, and stood close by him.
‘I want to see you before you go back to London,’ he said, bending his head near to hers.
‘I wrote a letter to you this morning,’ was her reply.
‘A letter? To what address?’
‘Your address at Exeter.’
‘But how did you know it?’
‘I’ll explain afterwards.’
‘When can I see you?’
‘Not here. It’s impossible. I shall go to Exeter, and there write to you again.’
‘Very well. You promise to do this?’
‘Yes, I promise.’
There was danger even in the exchange of these hurried sentences. Miss Walworth had glanced back, and might possibly have caught a phrase that aroused curiosity. Having accompanied the girls to within view of their destination, Peak said good-night, and went home to spend the rest of the evening in thought which was sufficiently94 absorbing.
The next day he had no sight of Marcella. At luncheon95 the Moorhouses were alone. Afterwards Godwin accepted a proposal of the mathematician96 (who was generally invisible amid his formulae) for a walk up the Otter97 valley. Naturally they talked of Coleridge, whose metaphysical side appealed to Moorhouse. Peak dwelt on the human and poetical98, and was led by that peculiar99 recklessness of mood, which at times relieved his nervous tension, to defend opium100 eating, as a source of pleasurable experience.
‘You will hardly venture on that paradox101 in the pulpit,’ remarked his companion, with laughter.
‘Perhaps not. But I have heard arguments from that place decidedly more immoral102.’
‘No doubt.’
Godwin corrected the impression he perhaps had made by turning with sudden seriousness to another subject. The ironic103 temptation was terribly strong in him just now. One is occasionally possessed104 by a desire to shout in the midst of a silent assembly; and impulse of the same kind kept urging him to utter words which would irretrievably ruin his prospects106. The sense that life is an intolerable mummery can with difficulty be controlled by certain minds, even when circumstances offer no keen incitement107 to rebellion. But Peak’s position today demanded an incessant effort to refrain from self-betrayal. What a joy to declare himself a hypocrite, and snap mocking fingers in the world’s face! As a safeguard, he fixed108 his mind upon Sidwell, recalled her features and her voice as clearly as possible, stamped into his heart the conviction that she half loved him.
When he was alone again, he of a sudden determined to go to Exeter. He could no longer endure uncertainty109 as to the contents of Marcella’s letter. As it was too late for the coach, he set off and walked five miles to Exmouth, where he caught a train.
The letter lay on his table, and with it one on which he recognised his mother’s handwriting.
Marcella wrote in the simplest way, quite as if their intercourse110 had never been disturbed. As she happened to be staying with friends at Budleigh Salterton, it seemed possible for her to meet him. Might she hope that he would call at the hotel in Exeter, if she wrote again to make an appointment?
Well, that needed no reply. But how had she discovered the address? Was his story known in London? In a paroxysm of fury, he crushed the letter into a ball and flung it away. The veins111 of his forehead swelled112; he walked about the room with senseless violence, striking his fist against furniture and walls. It would have relieved him to sob113 and cry like a thwarted114 child, but only a harsh sound, half-groan, half-laughter, burst from his throat.
The fit passed, and he was able to open the letter from Twybridge, the first he had received from his mother for more than a month. He expected to find nothing of interest, but his attention was soon caught by a passage, which ran thus:
‘Have you heard from some friends of yours, called Ward53? Some time ago a lady called here to ask for your address. She said her name was Mrs. Ward, and that her husband, who had been abroad for a long time, very much wished to find you again. Of course I told her where you were to be found. It was just after I had written, or I should have let you know about it before.’
Ward? He knew no one of that name. Could it be Marcella who had done this? It looked more than likely; he believed her capable of strange proceedings115.
In the morning he returned to the seaside. Prospect105 of pleasure there was none, but by moving about he made the time pass more quickly. Wandering in the lanes (which would have delighted him with their autumnal beauties had his mind been at rest), he came upon Miss Walworth, busy with a water-colour sketch41. Though their acquaintance was so slight, he stopped for conversation, and the artist’s manner appeared to testify that Marcella had as yet made no unfavourable report of him. By mentioning that he would return home on the morrow, he made sure that Marcella would be apprised116 of this. Perhaps she might shorten her stay, and his suspense117.
Back in Longbrook Street once more, he found another letter. It was from Mrs. Warricombe, who wrote to tell him of their coming removal to London, and added an invitation to dine four days hence. Then at all events he would speak again with Sidwell. But to what purpose? Could he let her go away for months, and perhaps all but forget him among the many new faces that would surround her. He saw no feasible way of being with her in private. To write was to run the gravest risk; things were not ripe for that. To take Martin into his confidence? That asked too much courage. Deliberate avowals of this kind seemed to him ludicrous and humiliating, and under the circumstances—no, no; what force of sincerity118 could make him appear other than a scheming adventurer?
He lived in tumult of mind and senses. When at length, on the day before his engagement with the Warricombes, there came a note from Marcella, summoning him to the interview agreed upon, he could scarcely endure the hour or two until it was time to set forth; every minute cost him a throb119 of pain. The torment120 must have told upon his visage, for on entering the room where Marcella waited he saw that she looked at him with a changing expression, as if something surprised her.
They shook hands, but without a word. Marcella pointed121 to a chair, yet remained standing27. She was endeavouring to smile; her eyes fell, and she coloured.
‘Don’t let us make each other uncomfortable,’ Peak exclaimed suddenly, in the off-hand tone of friendly intimacy. ‘There’s nothing tragic122 in this affair, after all. Let us talk quietly.’
Marcella seated herself.
‘I had reasons,’ he went on, ‘for going away from my old acquaintances for a time. Why not, if I chose? You have found me out. Very well; let us talk it over as we have discussed many another moral or psychological question.’
He did not meditate123 these sentences. Something must of necessity be said, and words shaped themselves for him. His impulse was to avoid the emotional, to talk with this problematic woman as with an intellectual friend of his own sex.
‘Forgive me,’ were the first sounds that came from Marcella’s lips. She spoke with bent124 head, and almost in a whisper.
‘What have I to forgive?’ He sat down and leaned sideways in the easy chair. ‘You were curious about my doings? What more natural?’
‘Do you know how I learnt where you were?’
She looked up for an instant.
‘I have a suspicion. You went to Twybridge?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not in your own name?’
‘I can hardly tell why not.’
Peak laughed. He was physically125 and mentally at rest in comparison with his state for the past few days. Things had a simpler aspect all at once. After all, who would wish to interfere126 maliciously127 with him? Women like to be in secrets, and probably Marcella would preserve his.
‘What conjectures128 had you made about me?’ he asked, with an air of amusement.
‘Many, of course. But I heard something not long ago which seemed so unlikely, yet was told so confidently, that at last I couldn’t overcome my wish to make inquiries129.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Mr. Malkin has been to America, and he declared that he had met you in the streets of Boston—and that you refused to admit you were yourself.’
Peak laughed still more buoyantly. His mood was eager to seize on any point that afforded subject for jest.
‘Malkin seems to have come across my Doppelganger. One mustn’t pretend to certainty in anything, but I am disposed to think I never was in Boston.’
‘He was of course mistaken.’
Marcella’s voice had an indistinctness very unlike her ordinary tone. As a rule she spoke with that clearness and decision which corresponds to qualities of mind not commonly found in women. But confidence seemed to have utterly130 deserted131 her; she had lost her individuality, and was weakly feminine.
‘I have been here since last Christmas,’ said Godwin, after a pause.
‘Yes. I know.’
Their eyes met.
‘No doubt your friends have told you as much as they know of me?’
‘Yes—they have spoken of you.’
‘And what does it amount to?’
He regarded her steadily, with a smile of indifference132.
‘They say’—she gazed at him as if constrained133 to do so—‘that you are going into the Church.’ And as soon as she uttered the last word, a painful laugh escaped her.
‘Nothing else? No comments?’
‘I think Miss Moorhouse finds it difficult to understand.’
‘Miss Moorhouse?’ He reflected, still smiling. ‘I shouldn’t wonder. She has a sceptical mind, and she doesn’t know me well enough to understand me.’
‘Doesn’t know you well enough?’
She repeated the words mechanically. Peak gave her a keen glance.
‘Has she led you to suppose,’ he asked, ‘that we are on intimate terms?’
‘No.’ The word fell from her, absently, despondently134.
‘Miss Moxey, would anything be gained by our discussing my position? If you think it a mystery, hadn’t we better leave it so?’
She made no answer.
‘But perhaps,’ he went on, ‘you have told them—the Walworths and the Moorhouses—that I owe my friends an explanation? When I see them again, perhaps I shall be confronted with cold, questioning faces?’
‘I haven’t said a word that could injure you,’ Marcella replied, with something of her usual self-possession, passing her eyes distantly over his face as she spoke.
‘I knew the suggestion was unjust, when I made it.’
‘Then why should you refuse me your confidence?’
She bent forward slightly, but with her eyes cast down. Tone and features intimated a sense of shame, due partly to the feeling that she offered complicity in deceit.
‘What can I tell you more than you know?’ said Godwin, coldly. ‘I propose to become a clergyman, and I have acknowledged to you that my motive135 is ambition. As the matter concerns my conscience, that must rest with myself; I have spoken of it to no one. But you may depend upon it that I am prepared for every difficulty that may spring up. I knew, of course, that sooner or later some one would discover me here. Well, I have changed my opinions, that’s all; who can demand more than that?’
Marcella answered in a tone of forced composure.
‘You owe me no explanation at all. Yet we have known each other for a long time, and it pains me that—to be suddenly told that we are no more to each other than strangers.’
‘Are we talking like strangers, Marcella?’
She flushed, and her eyes gleamed as they fixed themselves upon him for an instant. He had never before dreamt of addressing her so familiarly, and least of all in this moment was she prepared for it. Godwin despised himself for the impulse to which he had yielded, but its policy was justified136. He had taken one more step in disingenuousness—a small matter.
‘Let it be one of those things on which even friends don’t open their minds to each other,’ he pursued. ‘I am living in solitude, and perhaps must do so for several years yet. If I succeed in my purposes, you will see me again on the old terms; if I fail, then too we shall be friends—if you are willing.’
‘You won’t tell me what those purposes are?’
‘Surely you can imagine them.’
‘Will you let me ask you—do you look for help to anyone that I have seen here?’ She spoke with effort and with shame.
‘To no one that you have met,’ he answered, shortly.
‘Then to some one in Exeter? I have been told that you have friends.’
He was irritated by her persistency137, and his own inability to decide upon the most prudent138 way of answering.
‘You mean the Warricombe family, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think it very likely that Mr. Warricombe may be able to help me substantially.’
Marcella kept silence. Then, without raising her eyes, she murmured:
‘You will tell me no more?’
‘There is nothing more to tell.’
She bit her lips, as if to compel them to muteness. Her breath came quickly; she glanced this way and that, like one who sought an escape. After eyeing her askance for a moment, Peak rose.
‘You are going?’ she said.
‘Yes; but surely there is no reason why we shouldn’t say good-bye in a natural and friendly way?’
‘Can you forgive me for that deceit I practised?’
Peak laughed.
‘What does it matter? We should in any case have met at Budleigh Salterton.’
‘No. I had no serious thought of accepting their invitation.’
She stood looking away from him, endeavouring to speak as though the denial had but slight significance. Godwin stirred impatiently.
‘I should never have gone to Twybridge,’ Marcella continued, ‘but for Mr. Malkin’s story.’
He turned to her.
‘You mean that his story had a disagreeable sound?’
Marcella kept silence, her fingers working together.
‘And is your mind relieved?’ he added.
‘I wish you were back in London. I wish this change had never come to pass.’
‘I wish that several things in my life had never come to pass. But I am here, and my resolve is unalterable. One thing I must ask you—how shall you represent my position to your brother?’
For a moment Marcella hesitated. Then, meeting his look, she answered with nervous haste:
‘I shall not mention you to him.’
Ashamed to give any sign of satisfaction, and oppressed by the feeling that he owed her gratitude139, Peak stood gazing towards the windows with an air of half-indifferent abstractedness. It was better to let the interview end thus, without comment or further question; so he turned abruptly140, and offered his hand.
‘Good-bye. You will hear of me, or from me.’
‘Good-bye!’
He tried to smile; but Marcella had a cold face, expressive141 of more dignity than she had hitherto shown. As he closed the door she was still looking towards him.
He knew what the look meant. In his position, a man of ordinary fibre would long ago have nursed the flattering conviction that Marcella loved him. Godwin had suspected it, but in a vague, unemotional way, never attaching importance to the matter. What he had clearly understood was, that Christian35 wished to inspire him with interest in Marcella, and on that account, when in her company, he sometimes set himself to display a deliberate negligence142. No difficult undertaking143, for he was distinctly repelled144 by the thought of any relations with her more intimate than had been brought about by his cold intellectual sympathy. Her person was still as disagreeable to him as when he first met her in her uncle’s house at Twybridge. If a man sincerely hopes that a woman does not love him (which can seldom be the case where a suggestion of such feeling ever arises), he will find it easy to believe that she does not. Peak not only had the benefit of this principle; the constitution of his mind made it the opposite of natural for him to credit himself with having inspired affection. That his male friends held him in any warm esteem145 always appeared to him improbable, and as regards women his modesty146 was profound. The simplest explanation, that he was himself incapable147 of pure devotedness148, perhaps hits the truth. Unsympathetic, however, he could with no justice be called, and now that the reality of Marcella’s love was forced upon his consciousness he thought of her with sincere pity,—the emotion which had already possessed him (though he did not then analyse it) when he unsuspectingly looked into her troubled face a few days ago.
It was so hard to believe, that, on reaching home, he sat for a long time occupied with the thought of it, to the exclusion150 of his own anxieties. What! this woman had made of him an ideal such as he himself sought among the most exquisite of her sex? How was that possible? What quality of his, personal, psychical151, had such magnetic force? What sort of being was he in Marcella’s eyes? Reflective men must often enough marvel152 at the success of whiskered and trousered mortals in wooing the women of their desire, for only by a specific imagination can a person of one sex assume the emotions of the other. Godwin had neither that endowment nor the peculiar self-esteem which makes love-winning a matter of course to some intelligent males. His native arrogance153 signified a low estimate of mankind at large, rather than an overweening appreciation154 of his own qualities, and in his most presumptuous155 moments he had never claimed the sexual refulgence156 which many a commonplace fellow so gloriously exhibits. At most, he had hoped that some woman might find him interesting, and so be led on to like him well enough for the venture of matrimony. Passion at length constrained him to believe that his ardour might be genuinely reciprocated157, but even now it was only in paroxysms that he held this assurance; the hours of ordinary life still exposed him to the familiar self-criticism, sometimes more scathing158 than ever. He dreaded159 the looking-glass, consciously avoided it; and a like disparagement160 of his inner being tortured him through the endless labyrinths161 of erotic reverie.
Yet here was a woman who so loved him that not even a proud temper and his candid162 indifference could impose restraint upon her emotions. As he listened to the most significant of her words he was distressed163 with shame, and now, in recalling them, he felt that he should have said something, done something, to disillusion164 her. Could he not easily show himself in a contemptible165 light? But reflection taught him that the shame he had experienced on Marcella’s behalf was blended with a gratification which forbade him at the moment to be altogether unamiable. It was not self-interest alone that prompted his use of her familiar name. In the secret places of his heart he was thankful to her for a most effective encouragement. She had confirmed him in the hope that he was loved by Sidwell.
And now that he no longer feared her, Marcella was gradually dismissed from mind. For a day or two he avoided the main streets of the town, lest a chance meeting with her should revive disquietude; but, by the time that Mrs. Warricombe’s invitation permitted him once more to follow his desire, he felt assured that Marcella was back in London, and the sense of distance helped to banish166 her among unrealities.
The hours had never pressed upon him with such demand for resolution. In the look with which Sidwell greeted him when he met her in the drawing-room, he seemed to read much more than wonted friendliness167; it was as though a half secret already existed between them. But no occasion offered for a word other than trivial. The dinner-party consisted of about a score of people, and throughout the evening Peak found himself hopelessly severed168 from the one person whose presence was anything but an importunity169 to him. He maddened with jealousy170, with fear, with ceaseless mental manoeuvring. More than one young man of agreeable aspect appeared to be on dangerous terms with Sidwell, approaching her with that air of easy, well-bred intimacy which Godwin knew too well he would never be able to assume in perfection. Again he was humiliated171 by self-comparison with social superiors, and again reminded that in this circle he had a place merely on sufferance. Mrs. Warricombe, when he chanced to speak with her, betrayed the slight regard in which she really held him, and Martin devoted149 himself to more important people. The evening was worse than lost.
Yet in two more days Sidwell would be beyond reach. He writhed172 upon his bed as the image of her loveliness returned again and again,—her face as she conversed at table, her dignity as she rose with the other ladies, her smile when he said good-night. A smile that meant more than civility; he was convinced of it. But memory would not support him through half-a-year of solitude and ill-divining passion.
He would write to her, and risk all. Two o’clock in the morning saw him sitting half-dressed at the table, raging over the difficulties of a composition which should express his highest self. Four o’clock saw the blotched letter torn into fragments. He could not write as he wished, could not hit the tone of manly173 appeal. At five o’clock he turned wretchedly into bed again.
A day of racking headache; then the long restful sleep which brings good counsel. It was well that he had not sent a letter, nor in any other way committed himself. If Sidwell were ever to be his wife, the end could only be won by heroic caution and patience. Thus far he had achieved notable results; to rush upon his aim would be the most absurd departure from a hopeful scheme gravely devised and pursued. To wait, to establish himself in the confidence of this family, to make sure his progress step by step, that was the course indicated from the first by his calm reason. Other men might triumph by sudden audacity174; for him was no hope save in slow, persevering175 energy of will. Passion had all but ruined him; now he had recovered self-control.
Sidwell’s six months in London might banish him from her mind, might substitute some rival against whom it would be hopeless to contend. Yes; but a thousand possibilities stood with menace in the front of every great enterprise. Before next spring he might be dead.
Defiance176, then, of every foreboding, of every shame; and a life that moulded itself in the ardour of unchangeable resolve.
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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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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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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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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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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enrage
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| v.触怒，激怒 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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pebbled
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| 用卵石铺（pebble的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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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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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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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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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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vacancies
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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otter
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| n.水獭 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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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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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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106
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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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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109
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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111
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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115
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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117
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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118
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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120
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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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123
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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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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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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devotedness
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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153
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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154
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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refulgence
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| n.辉煌，光亮 | |
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157
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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158
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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159
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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160
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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161
labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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163
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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164
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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165
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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166
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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167
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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168
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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169
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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170
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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171
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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172
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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174
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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175
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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176
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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