The wrath1 which illumined Buckland’s countenance2 as he strode rapidly towards Longbrook Street was not unmingled with joy. In the deep pocket of his ulster lay something heavy which kept striking against his leg, and every such contact spurred him with a sense of satisfaction. All his suspicions were abundantly justified3. Not only would his father and Sidwell be obliged to confess that his insight had been profounder than theirs, but he had the pleasure of standing4 justified before his own conscience. The philosophy by which he lived was strikingly illustrated5 and confirmed.
He sniffed6 the morning air, enjoyed the firmness of the frozen ground, on which his boots made a pleasant thud. To be sure, the interview before him would have its disagreeableness, but Buckland was not one of those over-civilised men who shrink from every scene of painful explanation. The detection of a harmful lie was decidedly congenial to him—especially when he and his had been made its victims. He was now at liberty to indulge that antipathetic feeling towards Godwin Peak which sundry8 considerations had hitherto urged him to repress. Whatever might have passed between Peak and Sidwell, he could not doubt that his sister’s peace was gravely endangered; the adventurer (with however much or little sincerity9) had been making subtle love to her. Such a thought was intolerable. Buckland’s class-prejudice asserted itself with brutal10 vigour11 now that it had moral indignation for an ally.
He had never been at Peak’s lodgings12, but the address was long since noted13. Something of disdain14 came into his eyes as he approached the row of insignificant15 houses. Having pulled the bell, he stood at his full height, looking severely16 at the number painted on the door.
Mrs. Roots opened to him, and said that her lodger17 was at home. He gave his name, and after waiting for a moment was led to the upper floor. Godwin, who had breakfasted later than usual, still sat by the table. On Warricombe’s entrance, he pushed back his chair and rose, but with deliberate movement, scarcely smiling. That Buckland made no offer of a friendly hand did not surprise him. The name of his visitor had alarmed him with a sudden presentiment18. Hardening his features, he stood in expectancy19.
‘I want to have a talk with you,’ Buckland began. ‘You are at leisure, I hope?’
‘Pray sit down.’
Godwin pointed20 to a chair near the fire, but Warricombe, having thrown his hat on to a side table, seated himself by one of the windows. His motions proved that he found it difficult to support a semblance21 of courtesy.
‘I have come down from London on purpose to see you. Unless I am strangely misinformed you have been guilty of conduct which I shouldn’t like to call by its proper name.’
Remembering that he was in a little house, with thin partitions, he kept his voice low, but the effort this cost him was obvious. He looked straight at Peak, who did not return the gaze.
‘Indeed?’ said Godwin, coldly. ‘What is my crime?’
‘I am told that you have won the confidence of my relatives by what looks like a scheme of gross dishonesty.’
‘Indeed? Who has told you so?’
‘No one in so many words. But I happened to come across certain acquaintances of yours in London—people who know you very well indeed; and I find that they regard your position here as altogether incredible. You will remember I had much the same feeling myself. In support of their view it was mentioned to me that you had published an article in The Critical—the date less than a year ago, observe. The article was anonymous22, but I remember it very well. I have reread it, and I want you to tell me how the views it expresses can be reconciled with those you have maintained in conversation with my father.’
He drew from his pocket the incriminating periodical, turned it back at the article headed ‘The New Sophistry23’, and held it out for inspection24.
‘Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory.’
‘Needless, thank you,’ returned Godwin, with a smile—in which the vanity of an author had its part.
Had Marcella betrayed him? He had supposed she knew nothing of this article, but Earwaker had perhaps spoken of it to Moxey before receiving the injunction of secrecy26. On the other hand, it might be Earwaker himself from whom Warricombe had derived27 his information. Not impossible for the men to meet, and Earwaker’s indignation might have led him to disregard a friend’s confidence.
The details mattered little. He was face to face with the most serious danger that could befall him, and already he had strung himself to encounter it. Yet even in the same moment he asked, ‘Is it worth while?’
‘Did you write this?’ Buckland inquired.
‘Yes, I wrote it.’
‘Then I wait for your explanation.’
‘You mustn’t expect me to enter upon an elaborate defence,’ Godwin replied, taking his pipe from the mantelpiece and beginning to fill it. ‘A man charged with rascality28 can hardly help getting excited—and that excitement, to one in your mood, seems evidence against him. Please to bear in mind that I have never declared myself an orthodox theologian. Mr. Warricombe is well acquainted with my views; to you I have never explained them.’
‘You mean to say that my father knew of this article?’
‘No. I have not spoken of it.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because, for one thing, I shouldn’t write in that way now; and, for another, the essay seems to imply more than I meant when I did write it.’
‘“Seems to imply”——? I understand. You wish to represent that this attack on M’Naughten involves no attack on Christianity?’
‘Not on Christianity as I understand it.’
Buckland’s face expressed profound disgust, but he controlled his speech.
‘Well, I foresaw this. You attacked a new sophistry, but there is a newer sophistry still, and uncommonly29 difficult it is to deal with. Mr. Peak, I have a plain word to say to you. More than a year ago you asked me for my goodwill31, to aid you in getting a social position. Say what you like, I see now that you dealt with me dishonestly. I can no longer be your friend in any sense, and I shall do my best to have you excluded from my parents’ house. My father will reread this essay—I have marked the significant passages throughout—and will form his own judgment32; I know what it will be.’
‘You are within your rights.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Buckland, with polished insolence33, as he rose from his seat. ‘I can’t forbid you to go to the house again, but—I hope we mayn’t meet there. It would be very unpleasant.’
Godwin was still pressing down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He smiled, and glanced about the room. Did Warricombe know how far things had gone between him and Sidwell? Whether or no, it was certain now that Sidwell would be informed of this disastrous34 piece of authorship—and the result?
What did it matter? There is no struggling against destiny. If he and Sidwell were ever fated to come together, why, these difficulties would all be surmounted35. If, as seemed more than likely, he was again to be foiled on the point of success—he could bear it, perhaps even enjoy the comedy.
‘There is no possibility of arguing against determined36 anger,’ he said, quietly. ‘I am not at all inclined to plead for justice: one only does that with a friend who desires to be just. My opinions are utterly37 distasteful to you, and personal motives39 have made you regard me as—a scoundrel to be got rid of. Well, there’s an end of it. I don’t see what is to be gained by further talk.’
This was a dismissal. Godwin felt the necessity of asserting himself thus far.
‘One question,’ said Warricombe, as he put the periodical back into his pocket. ‘What do you mean by my “personal motives”?’
Their eyes met for an instant.
‘I mean the motives which you have spoken of.’
It was Buckland’s hope that Peak might reveal his relations with Sidwell, but he shrank from seeming to know anything of the matter. Clearly, no light was to be had from this source.
‘I am afraid,’ he said, moving to the door, ‘that you will find my motives shared by all the people whose acquaintance you have made in Exeter.’
And without further leave-taking he departed.
There was a doubt in his mind. Peak’s coolness might be the audacity40 of rascaldom; he preferred to understand it so; but it might have nothing to do with baseness.
‘Confound it!’ he muttered to himself, irritably41. ‘In our times life is so deucedly complicated. It used to be the easiest thing to convict a man of religious hypocrisy42; nowadays, one has to bear in mind such a multiplicity of fine considerations. There’s that fellow Bruno Chilvers: mightn’t anyone who had personal reasons treat him precisely43 as I have treated Peak? Both of them may be honest. Yet in Peak’s case all appearances are against him—just because he is of low birth, has no means, and wants desperately44 to get into society. The fellow is a scoundrel; I am convinced of it. Yet his designs may be innocent. How, then, a scoundrel?——
‘Poor devil! Has he really fallen in love with Sidwell?——
‘Humbug! He wants position, and the comfort it brings. And if he hadn’t acted like a blackguard—if he had come among us telling the truth—who knows? Sidwell wouldn’t then have thought of him, but for my own part I would willingly have given him a hand. There are plenty of girls who have learned to think for themselves.’
This was an unhappy line of reflection. It led to Sylvia Moorhouse—and to grinding of the teeth. By the time he reached the house, Buckland was again in remorseless mood.
He would have it out with Sidwell. The desire of proving to her that he had been right from the first overrode45 all thought of the pain he might inflict46.
She was in the library. At breakfast he had noticed her heavy eyes, and that she made only a pretence47 of eating. She was now less unlike herself, but her position at the window showed that she had been waiting impatiently.
‘Isn’t mother coming down today?’ he asked.
‘Yes; after luncheon48 she will go out for an hour, if it keeps fine.’
‘And tomorrow you return?’
‘If mother feels able to travel.’
He had The Critical in his hand, and stood rustling49 the pages with his fingers.
‘I have been to see Peak.’
‘Have you?’
She moved a few steps and seated herself sideways on a small chair.
‘My business with him was confoundedly unpleasant. I’m glad it’s over. I wish I had known what I now do half a year ago.’
‘Let me hear what it is.’
‘You remember that I told you to be on your guard against Peak?’
Sidwell smiled faintly, and glanced at him, but made no answer.
‘I knew he wasn’t to be trusted,’ pursued her brother, with gloomy satisfaction. ‘And I had far better means of judging than father or you; but, of course, my suspicions were ungenerous and cynical50.’
‘Will you come to the point?’ said Sidwell, in an irritated tone.
‘I think you read this article in The Critical?’ He approached and showed it to her. ‘We spoke25 of it once, a propos of M’Naughten’s book.’
She raised her eyes, and met his with a look of concern she could not disguise.
‘What of that?’
‘Peak is the author of it. It seems to have been written just about the time when I met him and brought him here as a visitor, and it was published after he had begun to edify51 you with his zeal52 for Christianity.’
She held out her hand.
‘You remember the tone of the thing?’ Buckland added. ‘I’ll leave it with you; but just glance at one or two of the passages I have marked. The Anglicanism of their writer is decidedly “broad”, it seems to me.’
He moved apart and watched his sister as she bent53 over the pages. There was silence for five minutes. Seeing that Sidwell had ceased to read, he ejaculated, ‘Well?’
‘Has Mr. Peak admitted the authorship?’ she asked, slowly and distinctly.
‘Yes, and with a cool impudence54 I hardly expected.’
‘Do you mean that he has made no attempt to justify55 himself?’
‘None worth listening to. Practically, he refused an explanation.’
Sidwell rested her forehead lightly upon the tips of her fingers; the periodical slipped from her lap and lay open on the floor.
‘How did you find this out?’
‘In the simplest way. Knowing perfectly56 well that I had only to get familiar with some of his old friends to obtain proof that he was an impostor, I followed up my acquaintance with Miss Moxey—got hold of her brother—called upon them. Whilst I was there, a man named Malkin came in, and somehow or other he began talking of Peak. I learned at once precisely what I expected, that Peak was known to all these people as a violent anti-Christian. Malkin refused to believe the story of his going in for the Church—it sounded to him a mere57 joke. Then came out the fact that he had written this article. They all knew about it.’
He saw a flush of shame upon Sidwell’s half-hidden face. It gratified him. He was resolved to let her taste all the bitterness of her folly58.
‘It seems pretty clear that the Moxeys—at all events Miss Moxey—knew the rascally59 part he was playing. Whether they wished to unmask him, or not, I can’t say. Perhaps not. Yet I caught an odd look on Miss Moxey’s face when that man Malkin began to talk of Peak’s characteristics and achievements. It came out, by-the-bye, that he had given all his acquaintances the slip; they had completely lost sight of him—I suppose until Miss Moxey met him by chance at Budleigh Salterton. There’s some mystery still. She evidently kept Peak’s secret from the Moorhouses and the Walworths. A nice business, altogether!’
Again there was a long silence. Then Sidwell raised her face and said, abruptly60:
‘You may be quite mistaken.’
‘How?’
‘You went to Mr. Peak in a spirit of enmity and anger. It is not likely he would explain himself. You may have quite misunderstood what he said.’
‘Ridiculous! You mean that he was perhaps “converted” after writing this article?—Then why did he allow it to be published?’
‘He did not sign it. He may have been unable to withdraw it from the editor’s hands.’
‘Bosh! He didn’t sign it, because the idea of this Exeter campaign came between the reception and the appearance of his paper. In the ordinary course of things, he would have been only too glad to see his name in The Critical. The scoundrelly project was conceived perhaps the very day that I brought him here—perhaps in that moment—at lunch, do you remember?—when he began to talk of the sermon at the Cathedral?’
‘Why did he go to the Cathedral and hear that sermon?’
‘To amuse a Sunday morning, I suppose.’
‘That is not very likely in a man who hates and ridicules61 religion.’
‘It is decidedly more probable than the idea of his conversion62.’
Sidwell fell back again into her brooding attitude.
‘The reason of your mistake in judging him,’ resumed Buckland, with emphasis, ‘is that you have undervalued his intellect. I told you long ago that a man of Peak’s calibre could not possibly be a supporter of dogmas and churches. No amount of plausible63 evidence would have made me believe in his sincerity. Let me beg you to appreciate the simple fact, that no young man of brains and education is nowadays an honest defender64 of mediaeval Christianity—the Christianity of your churches. Such fellows may transact65 with their conscience, and make a more or less decent business of the clerical career; or, in rare cases, they may believe that society is served by the maintenance of a national faith, and accordingly preach with all manner of mental reserves and symbolical66 interpretations67. These are in reality politicians, not priests. But Peak belongs to neither class. He is an acute cynic, bent on making the best of this world, since he believes in no other. How he must have chuckled69 after every visit to this house! He despises you, one and all. Believe me, he regards you with profound contempt.’
Buckland’s obtuseness70 on the imaginative side spared him the understanding of his sister’s state of mind. Though in theory he recognised that women were little amenable71 to reasoning, he took it for granted that a clear demonstration72 of Peak’s duplicity must at once banish73 all thought of him from Sidwell’s mind. Therefore he was unsparing in his assaults upon her delusion74. It surprised him when at length Sidwell looked up with flashing, tear-dewed eyes and addressed him indignantly:
‘In all this there is not one word of truth! You know that in representing the clergy75 as a body of ignorant and shallow men you speak out of prejudice. If you believed what you say, you would be yourself both ignorant and shallow. I can’t trust your judgment of anyone whatever.’
She paused, but in a moment added the remark which would have come first had she spoken in the order of her thoughts.
‘It is because the spirit of contempt is so familiar to you that you are so ready to perceive it in others. I consider that habit of mind worse than hypocrisy—yes, worse, far worse!’
Buckland was sorry for the pain he had given. The retort did not affect him, but he hung his head and looked uncomfortable. His next speech was in a milder strain:
‘I feel it a duty, Sidwell, to represent this man to you in what I verily believe to be the true light. To be despised by one who is immeasurably contemptible76 surely can’t distress77 you. If a butler gets into your house by means of a forged character, and then lays his plans for a great burglary, no doubt he scorns you for being so easily taken in,—and that is an exact parallel to Peak’s proceedings78. He has somehow got the exterior79 of a gentleman; you could not believe that one who behaved so agreeably and talked so well was concealing80 an essentially81 base nature. But I must remind you that Peak belongs by origin to the lower classes, which is as much as to say that he lacks the sense of honour generally inherited by men of our world. A powerful intellect by no means implies a corresponding development of the moral sense.’
Sidwell could not close her ears against the argument. But her features were still set in an expression of resentment82, and she kept silence lest her voice should sound tearful.
‘And don’t be tempted83 by personal feeling,’ pursued her brother, ‘to make light of hypocrisy—especially this kind. The man who can act such a part as Peak’s has been for the last twelve months must be capable of any depravity. It is difficult for you to estimate his baseness, because you are only half convinced that any one can really be an enemy of religious faith. You suspect a lurking84 belief even in the minds of avowed85 atheists. But take the assurance from me that a man like Peak (and I am at one with him in this matter) regards with absolute repugnance86 every form of supernaturalism. For him to affect belief in your religion, is a crime against conscience. Peak has committed this crime with a mercenary motive38,—what viler87 charge could be brought against him?’
Without looking at him, his sister replied:
‘Whether he is guilty or not, I can’t yet determine. But the motive of his life here was not mercenary.’
‘Then how would you describe it?’ Buckland asked, in astonishment88.
‘I only know that it can’t be called mercenary.’
‘Then the distinction you draw must be a very fine one.—He has abandoned the employment by which he lived, and by his own admission he looks to the Church for means of support. It was necessary for him to make interest with people of social position; the closer his relations with them the better. From month to month he has worked skilfully89 to establish his footing in this house, and among your friends. What do you call this?’
She had no verbal answer to make, but her look declared that she held to another interpretation68.
‘Well,’ Buckland added, impatiently, ‘we will hear father’s opinion. He, remember, has been deceived in a very gross and cruel way. Possibly he may help you to see the thing in all its hatefulness.’
Sidwell turned to him.
‘You go to London this afternoon?’
‘In an hour or two,’ he replied, consulting his watch.
‘Is it any use my asking you to keep silence about everything until I am back in town?’
Buckland frowned and hesitated.
‘To mother as well as father, you mean?’
‘Yes. Will you do me this kindness?’
‘Answer me a question, Sidwell. Have you any thought of seeing Peak?’
‘I can’t say,’ she replied, in agitation90. ‘I must leave myself free. I have a right to use my own judgment.’
‘Don’t see him! I beg you not to see him!’
He was so earnest that Sidwell suspected some other reason in his request than regard for her dignity.
‘I must leave myself free,’ she repeated, with shaking voice. ‘In any case I shall be back in London tomorrow evening—that is, if—but I am sure mother will wish to go. Grant me this one kindness; say nothing here or there till I am back and have seen you again.’
He turned a deaf ear, for the persistency91 with which she resisted proof of Peak’s dishonour92 had begun to alarm him. Who could say what miserable93 folly she might commit in the next four-and-twenty hours? The unavoidable necessity of his own return exasperated94 him; he wished to see her safe back in London, and under her father’s care.
‘No,’ he exclaimed, with a gesture of determination; ‘I can’t keep such a thing as this secret for another hour. Mother must know at once—especially as you mean to invite that fellow into the house again.—I have half a mind to telegraph to Godolphin that I can’t possibly be with him to-night.’
Sidwell regarded him and spoke with forced composure.
‘Do as seems right to you, Buckland. But don’t think that by remaining here you would prevent me from seeing Mr. Peak, if I wish to do so. That is treating me too much like a child. You have done your part—doubtless your duty; now I must reflect and judge for myself. Neither you nor anyone else has authority over me in such circumstances.’
‘Very well. I have no authority, as you say, but common sense bids me let mother know how the case stands.’
And angrily he left the room.
The Critical still lay where it had fallen. When Sidwell had stood a while in confused thought, her eye turned to it, and she went hurriedly to take it up. Yes, that was the first thing to be done, to read those pages with close care. For this she must have privacy. She ran upstairs and shut herself in her bedroom.
But did not at once begin to read. It concerned her deeply to know whether Peak had so expressed himself in this paper, that no room was left for doubt as to his convictions; but another question pressed upon her with even more urgency—could it be true that he did not love her? If Buckland were wholly right, then it mattered little in what degree she had been misled by intellectual hypocrisy.
It was impossible to believe that Peak had made love to her in cold blood, with none but sordid95 impulses. The thought was so humiliating that her mind resolutely97 rejected it; and she had no difficulty in recalling numberless minutiae98 of behaviour—nuances of look and tone such as abide99 in a woman’s memory—any one of which would have sufficed to persuade her that he felt genuine emotion. How had it come to pass that a feeling of friendly interest, which did not for a moment threaten her peace, changed all at once to an agitation only the more persistent100 the more she tried to subdue101 it,—how, if it were not that her heart responded to a passionate102 appeal, effectual as only the sincerest love can prove? Prior to that long talk with Godwin, on the eve of her departure for London, she had not imagined that he loved her; when they said good-bye to each other, she knew by her own sensations all that the parting meant to him. She felt glad, instead of sorry, that they were not to meet again for several months; for she wished to think of him calmly and prudently103, now that he presented himself to her imagination in so new an aspect. The hand-clasp was a mutual104 assurance of fidelity105.
‘I should never have loved him, if he had not first loved me. Of that I am as firmly convinced as of my own existence. It is not in my nature to dream romances. I never did so even as a young girl, and at this age I am not likely to fall into a foolish self-deception. I had often thought about him. He seemed to me a man of higher and more complex type than those with whom I was familiar; but most surely I never attributed to him even a corresponding interest in me. I am neither vain, nor very anxious to please; I never suffered because men did not woo me; I have only moderate good looks, and certainly no uncommon30 mental endowments.—If he had been attracted by Sylvia, I should have thought it natural; and I more than once suspected that Sylvia was disposed to like him. It seemed strange at first that his choice should have fallen upon me; yet when I was far away from him, and longed so to sit once more by him and hear him talk, I understood that it might be in my power to afford him the companionship he needed.—Mercenary? If I had been merely a governess in the house, he would have loved me just the same!’
Only by a painful effort could she remind herself that the ideal which had grown so slowly was now defaced. He loved her, but it was not the love of an honest man. After all, she had no need to peruse106 this writing of his; she remembered so well how it had impressed her when she read it on its first appearance, how her father had spoken of it. Buckland’s manifold evidence was irresistible107. Why should Peak have concealed108 his authorship? Why had he disappeared from among the people who thoroughly109 knew him?
She had loved a dream. What a task would it be to distinguish between those parts of Peak’s conversation which represented his real thoughts, and those which were mockery of his listeners! The plan of a retired110 life which he had sketched111 to her—was it all falsehood? Impossible, for his love was inextricably blended with the details. Did he imagine that the secret of his unbelief could be preserved for a lifetime, and that it would have no effect whatever upon his happiness as a man? This seemed a likely reading of the problem. But what a multitude of moral and intellectual obscurities remained! The character which had seemed to her nobly simple was become a dark and dread112 enigma113.
She knew so little of his life. If only it could all be laid bare to her, the secret of his position would be revealed. Buckland’s violence altogether missed its mark; the dishonour of such a man as Godwin Peak was due to no gross incentive114.
It was probable that, in talk with her father, he had been guilty of more deliberate misrepresentation than had marked his intercourse115 with the rest of the family. Her father, she felt sure, had come to regard him as a valuable source of argument in the battle against materialism116. Doubtless the German book, which Peak was translating, bore upon that debate, and consequently was used as an aid to dissimulation117. Thinking of this, she all but shared her brother’s vehement118 feeling. It pained her to the inmost heart that her father’s generous and candid119 nature should thus have been played upon. The deceit, as it concerned herself alone, she could forgive; at least she could suspend judgment until the accused had offered his defence—feeling that the psychology120 of the case must till then be beyond her powers of analysis. But the wrong done to her father revolted her.
A tap at the door caused her to rise, trembling. She remembered that by this time her mother must be aware of the extraordinary disclosure, and that a new scene of wretched agitation had to be gone through.
‘Sidwell!’
It was Mrs. Warricombe’s voice, and the door opened.
‘Sidwell!—What does all this mean? I don’t understand half that Buckland has been telling me.’
The speaker’s face was mottled, and she stood panting, a hand pressed against her side.
‘How very, very imprudent we have been! How wrong of father not to have made inquiries121! To think that such a man should have sat at our table!’
‘Sit down, mother; don’t be so distressed,’ said Sidwell, calmly. ‘It will all very soon be settled.’
‘Of course not a word must be said to anyone. How very fortunate that we shall be in London till the summer! Of course he must leave Exeter.’
‘I have no doubt he will. Let us talk as little of it as possible, mother. We shall go back tomorrow’——
‘This afternoon! We will go back with Buckland. That is decided7. I couldn’t sleep here another night.’
‘We must remain till tomorrow,’ Sidwell replied, with quiet determination.
‘Why? What reason can there be?’
Mrs. Warricombe’s voice was suspended by a horrible surmise122.
‘Of course we shall go today, Sidwell,’ she continued, in nervous haste. ‘To think of that man having the impudence to call and sit talking with you! If I could have dreamt’——
‘Mother,’ said Sidwell, gravely, ‘I am obliged to see Mr. Peak, either this evening or tomorrow morning.’
‘To—to see him——? Sidwell! What can you mean?’
‘I have a reason for wishing to hear from his own lips the whole truth.’
‘But we know the whole truth!—What can you be thinking of, dear? Who is this Mr. Peak that you should ask him to come and see you, under any circumstances?’
It would never have occurred to Sidwell to debate with her mother on subtle questions of character and motive, but the agitation of her nerves made it difficult for her to keep silence under these vapid123 outcries. She desired to be alone; commonplace discussion of the misery124 that had come upon her was impossible. A little more strain, and she would be on the point of tears, a weakness she was resolute96 to avoid.
‘Let me think quietly for an hour or two,’ she said, moving away. ‘It’s quite certain that I must stay here till tomorrow. When Buckland has gone, we can talk again.’
‘But, Sidwell’——
‘If you insist, I must leave the house, and find a refuge somewhere else.’
Mrs. Warricombe tossed her head.
‘Oh, if I am not permitted to speak to you! I only hope you won’t have occasion to remember my warning! Such extraordinary behaviour was surely never known! I should have thought’——
Sidwell was by this time out of the room. Safe in privacy she sat down as if to pen a letter. From an hour’s agitated125 thought, the following lines resulted:
‘My brother has told me of a conversation he held with you this morning. He says you admit the authorship of an article which seems quite inconsistent with what you have professed126 in our talks. How am I to understand this contradiction? I beg that you will write to me at once. I shall anxiously await your reply.’
This, with her signature, was all. Having enclosed the note in an envelope, she left it on her table and went down to the library, where Buckland was sitting alone in gloomy reverie. Mrs. Warricombe had told him of Sidwell’s incredible purpose. Recognising his sister’s independence, and feeling sure that if she saw Peak it could only be to take final leave of him, he had decided to say no more. To London he must perforce return this afternoon, but he had done his duty satisfactorily, and just in time. It was plain that things had gone far between Peak and Sidwell; the latter’s behaviour avowed it. But danger there could be none, with ‘The New Sophistry’ staring her in the eyes. Let her see the fellow, by all means. His evasions127 and hair-splittings would complete her deliverance.
‘There’s a train at 1.53,’ Buckland remarked, rising, ‘and I shall catch it if I start now. I can’t stay for the discomfort128 of luncheon. You remain here till tomorrow, I understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a pity you are angry with me. It seems to me I have done you a kindness.’
‘I am not angry with you, Buckland,’ she replied, gently. ‘You have done what you were plainly obliged to do.’
‘That’s a sensible way of putting it. Let us say goodbye with friendliness129 then.’
Sidwell gave her hand, and tried to smile. With a look of pained affection, Buckland went silently away.
Shortly after, Sidwell fetched her note from upstairs, and gave it to the housekeeper130 to be delivered by hand as soon as possible. Mrs Warricombe remained invisible, and Sidwell went back to the library, where she sat with The Critical open before her at Godwin’s essay.
Hours went by; she still waited for an answer from Longbrook Street.
At six o’clock she went upstairs and spoke to her mother.
‘Shall you come down to dinner?’
‘No, Sidwell,’ was the cold reply. ‘Be so good as to excuse me.
Towards eight, a letter was brought to her; it could only be from Godwin Peak. With eyes which endeavoured to take in all at once, and therefore could at first distinguish nothing, she scanned what seemed to be hurriedly written lines.
‘I have tried to answer you in a long letter, but after all I can’t send it. I fear you wouldn’t understand. Better to repeat simply that I wrote the article you speak of. I should have told you about it some day, but now my intentions and hopes matter nothing. Whatever I said now would seem dishonest pleading. Good-bye.’
She read this so many times that at length she had but to close her eyes to see every word clearly traced on the darkness. The meanings she extracted from each sentence were scarcely less numerous than her perusals. In spite of reason, this enigmatic answer brought her some solace131. He could defend himself; that was the assurance she had longed for. Impossible (she again and again declared to herself with emphasis) for their intimacy132 to be resumed. But in secret she could hold him, if not innocent, at all events not base. She had not bestowed133 her love upon a mere impostor.
But now a mournful, regretful passion began to weigh upon her heart. She shed tears, and presently stole away to her room for a night of sorrow.
What must be her practical course? If she went back to London without addressing another word to him, he must understand her silence as a final farewell. In that case his departure from Exeter would, no doubt, speedily follow, and there was little likelihood that she would ever again see him. Were Godwin a vulgar schemer, he would not so readily relinquish134 the advantage he had gained; he would calculate upon the weakness of a loving woman, and make at least one effort to redeem135 his position. As it was, she could neither hope nor fear that he would try to see her again. Yet she wished to see him, desired it ardently136.
And yet—for each impulse of ardour was followed by a cold fit of reasoning—might not his abandonment of the position bear a meaning such as Buckland would of course attribute to it? If he were hopeless of the goodwill of her parents, what profit would it be to him to retain her love? She was no heiress; supposing him actuated by base motive, her value in his eyes came merely of his regarding her as a means to an end.
But this was to reopen the question of whether or not he truly loved her. No; he was forsaking137 her because he thought it impossible for her to pardon the deceit he had undeniably practised—with whatever palliating circumstances. He was overcome with shame. He imagined her indignant, scornful.
Why had she written such a short, cold note, the very thing to produce in his mind a conviction of her resentment?
Hereupon came another paroxysm of tearful misery. It was intensified138 by a thought she had half consciously been repressing ever since the conversation with her brother. Was it true that Miss Moxey had had it in her power to strip Godwin of a disguise? What, then, were the relations existing between him and that strangely impressive woman? How long had they known each other? It was now all but certain that a strong intellectual sympathy united their minds—and perhaps there had been something more.
She turned her face upon the pillow and moaned.
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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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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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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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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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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12
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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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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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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25
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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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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27
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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30
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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31
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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32
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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33
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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37
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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38
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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40
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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41
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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42
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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43
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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44
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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45
overrode
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| 越控( override的过去式 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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46
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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47
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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48
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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49
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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50
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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51
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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52
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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53
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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54
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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55
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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56
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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57
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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59
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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60
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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61
ridicules
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| n.嘲笑( ridicule的名词复数 )；奚落；嘲弄；戏弄v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的第三人称单数 ) | |
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62
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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63
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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64
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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65
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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66
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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67
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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68
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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69
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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71
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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72
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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73
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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74
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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75
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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76
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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77
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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79
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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80
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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81
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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82
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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83
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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84
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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85
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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86
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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87
viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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89
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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91
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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92
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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93
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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98
minutiae
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| n.微小的细节，细枝末节；（常复数）细节，小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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99
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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100
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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101
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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102
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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103
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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104
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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105
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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106
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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108
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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109
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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111
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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112
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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113
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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114
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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115
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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116
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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117
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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118
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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119
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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120
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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121
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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122
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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123
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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125
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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126
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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127
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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128
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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129
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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130
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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131
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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132
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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133
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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135
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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136
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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137
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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138
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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