Born in Exile (31 page)

That a figure such as Godwin Peak, a young man of vigorous
intellect, preparing to devote his life to the old religion, should
excite Mr. Warricombe's interest was of course to be anticipated;
and it seemed probable enough that Peak, exerting all the force of
his character and aided by circumstances, might before long convert
this advantage to a means of ascendency over the less self-reliant
nature. But here was no instance of a dotard becoming the easy prey
of a scientific Tartufe. Martin's intellect had suffered no decay.
His hale features and dignified bearing expressed the mind which
was ripened by sixty years of pleasurable activity, and which was
learning to regard with steadier view the problems it had hitherto
shirked. He could not change the direction nature had given to his
thoughts, and prepossession would in some degree obscure his
judgment where the merits and trustworthiness of a man in Peak's
circumstances called for scrutiny; but self-respect guarded him
against vulgar artifices, and a fine sensibility made it improbable
that he would become the victim of any man in whom base motives
predominated.

Left to his own impulses, he would still have proceeded with all
caution in his offers of friendly services to Peak. A letter of
carefully-worded admonition, which he received from his son,
apprising him of Peak's resolve to transfer himself to Exeter,
scarcely affected his behaviour when the young man appeared. It was
but natural—he argued—that Buckland should look askance on a case
of 'conversion'; for his own part, he understood that such a step
might be prompted by interest, but he found it difficult to believe
that to a man in Peak's position, the Church would offer temptation
thus coercive. Nor could he discern in the candidate for a curacy
any mark of dishonourable purpose. Faults, no doubt, were
observable, among them a tendency to spiritual pride—which seemed
(Martin could admit) an argument for, rather than against, his
sincerity. The progress of acquaintance decidedly confirmed his
favourable impressions; they were supported by the remarks of those
among his friends to whom Peak presently became known.

It was not until Whitsuntide of the next year, when the student
had been living nearly five months at Exeter, that Buckland again
came down to visit his relatives. On the evening of his arrival,
chancing to be alone with Sidwell, he asked her if Peak had been to
the house lately.

'Not many days ago,' replied his sister, 'he lunched with us,
and then sat with father for some time.'

'Does he come often?'

'Not very often. He is translating a German book which interests
father very much.'

'Oh, what book?'

'I don't know. Father has only mentioned it in that way.'

They were in a little room sacred to the two girls, very
daintily furnished and fragrant of sweet-brier, which Sidwell loved
so much that, when the season allowed it, she often wore a little
spray of it at her girdle. Buckland opened a book on the table,
and, on seeing the title, exclaimed with a disparaging laugh:

'I can't get out of the way of this fellow M'Naughten! Wherever
I go, there he lies about on the tables and chairs. I should have
thought he was thoroughly smashed by an article that came out in
The Critical
last year.'

Sidwell smiled, evidently in no way offended.

'That article could "smash" nobody,' she made answer. 'It was
too violent; it overshot the mark.'

'Not a bit of it!—So you read it, eh? You're beginning to read,
are you?'

'In my humble way, Buckland.'

'M'Naughten, among other things. Humble enough, that, I
admit.'

'I am not a great admirer of M'Naughten,' returned his sister,
with a look of amusement.

'No? I congratulate you.—I wonder what Peak thinks of the
book?'

'I really don't know.'

'Then let me ask another question. What do you think of
Peak?'

Sidwell regarded him with quiet reflectiveness.

'I feel,' she said, 'that I don't know him very well yet. He is
certainly interesting.'

'Yes, he is. Does he impress you as the kind of man likely to
make a good clergyman?'

'I don't see any reason why he should not.'

Her brother mused, with wrinkles of dissatisfaction on his
brow.

'Father gets to like him, you say?'

'Yes, I think father likes him.'

'Well, I suppose it's all right.'

'All right?'

'It's the most astounding thing that ever came under my
observation,' exclaimed Buckland, walking away and then
returning.

'That Mr. Peak should be studying for the Church?'

'Yes.'

'But do reflect more modestly!' urged Sidwell, with something
that was not quite archness, though as near it as her habits of
tone and feature would allow. 'Why should you refuse to admit an
error in your own way of looking at things? Wouldn't it be better
to take this as a proof that intellect isn't necessarily at war
with Christianity?'

'I never stated it so broadly as that,' returned her brother,
with impatience. 'But I should certainly have maintained that
Peak's
intellect was necessarily in that position.'

'And you see how wrong you would have been,' remarked the girl,
softly.

'Well—I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'I mean that I can't acknowledge what I can't understand.'

'Then do try to understand, Buckland!—Have you ever put aside
your prejudice for a moment to inquire what our religion really
means? Not once, I think—at all events, not since you reached years
of discretion.'

'Allow me to inform you that I studied the question thoroughly
at Cambridge.'

'Yes, yes; but that was in your boyhood.'

'And when does manhood begin?'

'At different times in different persons. In your case it was
late.'

Buckland laughed. He was considering a rejoinder, when they were
interrupted by the appearance of Fanny, who asked at once:

'Shall you go to see Mr. Peak this evening, Buckland?'

'I'm in no hurry,' was the abrupt reply.

The girl hesitated.

'Let us all have a drive together—with Mr. Peak, I mean—like
when you were here last.'

'We'll see about it.'

Buckland went slowly from the room.

Late the same evening he sat with his father in the study. Mr
Warricombe knew not the solace of tobacco, and his son, though
never quite at ease without pipe or cigar, denied himself in this
room, with the result that he shifted frequently upon his chair and
fell into many awkward postures.

'And how does Peak impress you?' he inquired, when the subject
he most wished to converse upon had been postponed to many others.
It was clear that Martin would not himself broach it.

'Not disagreeably,' was the reply, with a look of frankness,
perhaps over-emphasised.

'What is he doing? I have only heard from him once since he came
down, and he had very little to say about himself.'

'I understand that he proposes to take the London B.A.'

'Oh, then, he never did that? Has he unbosomed himself to you
about his affairs of old time?'

'No. Such confidences are hardly called for.'

'Speaking plainly, father, you don't feel any uneasiness?'

Martin deliberated, fingering the while an engraved stone which
hung upon his watch-guard. He was at a disadvantage in this
conversation. Aware that Buckland regarded the circumstances of
Peak's sojourn in the neighbourhood with feelings allied to
contempt, he could neither adopt the tone of easy confidence
natural to him on other occasions of difference in opinion, nor
express himself with the coldness which would have obliged his son
to quit the subject.

'Perhaps you had better tell me,' he replied, 'whether
you
are really uneasy.'

It was impossible for Buckland to answer as his mind prompted.
He could not without offence declare that no young man of brains
now adopted a clerical career with pure intentions, yet such was
his sincere belief. Made tolerant in many directions by the
cultivation of his shrewdness, he was hopelessly biassed in
judgment as soon as his anti-religious prejudice came into play—a
point of strong resemblance between him and Peak. After fidgeting
for a moment, he exclaimed:

'Yes, I am; but I can't be sure that there's any cause for
it.'

'Let us come to matters of fact,' said Mr. Warricombe, showing
that he was not sorry to discuss this side of the affair. 'I
suppose there is no doubt that Peak had a position till lately at
the place he speaks of?'

'No doubt whatever. I have taken pains to ascertain that. His
account of himself, so far, is strictly true.'

Martin smiled, with satisfaction he did not care to
disguise.

'Have you met some acquaintance of his?'

'Well,' answered Buckland, changing his position, 'I went to
work in rather an underhand way, perhaps—but the results are
satisfactory. No, I haven't come across any of his friends, but I
happened to hear not long ago that he was on intimate terms with
some journalists.'

His father laughed.

'Anything compromising in that association, Buckland?'

'I don't say that—though the fellows I speak of are hot
Radicals.'

'Though?'

'I mean,' replied the young man, with his shrewder smile, 'that
they are not exactly the companions a theological student would
select.'

'I understand. Possibly he has journalised a little
himself?'

'That I can't say, though I should have thought it likely
enough. I might, of course, find out much more about him, but it
seemed to me that to have assurance of his truthfulness in that one
respect was enough for the present.'

'Do you mean, Buckland,' asked his father, gravely, 'that you
have been setting secret police at work?'

'Well, yes. I thought it the least objectionable way of getting
information.'

Martin compressed his lips and looked disapproval.

'I really can't see that such extreme measures were demanded.
Come, come; what is all this about? Do you suspect him of planning
burglaries? That was an ill-judged step, Buckland; decidedly
ill-judged. I said just now that Peak impressed me by no means
disagreeably. Now I will add that I am convinced of his good
faith—as sure of it as I am of his remarkable talents and aptitude
for the profession he aims at. In spite of your extraordinary
distrust, I can't feel a moment's doubt of his honour. Why, I could
have told you myself that he has known Radical journalists. He
mentioned it the other day, and explained how far his sympathy went
with that kind of thing. No, no; that was hardly permissible,
Buckland.'

The young man had no difficulty in bowing to his father's
reproof when the point at issue was one of gentlemanly
behaviour.

'I admit it,' he replied. 'I wish I had gone to Rotherhithe and
made simple inquiries in my own name. That, all things considered,
I might have allowed myself; at all events, I shouldn't have been
at ease without getting that assurance. If Peak had heard, and had
said to me, "What the deuce do you mean?" I should have told him
plainly, what I have strongly hinted to him already, that I don't
understand what he is doing in this galley.'

'And have placed yourself in a position not easy to define.'

'No doubt.'

'All this arises, my boy,' resumed Martin, in a tone of grave
kindness, 'from your strange inability to grant that on certain
matters you may be wholly misled.'

'It does.'

'Well, well; that is forbidden ground. But do try to be less
narrow. Are you unable then to meet Peak in a friendly way?'

'Oh, by no means! It seems more than likely that I have wronged
him.'

'Well said! Keep your mind open. I marvel at the dogmatism of
men who are set on overthrowing dogma. Such a position is so
strangely unphilosophic that I don't know how a fellow of your
brains can hold it for a moment. If I were not afraid of angering
you,' Martin added, in his pleasantest tone, 'I would quote the
Master of Trinity.'

'A capital epigram, but it is repeated too often.'

Mr. Warricombe shook his head, and with a laugh rose to say
good-night.

'It's a great pity,' he remarked next day to Sidwell, who had
been saying that her brother seemed less vivacious than usual,
'that Buckland is defective on the side of humour. For a man who
claims to be philosophical he takes things with a rather obtuse
seriousness. I know nothing better than humour as a protection
against the kind of mistake he is always committing.'

The application of this was not clear to Sidwell.

'Has something happened to depress him?' she asked.

'Not that I know of. I spoke only of his general tendency to
intemperate zeal. That is enough to account for intervals of
reaction. And how much sounder his judgment of men would be if he
could only see through a medium of humour now and then! You know he
is going over to Budleigh Salterton this afternoon?'

Sidwell smiled, and said quietly:

'I thought it likely he would.'

At Budleigh Salterton, a nook on the coast some fifteen miles
away, Sylvia Moorhouse was now dwelling. Her mother, a widow of
substantial means, had recently established herself there, in the
proximity of friends, and the mathematical brother made his home
with them. That Buckland took every opportunity of enjoying
Sylvia's conversation was no secret; whether the predilection was
mutual, none of his relatives could say, for in a matter such as
this Buckland was by nature disposed to reticence. Sidwell's
intimacy with Miss Moorhouse put her in no better position than the
others for forming an opinion; she could only suspect that the
irony which flavoured Sylvia's talk with and concerning the
Radical, intimated a lurking kindness. Buckland's preference was
easily understood, and its growth for five or six years seemed to
promise stability.