Born in Exile (43 page)

'Don't trouble yourself so much about insoluble questions. Try
to be more positive—I don't say become a Positivist. Keep a
receptive mind, and wait for time to shape your views of things. I
see that London has agitated and confused you; you have lost your
bearings amid the maze of contradictory finger-posts. If you were
here I could soothe you with Sylvian (much the same as sylvan)
philosophy, but I can't write.'

Here the letter was to have ended, for on the line beneath was
legible 'Give my love to Fanny', but this again had been crossed
out, and there followed a long paragraph:

I have been reading a book about ants. Perhaps you know all the
wonderful things about them, but I had neglected that branch of
natural history. Their doings are astonishingly like those of an
animal called man, and it seems to me that I have discovered one
point of resemblance which perhaps has never been noted. Are you
aware that at an early stage of their existence ants have wings?
They fly—how shall I express it?—only for the brief time of their
courtship and marriage and when these important affairs are
satisfactorily done with their wings wither away, and thenceforth
they have to content themselves with running about on the earth.
Now isn't this a remarkable parallel to one stage of human life? Do
not men and women also soar and flutter—at a certain time? And
don't their wings manifestly drop off as soon as the end of that
skyward movement has been achieved? If the gods had made me
poetical, I would sonnetise on this idea. Do you know any poet with
a fondness for the ant-philosophy? If so, offer him this suggestion
with liberty to "make any use of it he likes".

'But the fact of the matter is that some human beings are never
winged at all. I am decidedly coming to the conclusion that I am
one of those. Think of me henceforth as an apteryx—you have a
dictionary at hand? Like the tailless fox, I might naturally
maintain that my state is the more gracious, but honestly I am not
assured of that. It may be (I half believe it is) a good thing to
soar and flutter, and at times I regret that nature has forbidden
me that experience. Decidedly I would never try to
persuade
anyone else
to forego the use of wings. Bear this in mind, my
dear girl. But I suspect that in time to come there will be an
increasing number of female human creatures who from their birth
are content with
walking
. Not long ago, I had occasion to
hint that—though under another figure—to your brother Buckland. I
hope he understood me—I think he did—and that he wasn't
offended.

'I had something to tell you. I have forgotten it—never
mind.'

And therewith the odd epistle was concluded. Sidwell perused the
latter part several times. Of course she was at no loss to
interpret it. Buckland's demeanour for the past two months had led
her to surmise that his latest visit to Budleigh Salterton had
finally extinguished the hopes which drew him in that direction.
His recent censure of Sylvia might be thus explained. She grieved
that her brother's suit should be discouraged, but could not
persuade herself that Sylvia's decision was final. The idea of a
match between those two was very pleasant to her. For Buckland she
imagined it would be fraught with good results, and for Sylvia, on
the whole, it might be the best thing.

Before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed, and
Christmas was at hand. Again she had been much in society. Mr.
Walsh had renewed his unmistakable attentions, and, when her manner
of meeting them began to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the
air by making a formal offer of marriage. Sidwell's negative was
absolute, much to her mother's relief. On the day of that event,
she wrote rather a long letter to Sylvia, but Mr. Walsh's name was
not mentioned in it.

'Mother tells me [it began] that
your
mother has written
to her from Salisbury, and that you yourself are going there for a
stay of some weeks. I am sorry, for on the Monday after Christmas
Day I shall be in Exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you.
We—mother and I—are going to run down together, to see after
certain domestic affairs; only for three days at most.

'Your ant-letter was very amusing, but it saddened me, dear
Sylvia. I can't make any answer. On these subjects it is very
difficult even for the closest friends to open their minds to each
other. I don't—and don't wish to—believe in the
apteryx
profession; that's all I must say.

'My health has been indifferent since I last wrote. We live in
all but continuous darkness, and very seldom indeed breathe
anything that can be called air. No doubt this state of things has
its effect on me. I look forwards, not to the coming of spring, for
here we shall see nothing of its beauties, but to the month which
will release us from London. I want to smell the pines again, and
to see the golden gorse in
our
road.

'By way of being more "positive", I have read much in the
newspapers, supplementing from them my own experience of London
society. The result is that I am more and more confirmed in the
fears with which I have already worried you. Two movements are
plainly going on in the life of our day. The decay of religious
belief is undermining morality, and the progress of Radicalism in
politics is working to the same end by overthrowing social
distinctions. Evidence stares one in the face from every column of
the papers. Of course you have read more or less about the recent
"scandal"—I mean the
most
recent.—It isn't the kind of thing
one cares to discuss, but we can't help knowing about it, and does
it not strongly support what I say? Here is materialism sinking
into brutal immorality, and high social rank degrading itself by
intimacy with the corrupt vulgar. There are newspapers that make
political capital out of these "revelations".

I have read some of them, and they make me so
fiercely
aristocratic that I find it hard to care anything at all even for
the humanitarian efforts of people I respect. You will tell me, I
know, that this is quite the wrong way of looking at it. But the
evils are so monstrous that it is hard to fix one's mind on the
good that may long hence result from them.

'I cling to the essential (that is the
spiritual
) truths
of Christianity as the only absolute good left in our time. I would
say that I care nothing for forms, but some form there must be,
else one's faith evaporates. It has become very easy for me to
understand how men and women who know the world refuse to believe
any longer in a directing Providence. A week ago I again met Miss
Moxey at the Walworths', and talked with her more freely than
before. This conversation showed me that I have become much more
tolerant towards individuals. But though this or that person may be
supported by moral sense alone, the world cannot dispense with
religion. If it tries to—and it
will
—there are dreadful
times before us.

'I wish I were a man! I would do something, however ineffectual.
I would stand on the side of those who are fighting against
mob-rule and mob-morals. How would you like to see Exeter Cathedral
converted into a "coffee music-hall"? And that will come.'

Reading this, Sylvia had the sense of listening to an echo. Some
of the phrases recalled to her quite a different voice from
Sidwell's. She smiled and mused.

On the morning appointed for her journey to Exeter Sidwell rose
early, and in unusually good spirits. Mrs. Warricombe was less
animated by the prospect of five hours in a railway carriage, for
London had a covering of black snow, and it seemed likely that more
would fall. Martin suggested postponement, but circumstances made
this undesirable.

'Let Fanny go with me,' proposed Sidwell, just after breakfast.
'I can see to everything perfectly well, mother.'

But Fanny hastened to decline. She was engaged for a dance on
the morrow.

'Then I'll run down with you myself, Sidwell,' said her
father.

Mrs. Warricombe looked at the weather and hesitated. There were
strong reasons why she should go, and they determined her to brave
discomforts.

It chanced that the morning post had brought Mr. Warricombe a
letter from Godwin Peak. It was a reply to one that he had written
with Christmas greetings; a kindness natural in him, for he had
remembered that the young man was probably hard at work in his
lonely lodgings. He spoke of it privately to his wife.

'A very good letter—thoughtful and cheerful. You're not likely
to see him, but if you happen to, say a pleasant word.'

'I shouldn't have written, if I were you,' remarked Mrs.
Warricombe.

'Why not? I was only thinking the other day that he contrasted
very favourably with the younger generation as we observe it here.
Yes, I have faith in Peak. There's the right stuff in him.'

'Oh, I daresay. But still'——

And Mrs. Warricombe went away with an air of misgiving.

In volunteering a promise not to inform her brother of Peak's
singular position, Marcella spoke with sincerity. She was prompted
by incongruous feelings—a desire to compel Godwin's gratitude, and
disdain of the circumstances in which she had discovered him. There
seemed to be little likelihood of Christian's learning from any
other person that she had met with Peak at Budleigh Salterton; he
had, indeed, dined with her at the Walworths', and might improve
his acquaintance with that family, but it was improbable that they
would ever mention in his hearing the stranger who had casually
been presented to them, or indeed ever again think of him. If she
held her peace, the secret of Godwin's retirement must still remain
impenetrable. He would pursue his ends as hitherto, thinking of
her
, if at all, as a weak woman who had immodestly betrayed
a hopeless passion, and who could be trusted never to wish him
harm.

That was Marcella's way of reading a man's thoughts. She did not
attribute to Peak the penetration which would make him uneasy. In
spite of masculine proverbs, it is the habit of women to suppose
that the other sex regards them confidingly, ingenuously. Marcella
was unusually endowed with analytic intelligence, but in this case
she believed what she hoped. She knew that Peak's confidence in her
must be coloured with contempt, but this mattered little so long as
he paid her the compliment of feeling sure that she was superior to
ignoble temptations. Many a woman would behave with treacherous
malice. It was in her power to expose him, to confound all his
schemes, for she knew the authorship of that remarkable paper in
The Critical Review
. Before receiving Peak's injunction of
secrecy, Earwaker had talked of 'The New Sophistry' with Moxey and
with Malkin; the request came too late. In her interview with
Godwin at the Exeter hotel, she had not even hinted at this
knowledge, partly because she was unconscious that Peak imagined
the affair a secret between himself and Earwaker, partly because
she thought it unworthy of her even to seem to threaten. It
gratified her, however, to feel that he was at her mercy, and the
thought preoccupied her for many days.

Passion which has the intellect on its side is more easily
endured than that which offers sensual defiance to all reasoning,
but on the other hand it lasts much longer. Marcella was not
consumed by her emotions; she often thought calmly, coldly, of the
man she loved. Yet he was seldom long out of her mind, and the
instigation of circumstances at times made her suffering intense.
Such an occasion was her first meeting with Sidwell Warricombe,
which took place at the Walworths', in London. Down in Devonshire
she had learnt that a family named Warricombe were Peak's intimate
friends; nothing more than this, for indeed no one was in a
position to tell her more. Wakeful jealousy caused her to fix upon
the fact as one of significance; Godwin's evasive manner when she
questioned him confirmed her suspicions; and as soon as she was
brought face to face with Sidwell, suspicion became certainty. She
knew at once that Miss Warricombe was the very person who would be
supremely attractive to Godwin Peak.

An interval of weeks, and again she saw the face that in the
meantime had been as present to her imagination as Godwin's own
features. This time she conversed at some length with Miss
Warricombe. Was it merely a fancy that the beautiful woman looked
at her, spoke to her, with some exceptional interest? By now she
had learnt that the Moorhouses and the Warricombes were connected
in close friendship: it was all but certain, then, that Miss
Moorhouse had told Miss Warricombe of Peak's visit to Budleigh
Salterton, and its incidents. Could this in any way be explanatory
of the steady, searching look in those soft eyes?

Marcella had always regarded the emotion of jealousy as
characteristic of a vulgar nature. Now that it possessed her, she
endeavoured to call it by other names; to persuade herself that she
was indignant on abstract grounds, or anxious only with reference
to Peak's true interests. She could not affect surprise. So
intensely sympathetic was her reading of Godwin's character that
she understood—or at all events recognised—the power Sidwell would
possess over him. He did not care for enlightenment in a woman; he
was sensual—though in a subtle way; the aristocratic vein in his
temper made him subject to strong impressions from trivialities of
personal demeanour, of social tone.

Yet all was mere conjecture. She had not dared to utter Peak's
name, lest in doing so she should betray herself. Constantly
planning to make further discoveries, she as constantly tried to
dismiss all thought of the matter—to learn indifference. Already
she had debased herself, and her nature must be contemptible indeed
if anything could lure her forward on such a path.

None the less, she was assiduous in maintaining friendly
relations with the Walworths. Christian, too, had got into the
habit of calling there; it was significant of the noticeable change
which was come upon him—a change his sister was at no loss to
understand from the moment that he informed her (gravely, but
without expressiveness) of Mr. Palmer's death. Instead of shunning
ordinary society, he seemed bent on extending the circle of his
acquaintance. He urged Marcella to invite friendly calls, to have
guests at dinner. There seemed to be a general revival of his
energies, exhibited in the sphere of study as well as of amusement.
Not a day went by without his purchasing books or scientific
apparatus, and the house was brightened with works of art chosen in
the studios which Miss Walworth advised him to visit. All the
amiabilities of his character came into free play; with Marcella he
was mirthful, affectionate, even caressing. He grew scrupulous
about his neckties, his gloves, and was careful to guard his
fingers against corroding acids when he worked in the laboratory.
Such indications of hopefulness caused Marcella more misgiving than
pleasure; she made no remark, but waited with anxiety for some
light on the course of events.