Born in Exile (49 page)

He drew from his pocket the incriminating periodical, turned it
back at the article headed 'The New Sophistry', and held it out for
inspection.

'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 secrecy. On the other hand, it might be
Earwaker himself from whom Warricombe had derived 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 rascality 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 uncommonly 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 goodwill, 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 re-read this essay—I have marked the significant
passages throughout—and will form his own judgment; I know what it
will be.'

'You are within your rights.'

'Undoubtedly,' replied Buckland, with polished insolence, 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 disastrous
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 surmounted. 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 determined 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 utterly distasteful to you, and personal motives 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
audacity of rascaldom; he preferred to understand it so; but it
might
have nothing to do with baseness.

'Confound it!' he muttered to himself, irritably. 'In our times
life is so deucedly complicated. It used to be the easiest thing to
convict a man of religious hypocrisy; 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 precisely 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 desperately 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 overrode all thought of the
pain he might inflict.

She was in the library. At breakfast he had noticed her heavy
eyes, and that she made only a pretence 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 to-day?' he asked.

'Yes; after luncheon she will go out for an hour, if it keeps
fine.'

'And to-morrow you return?'

'If mother feels able to travel.'

He had
The Critical
in his hand, and stood rustling 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
cynical.'

'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 spoke 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 edify you with his zeal
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 bent 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 impudence I hardly expected.'

'Do you mean that he has made no attempt to justify
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 perfectly 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 mere 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 folly.

'It seems pretty clear that the Moxeys—at all events Miss
Moxey—knew the rascally 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, abruptly:

'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 ridicules
religion.'

'It is decidedly more probable than the idea of his
conversion.'

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 plausible 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 defender of mediaeval
Christianity—the Christianity of your churches. Such fellows may
transact 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 symbolical interpretations. 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 chuckled after every visit to this
house! He despises you, one and all. Believe me, he regards you
with profound contempt.'

Buckland's obtuseness on the imaginative side spared him the
understanding of his sister's state of mind. Though in theory he
recognised that women were little amenable to reasoning, he took it
for granted that a clear demonstration of Peak's duplicity must at
once banish all thought of him from Sidwell's mind. Therefore he
was unsparing in his assaults upon her delusion. 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 clergy 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 contemptible surely can't distress 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
proceedings. He has somehow got the exterior of a gentleman; you
could not believe that one who behaved so agreeably and talked so
well was concealing an essentially 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.'