Born in Exile (64 page)

'Too placid, too calmly prudent.—In plain words, Sidwell, I do
think better of you.'

Sidwell smiled.

'Only to know me henceforth as the woman who did not dare to act
upon her best impulses.'

'As for "best"—I can't say. I don't glorify passion, as you
know; and on the other hand I have little sympathy with the people
who are always crying out for self-sacrifice. I don't know whether
it would be "best" to throw over your family, or to direct yourself
solely with regard to their comfort.'

Sidwell broke in.

'Yes, that is the true phrase—"their comfort". No higher word
should be used. That is the ideal of the life to which I have been
brought up. Comfort, respectability.—And has
he
no right? If
I sacrifice myself to father and mother, do I not sacrifice
him
as well? He has forfeited all claim to
consideration—that is what people say. With my whole soul, I deny
it! If he sinned against anyone, it was against me, and the sin
ended as soon as I understood him. That episode in his life is
blotted out; by what law must it condemn to imperfection the whole
of his life and of my own? Yet because people will not, cannot,
look at a thing in a spirit of justice, I must wrong myself and
him.'

'Let us think of it more quietly,' said Sylvia, in her clear,
dispassionate tones. 'You speak as though a decision must be taken
at once. Where is the necessity for that? Mr. Peak is now
independent. Suppose a year or two be allowed to pass, may not
things look differently?'

'A year or two!' exclaimed Sidwell, with impatience. 'Nothing
will be changed. What I have to contend against is unchangeable. If
I guide myself by such a hope as that, the only reasonable thing
would be for me to write to Mr. Peak, and ask him to wait until my
father and mother are dead.'

'Very well. On that point we are at rest, then. The step must be
taken at once, or never.'

The wind roared, and for some minutes no other sound was
audible. By this [Updater's note: the word "time" missing?], all
the inmates of the house save the two friends were in bed, and most
likely sleeping.

'You must think it strange,' said Sidwell, 'that I have chosen
to tell you all this, just when the confession is most humiliating
to me. I want to feel the humiliation, as one only can when another
is witness of it. I wish to leave myself no excuse for the
future.'

'I'm not sure that I quite understand you. You have made up your
mind to break with him?'

'Because I am a coward.'

'If my feeling in any matter were as strong as that, I should
allow it to guide me.'

'Because your will is stronger. You, Sylvia, would never (in my
position) have granted him that second interview. You would have
known that all was at an end, and have acted upon the knowledge. I
knew it, but yielded to temptation—at
his
expense. I could
not let him leave me, though that would have been kindest. I held
him by a promise, basely conscious that retreat was always open to
me. And now I shall have earned his contempt'——

Her voice failed. Sylvia, affected by the outbreak of emotion in
one whom she had always known so strong in self-command, spoke with
a deeper earnestness.

'Dear, do you wish me to help you against what you call your
cowardice? I cannot take it upon me to encourage you until your own
will has spoken. The decision must come from yourself. Choose what
course you may, I am still your friend. I have no idle prejudices,
and no social bonds. You know how I wish you to come away with me;
now I see only more clearly how needful it is for you to breathe
new air. Yes, you have outgrown these conditions, just as your
brothers have, just as Fanny will—indeed has. Take to-night to
think of it. If you can decide to travel with me for a year, be
frank with Mr. Peak, and ask him to wait so long—till you have made
up your mind. He cannot reasonably find fault with you, for he
knows all you have to consider. Won't this be best?'

Sidwell was long silent.

'I will go with you,' she said at last, in a low voice. 'I will
ask him to grant me perfect liberty for a year.'

When she came down next morning it was Sidwell's intention to
seek a private interview with her father, and make known her
resolve to go abroad with Sylvia; but Mr. Warricombe anticipated
her.

'Will you come to the library after breakfast, Sidwell?' he
said, on meeting her in the hall.

She interpreted his tone, and her heart misgave her. An hour
later she obeyed the summons. Martin greeted her with a smile, but
hardly tried to appear at ease.

'I am obliged to speak to you,' were his first words. 'The
letter you had yesterday was from Mr. Peak?'

'Yes, father.'

'Is he'—Mr. Warricombe hesitated—'in these parts again?'

'No; in Lancashire.'

'Sidwell, I claim no right whatever to control your
correspondence; but it was a shock to me to find that you are in
communication with him.'

'He wrote,' Sidwell replied with difficulty, 'to let me know of
a change that has come upon his prospects. By the death of a
friend, he is made independent.'

'For his own sake, I am glad to hear that. But how could it
concern
you
, dear?'

She struggled to command herself.

'It was at my invitation that he wrote, father.'

Martin's face expressed grave concern.

'Sidwell! Is this right?'

She was very pale, and kept her eyes unmovingly directed just
aside from her father.

'What can it mean?' Mr. Warricombe pursued, with sad
remonstrance. 'Will you not take me into your confidence,
Sidwell?'

'I can't speak of it,' she replied, with sudden determination.
'Least of all with you, father.'

'Least of all?—I thought we were very near to each other.'

'For that very reason, I can't speak to you of this. I must be
left free! I am going away with Sylvia, for a year, and for so long
I
must
be absolutely independent. Father, I entreat you not
to'——

A sob checked her. She turned away, and fought against the
hysterical tendency; but it was too strong to be controlled. Her
father approached, beseeching her to be more like herself. He held
her in his arms, until tears had their free course, and a measure
of calmness returned.

'I can't speak to you about it,' she repeated, her face hidden
from him. 'I must write you a long letter, when I have gone. You
shall know everything in that way.'

'But, my dearest, I can't let you leave us under these
circumstances. This is a terrible trial to me. You cannot possibly
go until we understand each other!'

'Then I will write to you here—to-day or to-morrow.'

With this promise Martin was obliged to be contented, Sidwell
left him, and was not seen, except by Sylvia, during the whole
day.

Nor did she appear at breakfast on the morning that followed.
But when this meal was over, Sylvia received a message, summoning
her to the retreat on the top of the house. Here Sidwell sat in the
light and warmth, a glass door wide open to the west, the rays of a
brilliant sun softened by curtains which fluttered lightly in the
breeze from the sea.

'Will you read this?' she said, holding out a sheet of notepaper
on which were a few lines in her own handwriting.

It was a letter, beginning—'I cannot.'

Sylvia perused it carefully, and stood in thought.

'After all?' were the words with which she broke silence. They
were neither reproachful nor regretful, but expressed grave
interest.

'In the night,' said Sidwell, 'I wrote to father, but I shall
not give him the letter. Before it was finished, I knew that I must
write
this
. There's no more to be said, dear. You will go
abroad without me—at all events for the present.'

'If that is your resolve,' answered the other, quietly, 'I shall
keep my word, and only do what I can to aid it.' She sat down
shielding her eyes from the sunlight with a Japanese fan. 'After
all, Sidwell, there's much to be said for a purpose formed on such
a morning as this; one can't help distrusting the midnight.'

Sidwell was lying back in a low chair, her eyes turned to the
woody hills on the far side of the Exe.

'There's one thing I should like to say,' her friend pursued.
'It struck me as curious that you were not at all affected, by what
to me would have been the one insuperable difficulty.'

'I know what you mean—the legacy.'

'Yes. It still seems to you of no significance?'

'Of very little,' Sidwell answered wearily, letting her eyelids
droop.

'Then we won't talk about it. From the higher point of view, I
believe you are right; but—still let it rest.'

In the afternoon, Sidwell penned the following lines which she
enclosed in an envelope and placed on the study table, when her
father was absent.

'The long letter which I promised you, dear father, is needless.
I have to-day sent Mr. Peak a reply which closes our
correspondence. I am sure he will not write again; if he were to do
so, I should not answer.

'I have given up my intention of going away with Sylvia. Later,
perhaps, I shall wish to join her somewhere on the Continent, but
by that time you will be in no concern about me.'

To this Mr. Warricombe replied only with the joyous smile which
greeted his daughter at their next meeting. Mrs. Warricombe
remained in ignorance of the ominous shadow which had passed over
her house. At present, she was greatly interested in the coming
marriage of the Rev. Bruno Chilvers, whom she tried
not
to
forgive for having disappointed her secret hope.

Martin had finally driven into the background those uneasy
questionings, which at one time it seemed likely that Godwin Peak
would rather accentuate than silence. With Sidwell, he could never
again touch on such topics. If he were still conscious of a
postponed debate, the adjournment was
sine die
. Martin
rested in the faith that, without effort of his own, the mysteries
of life and time would ere long be revealed to him.

Earwaker spent Christmas with his relatives at Kingsmill. His
father and mother both lived; the latter very infirm, unable to
leave the house; the former a man of seventy, twisted with
rheumatism, his face rugged as a countenance picked out by fancy on
the trunk of a big old oak, his hands scarred and deformed with
labour. Their old age was restful. The son who had made himself a
'gentleman', and who in London sat at the tables of the high-born,
the wealthy, the famous, saw to it that they lacked no comfort.

A bright, dry morning invited the old man and the young to go
forth together. They walked from the suburb countrywards, and their
conversation was of the time when a struggle was being made to bear
the expense of those three years at Whitelaw—no bad investment, as
it proved. The father spoke with a strong Midland accent, using
words of dialect by no means disagreeable to the son's ear—for
dialect is a very different thing from the bestial jargon which on
the lips of the London vulgar passes for English. They were
laughing over some half grim reminiscence, when Earwaker became
aware of two people who were approaching along the pavement, they
also in merry talk. One of them he knew; it was Christian
Moxey.

Too much interested in his companion to gaze about him,
Christian came quite near before his eyes fell on Earwaker. Then he
started with a pleasant surprise, changed instantly to something
like embarrassment when he observed the aged man. Earwaker was
willing to smile and go by, had the other consented; but a better
impulse prevailed in both. They stopped and struck hands
together.

'My father,' said the man of letters, quite at his ease.

Christian was equal to the occasion; he shook hands heartily
with the battered toiler, then turned to the lady at his side.

'Janet, you guess who this is.—My cousin, Earwaker, Miss Janet
Moxey.'

Doubtless Janet was aware that her praises had suffered no
diminution when sung by Christian to his friends. Her eyes just
fell, but in a moment were ready with their frank, intelligent
smile. Earwaker experienced a pang—ever so slight—suggesting a
revision of his philosophy.

They talked genially, and parted with good wishes for the New
Year.

Two days later, on reaching home, Earwaker found in his
letter-box a scrap of paper on which were scribbled a few barely
legible lines. 'Here I am!' he at length deciphered. 'Got into
Tilbury at eleven this morning. Where the devil are you? Write to
Charing Cross Hotel.' No signature, but none was needed. Malkin's
return from New Zealand had been signalled in advance.

That evening the erratic gentleman burst in like a whirlwind. He
was the picture of health, though as far as ever from enduing the
comfortable flesh which accompanies robustness in men of calmer
temperament. After violent greetings, he sat down with abrupt
gravity, and began to talk as if in continuance of a dialogue just
interrupted.

'Now, don't let us have any misunderstanding. You will please
remember that my journey to England is quite independent of what
took place two years and a half ago. It has
nothing whatever
to do with those circumstances.'

Earwaker smiled.

'I tell you,' pursued the other, hotly, 'that I am here to see
you
—and one or two other old friends; and to look after some
business matters. You will oblige me by giving credit to my
assertion!'

'Don't get angry. I am convinced of the truth of what you
say.'

'Very well! It's as likely as not that, on returning to
Auckland, I shall marry Miss Maccabe—of whom I have written to you.
I needn't repeat the substance of my letters. I am not in love with
her, you understand, and I needn't say that my intercourse with
that family has been guided by extreme discretion. But she is a
very sensible young lady. My only regret is that I didn't know her
half-a-dozen years ago, so that I could have directed her
education. She might have been even more interesting than she is.
But—you are at leisure, I hope, Earwaker?'