Born in Exile Page 23

  At the death of his younger boy, Maurice, he suffered a blow which had results more abiding than the melancholy wherewith for a year or two his genial nature was overshadowed. From that day onwards he was never wholly at ease among the pursuits which had been wont to afford him an unfailing resource against whatever troubles. He could no longer accept and disregard, in a spirit of cheerful faith, those difficulties science was perpetually throwing in his way. The old smile of kindly tolerance had still its twofold meaning, but it was more evidently a disguise of indecision, and not seldom touched with sadness. Martin's life was still one of postponed debate, but he could not regard the day when conclusions would be demanded of him as indefinitely remote. Desiring to dwell in the familiar temporary abode, his structure of incongruities and facile reconcilements, he found it no longer weather-proof. The times were shaking his position with earthquake after earthquake. His sons (for he suspected that Louis was hardly less emancipated than Buckland) stood far aloof from him, and must in private feel contemptuous of his old-fashioned beliefs. In Sidwell, however, he had a companion more and more indispensable, and he could not imagine that her faith would ever give way before the invading spirit of agnosticism. Happily she was no mere pietist. Though he did not quite understand her attitude towards Christianity, he felt assured that Sidwell had thought deeply and earnestly of religion in all its aspects, and it was a solace to know that she found no difficulty in recognising the large claims of science. For all this, he could not deliberately seek her confidence, or invite her to a discussion of religious subjects. Some day, no doubt, a talk of that kind would begin naturally between them, and so strong was his instinctive faith in Sidwell that he looked forward to this future communing as to a certain hope of peace.

  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, th
ough 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.

  Immediately after luncheon the young man set forth, and did not reappear until the evening of the next day. His spirits had not benefited by the excursion; at dinner he was noticeably silent, and instead of going to the drawing-room afterwards he betook himself to the studio up on the roof, and smoked in solitude. There, towards ten o'clock, Sidwell sought him. Heavy rain was beating upon the glass, and a high wind blended its bluster with the cheerless sound.

  'Don't you find it rather cold here?' she asked, after observing her brother's countenance of gloom.

  'Yes; I'm coming down.—Why don't you keep up your painting?'

  'I have lost interest in it, I'm afraid.'

  'That's very weak, you know. It seems to me that nothing interests you permanently.'


  Sidwell thought it better to make no reply.

  'The characteristic of women,' Buckland pursued, with some asperity, throwing away the stump of his cigar. 'It comes, I suppose, of their ridiculous education—their minds are never trained to fixity of purpose. They never understand themselves, and scarcely ever make an effort to understand any one else. Their life is a succession of inconsistencies.'

  'This generalising is so easy,' said Sidwell, with a laugh, 'and so worthless. I wonder you should be so far behind the times.'

  'What light have the times thrown on the subject?'

  'There's no longer such a thing as woman in the abstract. We are individuals.'

  'Don't imagine it! That may come to pass three or four generations hence, but as yet the best of you can only vary the type in unimportant particulars. By the way, what is Peak's address?'

  'Longbrook Street; but I don't know the number. Father can give it you, I think.'

  'I shall have to drop him a note. I must get back to town early in the morning.'

  'Really? We hoped to have you for a week.'

  'Longer next time.'

  They descended together. Now that Louis no longer abode here (he had decided at length for medicine, and was at work in London), the family as a rule spent very quiet evenings. By ten o'clock Mrs Warricombe and Fanny had retired, and Sidwell was left either to talk with her father, or to pursue the calm meditations which seemed to make her independent of companionship as often as she chose.

  'Are they all gone?' Buckland asked, finding a vacant room.

  'Father is no doubt in the study.'

  'It occurs to me—. Do you feel satisfied with this dead-alive existence?'

  'Satisfied? No life could suit me better.'