Born in Exile (22 page)

A bee hummed past him, and this sound—of all the voices of
nature that which most intenerates—filled his heart to overflowing.
Moisture made his eyes dim, and at the impulse of a feeling of
gratitude, such as only the subtlest care of psychology could fully
have explained, he turned to Buckland, saying:

'But for my meeting with you I should have had a lonely and not
very cheerful holiday. I owe you a great deal.'

Warricombe laughed, but as an Englishman does when he wishes to
avoid show of emotion.

'I am very glad indeed that we did meet. Stay with us over
tomorrow. I only wish I were not obliged to go to London on
Wednesday.—Look, Fanny, isn't that a hawk, over Cowley Bridge?'

'Do you feel you would like to shoot it?' asked Miss
Moorhouse—who a moment ago had very closely examined Peak's
face.

'To shoot it—why do you ask that?'

'Confess that you felt the desire.'

'Every man does,' replied Buckland, 'until he has had a moment
to recover himself. That's the human instinct.'

'The male human instinct. Thank you for your honesty.'

They drove on, and by a wide circuit, occasionally stopping for
the view, returned to the Old Tiverton Road, and so home. By this
time Louis Warricombe and Mr. Moorhouse were back from their walk.
Reposing in the company of the ladies, they had partaken of such
refreshments as are lawful at five o'clock, and now welcomed with
vivacity the later arrivals. Moorhouse was something older than
Buckland, a sallow-cheeked man with forehead and eyes expressive of
much intelligence. Till of late he had been a Cambridge tutor, but
was now privately occupied in mathematical pursuits. Louis
Warricombe had not yet made up his mind what profession to follow,
and to aid the process of resolve had for the present devoted
himself to physical exercise.

Tea-cup in hand, Godwin seated himself by Sidwell, who began by
inquiring how the drive had pleased him. The fervour of his reply
caused her to smile with special graciousness, and their
conversation was uninterrupted for some minutes. Then Fanny came
forward with a book of mosses, her own collection, which she had
mentioned to Peak as they were talking together in the
carriage.

'Do you make special study of any science?' Sidwell asked, when
certain remarks of Godwin's had proved his familiarity with the
things he was inspecting.

'It is long since I worked seriously at anything of the kind,'
he answered; adding in a moment, 'except at chemistry—that only
because it is my business.'

'Organic or inorganic chemistry?' inquired Fanny, with the
promptness of a schoolgirl who wishes to have it known that her
ideas are no longer vague.

'Organic for the most part,' Godwin replied, smiling at her.
'And of the most disagreeable kind.'

Sidwell reflected, then put another question, but with some
diffidence.

'I think you were once fond of geology?'

It was the first allusion to that beginning of their
acquaintance, ten years ago. Peak succeeded in meeting her look
with steadiness.

'Yes, I still like it.'

'Father's collections have been much improved since you saw them
at Thornhaw.'

'I hope Mr. Warricombe will let me see them.'

Buckland came up and made an apology for drawing his friend
aside.

'Will you let us send for your traps? You may just as well have
a room here for a night or two.'

Perpetually imagining some kind chance that might associate him
with civilised people, Godwin could not even pack his portmanteau
for a ramble to Land's End without stowing away a dress suit. He
was thus saved what would have been an embarrassment of special
annoyance. Without hesitation, he accepted Buckland's offer, and
named the hotel at which the luggage was deposited.

'All right; the messenger shall explain. Our name's well enough
known to them. If you would like to look up my father in his study,
he'll be delighted to go over his collections with you. You still
care for that kind of thing?'

'Most certainly. How can you doubt it?'

Buckland smiled, and gave no other reply.

'Ask Fanny to show you the way when you care to go.' And he left
the room.

Sidwell had fallen into conversation with Mr. Moorhouse. Miss
Moorhouse, Mrs. Warricombe, and Louis were grouped in animated
talk. Observing that Fanny threw glances towards him from a lonely
corner, Peak went over to her, and was pleased with the smile he
met. Fanny had watched eyes, much brighter than Sidwell's; her
youthful vivacity blended with an odd little fashion of schoolgirl
pedantry in a very piquant way. Godwin's attempts at conversation
with her were rather awkward; he found it difficult to strike the
suitable note, something not too formal yet not deficient in
respect.

'Do you think,' he asked presently, 'that I should disturb your
father if I went to him?'

'Oh, not at all! I often go and sit in the study at this
time.'

'Will you show me the way?'

Fanny at once rose, and together they crossed the hall, passed
through a sort of anteroom connecting with a fernery, and came to
the study door. A tap was answered by cheerful summons, and Fanny
looked in.

'Well, my ladybird? Ah, you are bringing Mr. Peak; come in, come
in!'

It was a large and beautiful room, its wide windows, in a
cushioned recess, looking upon the lawn where the yew tree cast
solemn shade. One wall presented an unbroken array of volumes,
their livery sober but handsome; detached bookcases occupied other
portions of the irregular perimeter. Cabinets, closed and open,
were arranged with due regard to convenience. Above the mantelpiece
hung a few small photographs, but the wall-space at disposal was
chiefly occupied with objects which illustrated Mr. Warricombe's
scientific tastes. On a stand in the light of the window gleamed
two elaborate microscopes, provocative of enthusiasm in a mind such
as Godwin's.

In a few minutes, Fanny silently retired. Her father, by no
means forward to speak of himself and his pursuits, was led in that
direction by Peak's expressions of interest, and the two were soon
busied with matters which had a charm for both. A collection of
elvans formed the starting-point, and when they had entered upon
the wide field of palaeontology it was natural for Mr. Warricombe
to invite his guest's attention to the species of
homalonotus
which he had had the happiness of identifying
some ten years ago—a discovery now recognised and chronicled.
Though his sympathy was genuine enough, Godwin struggled against an
uneasy sense of manifesting excessive appreciation. Never oblivious
of himself, he could not utter the simplest phrase of admiration
without criticising its justice, its tone. And at present it
behoved him to bear in mind that he was conversing with no
half-bred sciolist. Mr Warricombe obviously had his share of human
weakness, but he was at once a gentleman and a student of
well-stored mind; insincerity must be very careful if it would not
jar upon his refined ear. So Godwin often checked himself in the
utterance of what might sound too much like flattery. A young man
talking with one much older, a poor man in dialogue with a wealthy,
must under any circumstances guard his speech; for one of Godwin's
aggressive idiosyncrasy the task of discretion had peculiar
difficulties, and the attitude he had assumed at luncheon still
further complicated the operations of his mind. Only at moments
could he speak in his true voice, and silence meant for the most
part a studious repression of much he would naturally have
uttered.

Resurgent envy gave him no little trouble. On entering the room,
he could not but exclaim to himself, 'How easy for a man to do
notable work amid such surroundings! If I were but thus equipped
for investigation!' And as often as his eyes left a particular
object to make a general survey, the same thought burned in him. He
feared lest it should be legible on his countenance.

Taking a pamphlet from the table, Mr. Warricombe, with a
humorous twinkle in his eyes, inquired whether Peak read German;
the answer being affirmative:

'Naturally,' he rejoined, 'you could hardly have neglected so
important a language. I, unfortunately, didn't learn it in my
youth, and I have never had perseverance enough to struggle with it
since. Something led me to take down this brochure the other day—an
old attempt of mine to write about the weathering of rocks. It was
printed in '76, and no sooner had it seen the light than friends of
mine wanted to know what I meant by appropriating, without
acknowledgement, certain facts quite recently pointed out by
Professor Pfaff of Erlangen! Unhappily, Professor Pfaff's results
were quite unknown to me, and I had to get them translated. The
coincidences, sure enough, were very noticeable. Just before you
came in, I was reviving that old discomfiture.'

Peak, in glancing over the pages, murmured with a smile:

'
Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt
!'

'Even so!' exclaimed Mr. Warricombe, laughing with a subdued
heartiness which was one of his pleasant characteristics. And,
after a pause, he inquired, 'Do you find any time to keep up your
classics?'

'By fits and starts. Sometimes I return to them for a month or
two.'

'Why, it's pretty much the same with me. Here on my table, for
instance, lies Tacitus. I found it mentioned not long ago that the
first sentence of the
Annals
is a hexameter—did you know
it?—and when I had once got hold of the book I thought it a shabby
thing to return it to the dust of its shelf without reading at
least a few pages. So I have gone on from day to day, with no
little enjoyment. Buckland, as you probably know, regards these old
fellows with scorn.'

'We always differed about that.'

'I can't quite decide whether he is still sincere in all he says
about them. Time, I suspect, is mellowing his judgment.'

They moved to the shelves where Greek and Latin books stood in
serried order, and only the warning dinner-bell put an end to their
sympathetic discussion of the place such authors should hold in
modern educational systems.

'Have they shown you your room?' Mr. Warricombe asked.

But, as he spoke, the face of his eldest son appeared at the
door.

'Your traps have safely arrived, Peak.'

The bedroom to which Godwin was conducted had a delicious
fragrance, of source indeterminable. When he had closed the door,
he stood for a few moments looking about him; it was his first
experience of the upper chambers of houses such as this. Merely to
step upon the carpet fluttered his senses: merely to breathe the
air was a purification. Luxury of the rational kind, dictated by
regard for health of body and soul, appeared in every detail. On
the walls were water-colours, scenery of Devon and Cornwall; a
hanging book-case held about a score of volumes poets, essayists,
novelists. Elsewhere, not too prominent, lay a Bible and a
Prayer-book.

He dressed, as never before, with leisurely enjoyment of the
process. When the mirror declared him ready, his eyes returned
frequently to an inspection of the figure he presented, and it
seemed to him that he was not unworthy to take his place at the
dinner-table. As for his visage, might he not console himself with
the assurance that it was of no common stamp? 'If I met that man in
a room, I should be curious about him; I should see at once that he
didn't belong to the vulgar; I should desire to hear him speak.'
And the Warricombes were not lacking in discernment. He would
compare more than favourably with Mr. Moorhouse, whose aspect,
bright and agreeable enough, made no promise of originality.—It
must be time to go down. He left the room with an air of grave
self-confidence.

At dinner he was careful to attempt no repetition of the display
which had done very well at luncheon; it must not be thought that
he had the habit of talking for effect. Mrs. Warricombe, unless he
mistook, had begun to view him more favourably; her remarks made
less distinction between him and the other guests. But he could not
like his hostess; he thought her unworthy to be the mother of
Sidwell and Fanny, of Buckland and Louis; there was a marked strain
of the commonplace in her. The girls, costumed for the evening,
affected him with a return of the awe he had all but overcome.
Sidwell was exquisite in dark colours, her sister in white. Miss
Moorhouse (addressed by her friends as 'Sylvia') looked older than
in the day-time, and had lost something of her animation; possibly
the country routine had begun to weary her a little.

Peak was at a vast distance from the hour which saw him alight
at Exeter and begin his ramble about the city. He no longer felt
himself alone in the world; impossible to revive the mood in which
he deliberately planned to consume his economies in a year or two
of desert wandering; far other were the anticipations which warmed
his mind when the after-dinner repose attuned him to unwonted
hopefulness. This family were henceforth his friends, and it
depended only upon himself to make the connection lasting, with all
manner of benefits easily imagined. Established in the country, the
Warricombes stood to him in quite a different relation from any
that could have arisen had he met with them in London. There he
would have been nothing more than a casual dinner-guest, welcomed
for the hour and all but forgotten when he had said good-night. For
years he had understood that London offered him no prospect of
social advancement. But a night passed under this roof practically
raised him to a level whence he surveyed a rich field of possible
conquest. With the genial geologist he felt himself on excellent
terms, and much of this was ascribable to a singular chance which
had masked his real being, and represented him, with scarce an
effort of his own, in a light peculiarly attractive to Mr.
Warricombe. He was now playing the conscious hypocrite; not a
pleasant thing to face and accept, but the fault was not his—fate
had brought it about. At all events, he aimed at no vulgar profit;
his one desire was for human fellowship; he sought nothing but that
solace which every code of morals has deemed legitimate. Let the
society which compelled to such an expedient bear the burden of its
shame.