Born in Exile (23 page)

That must indeed have been a circle of great intellects amid
which Godwin Peak felt himself subordinate. He had never known that
impression, and in the Warricombe family was no one whom he could
regard even as his equal. Buckland, doubtless, had some knowledge
of the world, and could boast of a free mind; but he lacked
subtlety: a psychological problem would easily puzzle him. Mr.
Warricombe's attainments were respectable, but what could be said
of a man who had devoted his life to geology, and still (in the
year 1884) remained an orthodox member of the Church of England?
Godwin, as he sat in the drawing-room and enjoyed its atmosphere of
refinement, sincerely held himself of far more account as an
intellectual being than all the persons about him.

But if his brain must dwell in solitude his heart might compass
worthy alliances—the thing most needful to humanity. One may find
the associates of his intellect in libraries—the friend of one's
emotions must walk in flesh and blood. Earwaker, Moxey—these were
in many respects admirable fellows, and he had no little love for
them, but the world they represented was womanless, and so of
flagrant imperfection. Of Marcella Moxey he could not think
emotionally; indeed she emphasised by her personality the lack
which caused his suffering. Sidwell Warricombe suggested, more
completely than any woman he had yet observed, that companionship
without which life must to the end taste bitter. His interest in
her was not strictly personal; she moved and spoke before him as a
typical woman, not as the daughter of Martin Warricombe and the
sister of Buckland. Here at last opened to his view that sphere of
female society which he had known as remotely existing, the
desperate aim of ambition.

Conventional women—but was not the phrase tautological? In the
few females who have liberated their souls, was not much of the
woman inevitably sacrificed, and would it not be so for long years
to come? On the other hand, such a one as Sidwell might be held a
perfect creature, perfect in relation to a certain stage of human
development. Look at her, as she sat conversing with Moorhouse,
soft candle-light upon her face; compare her on the one hand with
an average emancipated girl, on the other with a daughter of the
people. How unsatisfying was the former; the latter, how repulsive!
Here one had the exquisite mean, the lady as England has perfected
her towards the close of this nineteenth century. A being of
marvellous delicacy, of purest instincts, of unsurpassable
sweetness. Who could not detail her limitations, obvious and, in
certain moods, irritating enough? These were nothing to the point,
unless one would roam the world a hungry idealist; and Godwin was
weary of the famined pilgrimage.

The murmur of amiable voices softened him to the reception of
all that was good in his present surroundings, and justified in the
light of sentiment his own dishonour. This English home, was it not
surely the best result of civilisation in an age devoted to
material progress? Here was peace, here was scope for the kindliest
emotions. Upon him—the born rebel, the scorner of average mankind,
the consummate egoist—this atmosphere exercised an influence more
tranquillising, more beneficent, than even the mood of
disinterested study. In the world to which sincerity would condemn
him, only the worst elements of his character found nourishment and
range; here he was humanised, made receptive of all gentle
sympathies. Heroism might point him to an unending struggle with
adverse conditions, but how was heroism possible without faith?
Absolute faith he had none; he was essentially a negativist, guided
by the mere relations of phenomena. Nothing easier than to contemn
the mode of life represented by this wealthy middle class; but
compare it with other existences conceivable by a thinking man, and
it was emphatically good. It aimed at placidity, at benevolence, at
supreme cleanliness,—things which more than compensated for the
absence of higher spirituality. We can be but what we are; these
people accepted themselves, and in so doing became estimable
mortals. No imbecile pretensions exposed them to the rebuke of a
social satirist; no vulgarity tainted their familiar intercourse.
Their allegiance to a worn-out creed was felt as an added grace;
thus only could their souls aspire, and the imperfect poetry of
their natures be developed.

He took an opportunity of seating himself by Mrs. Warricombe,
with whom as yet he had held no continuous dialogue.

'Has there been anything of interest at the London theatres
lately?' she asked.

'I know so little of them,' Godwin replied, truthfully. 'It must
be several years since I saw a play.'

'Then in that respect you have hardly become a Londoner.'

'Nor in any other, I believe,' said Peak, with a smile. 'I have
lived there ten years, but am far from regarding London as my home.
I hope a few months more will release me from it altogether.'

'Indeed!—Perhaps you think of leaving England?'

'I should be very sorry to do that—for any length of time. My
wish is to settle somewhere in the country, and spend a year or two
in quiet study.'

Mrs. Warricombe looked amiable surprise, but corrected herself
to approving interest.

'I have heard some of our friends say that their minds get
unstrung, if they are long away from town, but I should have
thought that country quietness would be much better than London
noise. My husband certainly finds it so.'

'People are very differently constituted,' said Godwin. 'And
then it depends much on the nature of one's work.'

Uttering these commonplaces with an air of reflection, he
observed that they did not cost him the self-contempt which was
wont to be his penalty for concession to the terms of polite
gossip; rather, his mind accepted with gratitude this rare repose.
He tasted something of the tranquil self-content which makes life
so enjoyable when one has never seen a necessity for shaping
original remarks. No one in this room would despise him for a
platitude, were it but recommended with a pleasant smile. With the
Moxeys, with Earwaker, he durst not thus have spoken.

When the hour of separation was at hand, Buckland invited his
guest to retire with him to a part of the house where they could
smoke and chat comfortably.

'Moorhouse and Louis are fagged after their twenty mile stretch
this morning; I have caught both of them nodding during the last
few minutes. We can send them to bed without apology.'

He led the way upstairs to a region of lumber-rooms, whence a
narrow flight of steps brought them into a glass-house, octangular
and with pointed tops, out upon the roof. This, he explained, had
been built some twenty years ago, at a time when Mr. Warricombe
amused himself with photography. A few indications of its original
purposes were still noticeable; an easel and a box of oil-colours
showed that someone—doubtless of the younger generation—had used it
as a painting-room; a settee and deep cane chairs made it an
inviting lounge on a warm evening like the present, when, by
throwing open a hinged wall, one looked forth into the deep sky and
tasted the air from the sea.

'Sidwell used to paint a little,' said Buckland, as his
companion bent to examine a small canvas on which a landscape was
roughed in. It lay on a side table, and was half concealed by an
ordnance map, left unfolded. 'For the last year or two I think she
has given it up. I'm afraid we are not strong in matters of art.
Neither of the girls can play very well, though of course they both
tinkle for their own amusement. Maurice—the poor lad who was
killed—gave a good deal of artistic promise; father keeps some
little water-colours of his, which men in that line have
praised—perhaps sincerely.'

'I remember you used to speak slightingly of art,' said Godwin,
as he took an offered cigar.

'Did I? And of a good many other things, I daresay. It was my
habit at one time, I believe, to grow heated in scorn of Euclid's
definitions. What an interesting book Euclid is! Half a year ago, I
was led by a talk with Moorhouse to go through some of the old
"props", and you can't imagine how they delighted me. Moorhouse was
so obliging as to tell me that I had an eminently deductive
mind.'

He laughed, but not without betraying some pleasure in the
remark.

'Surprising,' he went on, 'how very little such a mind as
Moorhouse's suggests itself in common conversation. He is really
profound in mathematics, a man of original powers, but I never
heard him make a remark of the slightest value on any other
subject. Now his sister—she has studied nothing in particular, yet
she can't express an opinion that doesn't bear the stamp of
originality.'

Godwin was contented to muse, his eyes fixed on a brilliant star
in the western heaven.

'There's only one inconsistency in her that annoys and puzzles
me,' Buckland pursued, speaking with the cigar in his mouth. 'In
religion, she seems to be orthodox. True, we have never spoken on
the subject, but—well, she goes to church, and carries
prayer-books. I don't know how to explain it. Hypocrisy is the last
thing one could suspect her of. I'm sure she hates it in every
form. And such a clear brain!—I can't understand it.'

The listener was still star-gazing. He had allowed his cigar,
after the first few puffs, to smoulder untasted; his lips were
drawn into an expression very unlike the laxity appropriate to
pleasurable smoking. When the murmur of the pines had for a moment
been audible, he said, with a forced smile:

'I notice you take for granted that a clear brain and religious
orthodoxy are incompatible.'

The other gave him a keen look.

'Hardly,' was Buckland's reply, spoken with less ingenuousness
of tone than usual. 'I say that Miss Moorhouse has undeniably a
strong mind, and that it is impossible to suspect her of the
slightest hypocrisy.'

'Whence the puzzle that keeps you occupied,' rejoined Peak, in a
voice that sounded like assumption of superiority, though the
accent had an agreeable softness.

Warricombe moved as if impatiently, struck a match to rekindle
his weed, blew tumultuous clouds, and finally put a blunt
question:

'What do you think about it yourself?'

'From my point of view, there is no puzzle at all,' Godwin
replied, in a very clear voice, smiling as he met the other's
look.

'How am I to understand that?' asked Buckland, good-naturedly,
though with a knitting of his brows.

'Not as a doubt of Miss Moorhouse's sincerity. I can't see that
a belief in the Christian religion is excluded by any degree of
intellectual clearness.'

'No—your views have changed, Peak?'

'On many subjects, this among them.'

'I see.'

The words fell as if involuntarily from Warricombe's lips. He
gazed at the floor awhile, then, suddenly looking up,
exclaimed:

'It would be civil to accept this without surprise, but it is
too much for me. How has it come about?'

'That would take me a long time to explain.'

'Then,' pursued his companion, watching him closely, 'you were
quite in sympathy with that exposition you gave at lunch
today?'

'Quite. I hope there was nothing in my way of speaking that made
you think otherwise?'

'Nothing at all. I couldn't help wondering what it meant. You
seemed perfectly in earnest, yet such talk had the oddest sound on
your lips—to me, I mean. Of course I thought of you as I used to
know you.'

'Naturally.' Peak was now in an attitude of repose, his legs
crossed, thumb and forefinger stroking his chin. 'I couldn't very
well turn aside to comment on my own mental history.'

Here again was the note of something like genial condescension.
Buckland seemed sensible of it, and slightly raised his
eyebrows.

'I am to understand that you have become strictly orthodox in
matters of religious faith?'

'The proof is,' replied Godwin, 'that I hope before long to take
Orders.'

Again there was silence, and again the sea-breath made its
whispering in the pines. Warricombe, with a sudden gesture, pointed
towards the sky.

'A shooting star—one of the brightest I ever saw!'

'I missed it,' said Peak, just glancing in that direction.

The interruption enabled Buckland to move his chair; in this new
position he was somewhat further from Peak, and had a better view
of his face.

'I should never have imagined you a clergyman,' he said,
thoughtfully, 'but I can see that your mind has been developing
powers in that direction.—Well, so be it! I can only hope you have
found your true work in life.'

'But you doubt it?'

'I can't say that I doubt it, as I can't understand you. To be
sure, we have been parted for many years. In some respects I must
seem much changed'—

'Greatly changed,' Godwin put in, promptly.

'Yes,' pursued the other, correctively, 'but not in a way that
would seem incredible to anyone whatever. I am conscious of growth
in tolerance, but my attitude in essentials is unchanged. Thinking
of you—as I have often enough done—I always kept the impression you
made on me when we were both lads; you seemed most distinctly a
modern mind—one of the most modern that ever came under my notice.
Now, I don't find it impossible to understand my father, when he
reconciles science with religion; he was born sixty years ago. But
Godwin Peak as a—a—'

'Parson,' supplied Peak, drily.

'Yes, as a parson—I shall have to meditate much before I grasp
the notion.'

'Perhaps you have dropped your philosophical studies?' said
Godwin, with a smile of courteous interest.

'I don't know. Metaphysics have no great interest for me, but I
philosophise in a way. I thought myself a student of human nature,
at all events.'

'But you haven't kept up with philosophical speculation on the
points involved in orthodox religion?'