Born in Exile (47 page)

The pamphlets of which her father had spoken were soon
discovered. She laid them aside, and seated herself by the fire,
but without leaning back. At any sound within or outside the house
she moved her head to listen. Her look was anxious, but the gleam
of her eyes expressed pleasurable agitation.

At half-past three she went into the drawing-room, where all the
furniture was draped, and the floor bare. Standing where she could
look from a distance through one of the windows, at which the blind
had been raised, she waited for a quarter of an hour. Then the
chill atmosphere drove her back to the fireside. In the study,
evidences of temporary desertion were less oppressive, but the
windows looked only upon a sequestered part of the garden. Sidwell
desired to watch the approach from the high-road, and in a few
minutes she was again in the drawing-room. But scarcely had she
closed the door behind her when a ringing of the visitors' bell
sounded with unfamiliar distinctness. She started, hastened from
the room, fled into the library, and had time to seat herself
before she heard the footsteps of a servant moving in answer to the
summons.

The door opened, and Peak was announced.

Sidwell had never known what it was to be thus overcome with
emotion. Shame at her inability to command the calm features with
which she would naturally receive a caller flushed her cheeks and
neck; she stepped forward with downcast eyes, and only in offering
her hand could at length look at him who stood before her. She saw
at once that Peak was unlike himself; he too had unusual warmth in
his countenance, and his eyes seemed strangely large, luminous. On
his forehead were drops of moisture.

This sight restored her self-control, or such measure of it as
permitted her to speak in the conventional way.

'I am sorry that mother can't leave her room. She had a slight
cold this morning, but I didn't think it would give her any
trouble.'

Peak was delighted, and betrayed the feeling even whilst he
constrained his face into a look of exaggerated anxiety.

'It won't be anything serious, I hope? The railway journey, I'm
afraid.'

'Yes, the journey. She has a slight hoarseness, but I think we
shall prevent it from'——

Their eyes kept meeting, and with more steadfastness. They were
conscious of mutual scrutiny, and, on both sides, of changes since
they last met. When two people have devoted intense study to each
other's features, a three months' absence not only revives the old
impressions but subjects them to sudden modification which
engrosses thought and feeling. Sidwell continued to utter
commonplaces, simply as a means of disguising the thoughts that
occupied her; she was saying to herself that Peak's face had a
purer outline than she had believed, and that his eyes had gained
in expressiveness. In the same way Godwin said and replied he knew
not what, just to give himself time to observe and enjoy the
something new—the increased animation or subtler facial
movements—which struck him as often as he looked at his companion.
Each wondered what the other had been doing, whether the time had
seemed long or short.

'I hope you have kept well?' Sidwell asked.

Godwin hastened to respond with civil inquiries.

'I was very glad to hear from Mr. Warricombe a few days ago, he
continued. Sidwell was not aware that her father had written, but
her pleased smile seemed to signify the contrary.

'She looks younger,' Peak said in his mind. 'Perhaps that London
dress and the new way of arranging her hair have something to do
with it. But no, she looks younger in herself. She must have been
enjoying the pleasures of town.'

'You have been constantly occupied, no doubt,' he added aloud,
feeling at the same time that this was a clumsy expression of what
he meant. Though he had unbuttoned his overcoat, and seated himself
as easily as he could, the absurd tall hat which he held
embarrassed him; to deposit it on the floor demanded an effort of
which he was yet incapable.

'I have seen many things and heard much talk,' Sidwell was
replying, in a gay tone. It irritated him; he would have preferred
her to speak with more of the old pensiveness. Yet perhaps she was
glad simply because she found herself again talking with him?

'And you?' she went on. 'It has not been all work, I hope?'

'Oh no! I have had many pleasant intervals.'

This was in imitation of her vivacity. He felt the words and the
manner to be ridiculous, but could not restrain himself. Every
moment increased his uneasiness; the hat weighed in his hands like
a lump of lead, and he was convinced that he had never looked so
clownish. Did her smile signify criticism of his attitude?

With a decision which came he knew not how, he let his hat drop
to the floor and pushed it aside. There, that was better; he felt
less of a bumpkin.

Sidwell glanced at the glossy grotesque, but instantly averted
her eyes, and asked rather more gravely:

'Have you been in Exeter all the time?'

'Yes.'

'But you didn't spend your Christmas alone, I hope?'

'Oh, I had my books.'

Was there not a touch of natural pathos in this? He hoped so;
then mocked at himself for calculating such effects.

'I think you don't care much for ordinary social pleasures, Mr
Peak?'

He smiled bitterly.

'I have never known much of them,—and you remember that I look
forward to a life in which they will have little part. Such a
life,' he continued, after a pause, 'seems to you unendurably dull?
I noticed that, when I spoke of it before.'

'You misunderstood me.' She said it so undecidedly that he gazed
at her with puzzled look. Her eyes fell.

'But you like society?'

'If you use the word in its narrowest meaning,' she answered,
'then I not only dislike society, but despise it.'

She had raised her eyebrows, and was looking coldly at him. Did
she mean to rebuke him for the tone he had adopted? Indeed, he
seemed to himself presumptuous. But if they were still on terms
such as these, was it not better to know it, even at the cost of
humiliation? One moment he believed that he could read Sidwell's
thoughts, and that they were wholly favourable to him; at another
he felt absolutely ignorant of all that was passing in her, and
disposed to interpret her face as that of a conventional woman who
had never regarded him as on her own social plane. These
uncertainties, these frequent reversions to a state of mind which
at other times he seemed to have long outgrown, were a singular
feature of his relations with Sidwell. Could such experiences
consist with genuine love? Never had he felt more willing to answer
the question with a negative. He felt that he was come here to act
a part, and that the end of the interview, be it what it might,
would only affect him superficially.

'No,' he replied, with deliberation; 'I never supposed that you
had any interest in the most foolish class of wealthy people. I
meant that you recognise your place in a certain social rank, and
regard intercourse with your equals as an essential of
happiness.'

'If I understood why you ask'—she began abruptly, but ceased as
she met his glance. Again he thought she was asserting a distant
dignity.

'The question arose naturally out of a train of thought which
always occupies me when I talk with you. I myself belong to no
class whatever, and I can't help wondering how—if the subject ever
occurred to you—you would place me.'

He saw his way now, and, having said thus much, could talk on
defiantly. This hour must decide his fortune with Sidwell, yet his
tongue utterly refused any of the modes of speech which the
situation would have suggested to an ordinary mind. He could not
'make love'. Instead of humility, he was prompted to display a
rough arrogance; instead of tender phrases, he uttered what sounded
like deliberate rudeness. His voice was less gently tuned than
Sidwell had been wont to hear it. It all meant that he despaired of
wooing successfully, and more than half wished to force some word
from Sidwell which would spare him the necessity of a plain
avowal.

But before he had finished speaking, her face changed. A light
of sudden understanding shone in her eyes; her lips softened to a
smile of exquisite gentleness.

'The subject never
did
occur to me,' she answered. 'How
should it? A friend is a friend.'

It was not strictly true, but in the strength of her emotion she
could forget all that contradicted it.

'A friend—yes.'

Godwin began with the same note of bluntness. But of a sudden he
felt the influence of Sidwell's smile. His voice sank into a
murmur, his heart leapt, a thrill went through his veins.

'I wish to be something more than a friend.'

He felt that it was bald, inadequate. Yet the words had come of
their own accord, on an impulse of unimpaired sincerity. Sidwell's
head was bent.

'That is why I can't take simple things for granted,' he
continued, his gaze fixed upon her. 'If I thought of nothing but
friendship, it would seem rational enough that you should accept me
for what I am—a man of education, talking your own language.
Because I have dared to hope something more, I suffer from the
thought that I was not born into your world, and that you must be
always remembering this difference.'

'Do you think me so far behind the age?' asked Sidwell, trying
to laugh.

'Classes are getting mixed, confused. Yes, but we are so
conscious of the process that we talk of class distinctions more
than of anything else,—talk and think of them incessantly. You have
never heard me make a profession of Radicalism;
I
am
decidedly behind the age. Be what I may—and I have spiritual pride
more than enough—the fact that I have relatives in the lower, even
the lowest, social class must necessarily affect the whole course
of my life. A certain kind of man declares himself proud of such an
origin—and most often lies. Or one may be driven by it into
rebellion against social privilege. To me, my origin is simply a
grave misfortune, to be accepted and, if possible, overcome. Does
that sound mean-spirited? I can't help it; I want you to know
me.'

'I believe I know you very well,' Sidwell replied.

The consciousness that she was deceived checked the words which
were rising to his lips. Again he saw himself in a pitiful light,
and this self-contempt reflected upon Sidwell. He could not doubt
that she was yielding to him; her attitude and her voice declared
it; but what was the value of love won by imposture? Why had she
not intelligence enough to see through his hypocrisy, which at
times was so thin a veil? How defective must her sympathy be!

'Yet you have seen very little of me,' he said, smiling.

There was a short silence; then he exclaimed in a voice of
emotion:

'How I wish we had known each other ever since that day when
your brother brought me to your house near Kingsmill! If we had met
and talked through all those years! But that was impossible for the
very reason which makes me inarticulate now that I wish to say so
much. When you first saw me I was a gawky schoolboy, learning to
use my brains, and knowing already that life had nothing to offer
me but a false position. Whether I remained with my kith and kin,
or turned my back upon them in the hope of finding my equals, I was
condemned to a life of miserable incompleteness. I was born in
exile. It took a long time before I had taught myself how to move
and speak like one of the class to which I belonged by right of
intellect. I was living alone in London, in mean lodging-houses.
But the day came when I felt more confidence in myself. I had saved
money, and foresaw that in a year or two I should be able to carry
out a plan, make one serious attempt to win a position among
educated people.'

He stopped. Had he intended a full confession, it was thus he
might have begun it. Sidwell was regarding him, but with a gentle
look, utterly unsuspecting. She was unable to realise his character
and his temptations.

'And have you not succeeded?' she asked, in a low voice.

'Have I? Let me put it to the test. I will set aside every
thought of presumption; forget that I am a penniless student
looking forward to a country curacy; and say what I wished to when
we had our last conversation. Never mind how it sounds. I have
dared to hope that some day I shall ask you to be my wife, and that
you won't refuse.'

The word 'wife' reverberated on his ears. A whirl of emotion
broke the defiant calm he had supported for the last few minutes.
The silence seemed to be endless; when he looked at Sidwell, her
head was bent, the eyes concealed by their drooping lids. Her
expression was very grave.

'Such a piece of recklessness,' he said at length, 'deserves no
answer.'

Sidwell raised her eyes and spoke gently, with voice a little
shaken.

'Why should you call it recklessness? I have never thought of
the things that seem to trouble you so much. You were a friend of
ours. Wasn't that enough?'

It seemed to him an evasive reply. Doubtless it was much that
she showed neither annoyance nor prudish reserve. He had won the
right of addressing her on equal terms, but she was not inclined to
anticipate that future day to which he pointed.

'You have never thought of such things, because you have never
thought of me as I of you. Every day of your absence in London has
caused me torments which were due most often to the difference
between your social position and mine. You have been among people
of leisure and refinement and culture. Each evening you have talked
with men whom it cost no effort to make themselves liked and
respected. I think of that with bitterness.'

'But why? I have made many acquaintances; have met very
interesting people. I am glad of it; it enables me to understand
you better than I could before.'