Born in Exile (60 page)

When they had succeeded in getting away, father and daughter
walked for some minutes without speaking. At length Sidwell asked,
with a smile:

'How does this form of Christianity strike you?'

'Why, very much like a box on the ear with a perfumed glove,'
replied Martin.

'That describes it very well.'

They walked a little further, and Sidwell spoke in a more
serious tone.

'If Mr. Chilvers were brought before the ecclesiastical
authorities and compelled to make a clear statement of his faith,
what sect, in all the history of heresies, would he really seem to
belong to?'

'I know too little of him, and too little of heresies.'

'Do you suppose for a moment that he sincerely believes the
dogmas of his Church?'

Martin bit his lip and looked uneasy.

'We can't judge him, Sidwell.'

'I don't know,' she persisted. 'It seems to me that he does his
best to give us the means of judging him. I half believe that he
often laughs in himself at the success of his audacity.'

'No, no. I think the man is sincere.'

This was very uncomfortable ground, but Sidwell would not avoid
it. Her eyes flashed, and she spoke with a vehemence such as Martin
had never seen in her.

'Undoubtedly sincere in his determination to make a figure in
the world. But a Christian, in any intelligible sense of that
much-abused word,—no! He is one type of the successful man of our
day. Where thousands of better and stronger men struggle vainly for
fair recognition, he and his kind are glorified. In comparison with
a really energetic man, he is an acrobat. The crowd stares at him
and applauds, and there is nothing he cares for so much as that
kind of admiration.'

Martin kept silence, and in a few minutes succeeded in broaching
a wholly different subject.

Not long after this, Mr. Chilvers paid a call at the
conventional hour. Sidwell, hoping to escape, invited two girls to
step out with her on to the lawn. The sun was sinking, and, as she
stood with eyes fixed upon it, the Rev. Bruno's voice disagreeably
broke her reverie. She was perforce involved in a dialogue, her
companions moving aside.

'What a magnificent sky!' murmured Chilvers. '"There sinks the
nebulous star." Forgive me, I have fallen into a tiresome trick of
quoting. How differently a sunset is viewed nowadays from what it
was in old times! Our impersonal emotions are on a higher
plane—don't you think so? Yes, scientific discovery has done more
for religion than all the ages of pious imagination. A theory of
Galileo or Newton is more to the soul than a psalm of David.'

'You think so?' Sidwell asked, coldly.

In everyday conversation she was less suave than formerly. This
summer she had never worn her spray of sweet-brier, and the
omission might have been deemed significant of a change in herself.
When the occasion offered, she no longer hesitated to express a
difference of opinion; at times she uttered her dissent with a
bluntness which recalled Buckland's manner in private.

'Does the comparison seem to you unbecoming?' said Chilvers,
with genial condescension. 'Or untrue?'

'What do you mean by "the soul"?' she inquired, still gazing
away from him.

'The principle of conscious life in man—that which understands
and worships.'

'The two faculties seem to me so different that'——She broke off.
'But I mustn't talk foolishly about such things.'

'I feel sure you have thought of them to some purpose. I wonder
whether you ever read Francis Newman's book on
The
Soul
?'

'No, I never saw it.'

'Allow me to recommend it to you. I believe you would find it
deeply interesting.'

'Does the Church approve it?'

'The Church?' He smiled. 'Ah! what Church? Churchmen there are,
unfortunately, who detest the name of its author, but I hope you
have never classed me among them. The Church, rightly understood,
comprehends every mind and heart that is striving upwards. The age
of intolerance will soon be as remote from us as that of
persecution. Can I be mistaken in thinking that this broader view
has your sympathy, Miss Warricombe?'

'I can't sympathise with what I don't understand, Mr.
Chilvers.'

He looked at her with tender solicitude, bending slightly from
his usual square-shouldered attitude.

'Do let me find an opportunity of talking over the whole matter
with you—by no means as an instructor. In my view, a clergyman may
seek instruction from the humblest of those who are called his
flock. The thoughtful and high-minded among them will often assist
him materially in his endeavour at self-development. To my
"flock",' he continued, playfully, 'you don't belong; but may I not
count you one of that circle of friends to whom I look for the
higher kind of sympathy?'

Sidwell glanced about her in the hope that some one might be
approaching. Her two friends were at a distance, talking and
laughing together.

'You shall tell me some day,' she replied, with more attention
to courtesy, 'what the doctrines of the Broad Church really are.
But the air grows too cool to be pleasant; hadn't we better return
to the drawing-room?'

The greater part of the winter went by before she had again to
submit to a tete-a-tete with the Rev. Bruno. It was seldom that she
thought of him save when compelled to do so by his exacting
presence, but in the meantime he exercised no small influence on
her mental life. Insensibly she was confirmed in her alienation
from all accepted forms of religious faith. Whether she wished it
or not, it was inevitable that such a process should keep her
constantly in mind of Godwin Peak. Her desire to talk with him at
times became so like passion that she appeared to herself to love
him more truly than ever. Yet such a mood was always followed by
doubt, and she could not say whether the reaction distressed or
soothed her. These months that had gone by brought one result, not
to be disguised. Whatever the true nature of her feeling for
Godwin, the thought of marrying him was so difficult to face that
it seemed to involve impossibilities. He himself had warned her
that marriage would mean severance from all her kindred. It was
practically true, and time would only increase the difficulty of
such a determination.

The very fact that her love (again, if love it were) must be
indulged in defiance of universal opinion tended to keep emotion
alive. A woman is disposed to cling to a lover who has disgraced
himself, especially if she can believe that the disgrace was
incurred as a result of devotion to her. Could love be separated
from thought of marriage, Sidwell would have encouraged herself in
fidelity, happy in the prospect of a life-long spiritual
communion—for she would not doubt of Godwin's upward progress, of
his eventual purification. But this was a mere dream. If Godwin's
passion were steadfast, the day would come when she must decide
either to cast in her lot with his, or to bid him be free. And
could she imagine herself going forth into exile?

There came a letter from him, and she was fortunate enough to
receive it without the knowledge of her relatives. He wrote that he
had obtained employment. The news gave her a troubled joy, lasting
for several days. That no emotion appeared in her reply was due to
a fear lest she might be guilty of misleading him. Perhaps already
she had done so. Her last whisper—'Some day!'—was it not a promise
and an appeal? Now she had not the excuse of profound agitation,
there must be no word her conscience could not justify. But in
writing those formal lines she felt herself a coward. She was
drawing back—preparing her escape.

Often she had the letter beneath her pillow. It was the first
she had ever received from a man who professed to love her. So long
without romance in her life, she could not but entertain this
semblance of it, and feel that she was still young.

It told much in Godwin's favour that he had not ventured to
write before there was this news to send her. It testified to the
force of his character, the purity of his purpose. A weaker man,
she knew, would have tried to excite her compassion by letters of
mournful strain, might even have distressed her with attempts at
clandestine meeting. She had said rightly—his nature was not base.
And she loved him! She was passionately grateful to him for proving
that her love had not been unworthily bestowed.

When he wrote again, her answer should not be cowardly.

The life of the household went on as it had been wont to do for
years, but with the spring came events. An old lady died whilst on
a visit to the house (she was a half-sister of Mrs. Warricombe),
and by a will executed a few years previously she left a thousand
pounds, to be equally divided between the children of this family.
Sidwell smiled sadly on finding herself in possession of this
bequest, the first sum of any importance that she had ever held in
her own right. If she married a man of whom all her kith and kin so
strongly disapproved that they would not give her even a wedding
present, two hundred and fifty pounds would be better than no dowry
at all. One could furnish a house with it.

Then Fanny had an attack of bronchitis, and whilst she was
recovering Buckland came down for a few days, bringing with him a
piece of news for which no one was prepared. As if to make
reparation to his elder sister for the harshness with which he had
behaved in the affair of Godwin Peak, he chose her for his first
confidante.

'Sidwell, I am going to be married. Do you care to hear about
it?'

'Certainly I do.'

Long ago she had been assured of Sylvia Moorhouse's sincerity in
rejecting Buckland's suit. That was still a grief to her, but she
acknowledged her friend's wisdom, and was now very curious to learn
who it was that the Radical had honoured with his transferred
affections.

'The lady's name,' Buckland began, 'is Miss Matilda Renshaw. She
is the second daughter of a dealer in hides, tallow, and that kind
of thing. Both her parents are dead; she has lived of late with her
married sister at Blackheath.'

Sidwell listened with no slight astonishment, and her
countenance looked what she felt.

'That's the bald statement of the cause,' pursued her brother,
seeming to enjoy the consternation he had excited. 'Now, let me
fill up the outline. Miss Renshaw is something more than
good-looking, has had an admirable education, is five-and-twenty,
and for a couple of years has been actively engaged in humanitarian
work in the East End. She has published a book on social questions,
and is a very good public speaker. Finally, she owns property
representing between three and four thousand a year.'

'The picture has become more attractive,' said Sidwell.

'You imagined a rather different person? If I persuade mother to
invite her down here presently, do you think you could be friendly
with her?'

'I see no reason why I should not be.'

'But I must warn you. She has nothing to do with creeds and
dogmas.'

He tried to read her face. Sidwell's mind was a mystery to
him.

'I shall make no inquiry about her religious views,' his sister
replied, in a dispassionate tone, which conveyed no certain
meaning.

'Then I feel sure you will like her, and equally sure that she
will like you.'

His parents had no distinct fault to find with this choice,
though they would both greatly have preferred a daughter-in-law
whose genealogy could be more freely spoken of. Miss Renshaw was
invited to Exeter, and the first week of June saw her arrival.
Buckland had in no way exaggerated her qualities. She was a
dark-eyed beauty, perfect from the social point of view, a very
interesting talker,—in short, no ordinary woman. That Buckland
should have fallen in love with her, even after Sylvia, was easily
understood; it seemed likely that she would make him as good a wife
as he could ever hope to win.

Sidwell was expecting another letter from the north of England.
The silence which during those first months had been justifiable
was now a source of anxiety. But whether fear or hope predominated
in her expectancy, she still could not decide. She had said to
herself that her next reply should not be cowardly, yet she was as
far as ever from a courageous resolve.

Mental harassment told upon her health. Martin, watching her
with solicitude, declared that for her sake as much as for Fanny's
they must have a thorough holiday abroad.

Urged by the approaching departure, Sidwell overcame her
reluctance to write to Godwin before she had a letter to answer. It
was done in a mood of intolerable despondency, when life looked
barren before her, and the desire of love all but triumphed over
every other consideration. The letter written and posted, she would
gladly have recovered it—reserved, formal as it was. Cowardly
still; but then Godwin had not written.

She kept a watch upon the postman, and again, when Godwin's
reply was delivered, escaped detection.

Hardly did she dare to open the envelope. Her letter had
perchance been more significant than she supposed; and did not the
mere fact of her writing invite a lover's frankness?

But the reply was hardly more moving than if it had come from a
total stranger. For a moment she felt relieved; in an hour's time
she suffered indescribable distress. Godwin wrote—so she convinced
herself after repeated perusals—as if discharging a task; not a
word suggested tenderness. Had the letter been unsolicited, she
could have used it like the former one; but it was the answer to an
appeal. The phrases she had used were still present in her mind. 'I
am anxious . . . it is more than half a year since you wrote . . .
I have been expecting . . . anything that is of interest to you
will interest me. . . .' How could she imagine that this was
reserved and formal? Shame fell upon her; she locked herself from
all companionship, and wept in rebellion against the laws of
life.