'He wrote,' Sidwell replied with difficulty, 'to let me know of a change that has come upon his prospects. By the death of a friend, he is made independent.'
'For his own sake, I am glad to hear that. But how could it concern _you_, dear?'
She struggled to command herself.
'It was at my invitation that he wrote, father.'
Martin's face expressed grave concern.
'Sidwell! Is this right?'
She was very pale, and kept her eyes unmovingly directed just aside from her father.
'What can it mean?' Mr. Warricombe pursued, with sad remonstrance. 'Will you not take me into your confidence, Sidwell?'
'I can't speak of it,' she replied, with sudden determination. 'Least of all with you, father.'
'Least of all?--I thought we were very near to each other.'
'For that very reason, I can't speak to you of this. I must be left free! I am going away with Sylvia, for a year, and for so long I _must_ be absolutely independent. Father, I entreat you not to'----
A sob checked her. She turned away, and fought against the hysterical tendency; but it was too strong to be controlled. Her father approached, beseeching her to be more like herself. He held her in his arms, until tears had their free course, and a measure of calmness returned.
'I can't speak to you about it,' she repeated, her face hidden from him. 'I must write you a long letter, when I have gone. You shall know everything in that way.'
'But, my dearest, I can't let you leave us under these circumstances. This is a terrible trial to me. You cannot possibly go until we understand each other!'
'Then I will write to you here--to-day or to-morrow.'
With this promise Martin was obliged to be contented, Sidwell left him, and was not seen, except by Sylvia, during the whole day.
Nor did she appear at breakfast on the morning that followed. But when this meal was over, Sylvia received a message, summoning her to the retreat on the top of the house. Here Sidwell sat in the light and warmth, a glass door wide open to the west, the rays of a brilliant sun softened by curtains which fluttered lightly in the breeze from the sea.
'Will you read this?' she said, holding out a sheet of notepaper on which were a few lines in her own handwriting.
It was a letter, beginning--'I cannot.'
Sylvia perused it carefully, and stood in thought.
'After all?' were the words with which she broke silence. They were neither reproachful nor regretful, but expressed grave interest.
'In the night,' said Sidwell, 'I wrote to father, but I shall not give him the letter. Before it was finished, I knew that I must write _this_. There's no more to be said, dear. You will go abroad without me--at all events for the present.'
'If that is your resolve,' answered the other, quietly, 'I shall keep my word, and only do what I can to aid it.' She sat down shielding her eyes from the sunlight with a Japanese fan. 'After all, Sidwell, there's much to be said for a purpose formed on such a morning as this; one can't help distrusting the midnight.'
Sidwell was lying back in a low chair, her eyes turned to the woody hills on the far side of the Exe.
'There's one thing I should like to say,' her friend pursued. 'It struck me as curious that you were not at all affected, by what to me would have been the one insuperable difficulty.'
'I know what you mean--the legacy.'
'Yes. It still seems to you of no significance?'
'Of very little,' Sidwell answered wearily, letting her eyelids droop.
'Then we won't talk about it. From the higher point of view, I believe you are right; but--still let it rest.'
In the afternoon, Sidwell penned the following lines which she enclosed in an envelope and placed on the study table, when her father was absent.
'The long letter which I promised you, dear father, is needless. I have to-day sent Mr. Peak a reply which closes our correspondence. I am sure he will not write again; if he were to do so, I should not answer.
'I have given up my intention of going away with Sylvia. Later, perhaps, I shall wish to join her somewhere on the Continent, but by that time you will be in no concern about me.'
To this Mr. Warricombe replied only with the joyous smile which greeted his daughter at their next meeting. Mrs. Warricombe remained in ignorance of the ominous shadow which had passed over her house. At present, she was greatly interested in the coming marriage of the Rev. Bruno Chilvers, whom she tried _not_ to forgive for having disappointed her secret hope.
Martin had finally driven into the background those uneasy questionings, which at one time it seemed likely that Godwin Peak would rather accentuate than silence. With Sidwell, he could never again touch on such topics. If he were still conscious of a postponed debate, the adjournment was _sine die_. Martin rested in the faith that, without effort of his own, the mysteries of life and time would ere long be revealed to him.
CHAPTER III
Earwaker spent Christmas with his relatives at Kingsmill. His father and mother both lived; the latter very infirm, unable to leave the house; the former a man of seventy, twisted with rheumatism, his face rugged as a countenance picked out by fancy on the trunk of a big old oak, his hands scarred and deformed with labour. Their old age was restful. The son who had made himself a 'gentleman', and who in London sat at the tables of the high-born, the wealthy, the famous, saw to it that they lacked no comfort.
A bright, dry morning invited the old man and the young to go forth together. They walked from the suburb countrywards, and their conversation was of the time when a struggle was being made to bear the expense of those three years at Whitelaw--no bad investment, as it proved. The father spoke with a strong Midland accent, using words of dialect by no means disagreeable to the son's ear--for dialect is a very different thing from the bestial jargon which on the lips of the London vulgar passes for English. They were laughing over some half grim reminiscence, when Earwaker became aware of two people who were approaching along the pavement, they also in merry talk. One of them he knew; it was Christian Moxey.
Too much interested in his companion to gaze about him, Christian came quite near before his eyes fell on Earwaker. Then he started with a pleasant surprise, changed instantly to something like embarrassment when he observed the aged man. Earwaker was willing to smile and go by, had the other consented; but a better impulse prevailed in both. They stopped and struck hands together.
'My father,' said the man of letters, quite at his ease.
Christian was equal to the occasion; he shook hands heartily with the battered toiler, then turned to the lady at his side.
'Janet, you guess who this is.--My cousin, Earwaker, Miss Janet Moxey.'
Doubtless Janet was aware that her praises had suffered no diminution when sung by Christian to his friends. Her eyes just fell, but in a moment were ready with their frank, intelligent smile. Earwaker experienced a pang--ever so slight--suggesting a revision of his philosophy.
They talked genially, and parted with good wishes for the New Year.
Two days later, on reaching home, Earwaker found in his letter-box a scrap of paper on which were scribbled a few barely legible lines. 'Here I am!' he at length deciphered. 'Got into Tilbury at eleven this morning. Where the devil are you? Write to Charing Cross Hotel.' No signature, but none was needed. Malkin's return