All the blinds were down--naturally. Thrice he went by and retraced his steps. Then, still automaton-like, he approached the door, rang the bell. The appearance of the servant choked his voice for an instant, but he succeeded in shaping an inquiry after Mr. Palmer's health.
'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the reply, 'that Mr. Palmer died last night. We received the news only an hour or two ago.'
Christian tottered on his feet and turned so pale that the servant regarded him with anxiety. For a minute or two he stared vacantly into the gloomy hall; then, without a word, he turned abruptly and walked away.
Unconscious of the intervening distance, he found himself at home, in his library. The parlour-maid was asking him whether he would have luncheon. Scarcely understanding the question, he muttered a refusal and sat down.
So, it had come at last. Constance was a widow. In a year or so she might think of marrying again.
He remained in the library for three or four hours. At first incapable of rejoicing, then ashamed to do so, he at length suffered from such a throbbing of the heart that apprehension of illness recalled him to a normal state of mind. The favourite decanter was within reach, and it gave him the wonted support. Then at length did heart and brain glow with exulting fervour.
Poor Constance! Noble woman! Most patient of martyrs! The hour of her redemption had struck. The fetters had fallen from her tender, suffering body. Of _him_ she could not yet think. He did not wish it. The womanhood must pay its debt to nature before she could gladden in the prospect of a new life. Months must go by before he could approach her, or even remind her of his existence. But at last his reward was sure.
And he had thought of Twybridge, of his cousin Janet! O unworthy lapse!
He shed tears of tenderness. Dear, noble Constance! It was now nearly twelve years since he first looked upon her face. In those days he mingled freely with all the society within his reach. It was not very select, and Constance Markham shone to him like a divinity among creatures of indifferent clay. They said she was coquettish, that she played at the game of love with every presentable young man--envious calumny! No, she was single-hearted, inexperienced, a lovely and joyous girl of not yet twenty. It is so difficult for such a girl to understand her own emotions. Her parents persuaded her into wedding Palmer. That was all gone into the past, and now his concern--their concern--was only with the blessed future.
At three o'clock he began to feel a healthy appetite. He sent for a cab and drove towards the region of restaurants.
Had he yielded to the impulse which this morning directed him to Twybridge, he would have arrived in that town not very long after his sister.
For that was the aim of Marcella's journey. On reaching the station, she dropped a light veil over her face and set forth on foot to discover the abode of Mrs. Peak. No inhabitant of Twybridge save her uncle and his daughters could possibly recognise her, but she shrank from walking through the streets with exposed countenance. Whether she would succeed in her quest was uncertain. Godwin Peak's mother still dwelt here, she knew, for less than a year ago she had asked the question of Godwin himself; but a woman in humble circumstances might not have a house of her own, and her name was probably unknown save to a few friends.
However, the first natural step was to inquire for a directory. A stationer supplied her with one, informing her, with pride, that he himself was the author of it--that this was only the second year of its issue, and that its success was 'very encouraging'. Retiring to a quiet street, Marcella examined her purchase, and came upon 'Peak, Oliver; seedsman'--the sole entry of the name. This was probably a relative of Godwin's. Without difficulty she found Mr Peak's shop; behind the counter stood Oliver himself, rubbing his hands. Was there indeed a family likeness between this fresh-looking young shopkeeper and the stern, ambitious, intellectual man whose lineaments were ever before her mind? Though with fear and repulsion, Marcella was constrained to recognise something in the commonplace visage. With an uncertain voice, she made known her business.
'I wish to find Mrs. Peak--a widow--an elderly lady'----
'Oh yes, madam! My mother, no doubt. She lives with her sister, Miss Cadman--the milliner's shop in the first street to the left. Let me point it out.'
With a sinking of the heart, Marcella murmured thanks and walked away. She found the milliner's shop--and went past it.
Why should discoveries such as these be so distasteful to her? Her own origin was not so exalted that she must needs look down on trades-folk. Still, for the moment she all but abandoned her undertaking. Was Godwin Peak in truth of so much account to her? Would not the shock of meeting his mother be final? Having come thus far, she must go through with it. If the experience cured her of a hopeless passion, why, what more desirable?
She entered the shop. A young female assistant came forward with respectful smile, and waited her commands.
'I wish, if you please, to see Mrs. Peak.'
'Oh yes, madam! Will you have the goodness to walk this way?'
Too late Marcella remembered that she ought to have gone to the house-entrance. The girl led her out of the shop into a dark passage, and thence into a sitting-room which smelt of lavender. Here she waited for a few moments; then the door opened softly, and Mrs. Peak presented herself.
There was no shock. The widow had the air of a gentlewoman--walked with elderly grace--and spoke with propriety. She resembled Godwin, and this time it was not painful to remark the likeness.
'I have come to Twybridge,' began Marcella, gently and respectfully, 'that is to say, I have stopped in passing--to ask for the address of Mr. Godwin Peak. A letter has failed to reach him.
It was her wish to manage without either disclosing the truth about herself or elaborating fictions, but after the first words she felt it impossible not to offer some explanation. Mrs. Peak showed a slight surprise. With the courage of cowardice, Marcella continued more rapidly:
'My name is Mrs. Ward. My husband used to know Mr. Peak, in London, a few years ago, but we have been abroad, and unfortunately have lost sight of him. We remembered that Mr. Peak's relatives lived at Twybridge, and, as we wish very much to renew the old acquaintance, I took the opportunity--passing by rail. I made inquiries in the town, and was directed to you--I hope rightly'----
The widow's face changed to satisfaction. Evidently her straightforward mind accepted the story as perfectly credible. Marcella, with bitterness, knew herself far from comely enough to suggest perils. She looked old enough for the part she was playing, and the glove upon her hand might conceal a wedding-ring.
'Yes, you were directed rightly,' Mrs. Peak made quiet answer. 'I shall be very glad to give you my son's address. He left London about last Christmas, and went to live at Exeter.'
'Exeter? We thought he might be out of England.'
'No; he has lived all the time at Exeter. The address is Longbrook Street'--she added the number. 'He is studying, and finds that part of the country pleasant. I am hoping to see him here before very long.'
Marcella did not extend the conversation. She spoke of having to catch a train, and veiled as well as she could beneath ordinary courtesies her perplexity at the information she had received.
When she again reached the house at Notting Hill, Christian was absent. He came home about nine in the evening. It was impossible not to remark his strange mood of repressed excitement; but Marcella did not question him, and Christian had resolved to conceal the day's event until he could speak of it without agitation. Before they parted for the night, Marcella said carelessly:
'I have decided to go down to Budleigh Salterton