'Then it was really an illusion!' cried Malkin. 'I was too hasty. Yet that isn't a charge that can be often brought against me, I think. Does Earwaker know of this?'
'He has lately heard,' replied Christian, who in vain sought for a means of checking Malkin's loquacity. 'I thought he might have told you.'
'Certainly not. The thing is quite new to me. And what is Peak doing down there, pray? Why did he conceal himself?'
Christian gazed appealingly at his sister. She returned the look steadily, but neither stirred nor spoke. It was Warricombe's voice that next sounded:
'Peak's behaviour seems mysterious,' he began, with ironic gravity. 'I don't pretend to understand him. What's your view of his character, Mr. Malkin?'
'I know him very slightly indeed, Mr. Warricombe. But I have a high opinion of his powers. I wonder he does so little. After that article of his in _The Critical_'----
Malkin became aware of something like agonised entreaty on Christian's countenance, but this had merely the effect of heightening his curiosity.
'In _The Critical_?' said Warricombe, eagerly. 'I didn't know of that. What was the subject?'
'To be sure, it was anonymous,' went on Malkin, without a suspicion of the part he was playing before these three excited people. 'A paper called "The New Sophistry", a tremendous bit of satire.'
Marcella's eyes closed as if a light had flashed before them; she drew a short sigh, and at once seemed to become quite at ease, the smile with which she regarded Warricombe expressing a calm interest.
'That article was Peak's?' Buckland asked, in a very quiet voice.
Christian at last found his opportunity.
'He never mentioned it to you? Perhaps he thought he had gone rather too far in his Broad Churchism, and might be misunderstood.'
'Broad Churchism?' cried Malkin. 'Uncommonly broad, I must say!'
And he laughed heartily; Marcella seemed to join in his mirth.
'Then it would surprise you,' said Buckland, in the same quiet tone as before, 'to hear that Peak is about to take Orders?'
'Orders?--For what?'
Christian laughed. The worst was over; after all, it came as a relief.
'Not for wines,' he replied. 'Mr. Warricombe means that Peak is going to be ordained.'
Malkin's amazement rendered him speechless. He stared from one person to another, his features strangely distorted.
'You can hardly believe it?' pressed Buckland.
The reply was anticipated by Christian saying:
'Remember, Malkin, that you had no opportunity of studying Peak. It's not so easy to understand him.'
'But I don't see,' burst out the other, 'how I could possibly so _mis_understand him! What has Earwaker to say?'
Buckland rose from his seat, advanced to Marcella, and offered his hand. She said mechanically, 'Must you go?' but was incapable of another word. Christian came to her relief, performed the needful civilities, and accompanied his acquaintance to the foot of the stairs. Buckland had become grave, stiff, monosyllabic; Christian made no allusion to the scene thus suddenly interrupted, and they parted with a formal air.
Malkin remained for another quarter of an hour, when the muteness of his companions made it plain to him that he had better withdraw. He went off with a sense of having been mystified, half resentful, and vastly impatient to see Earwaker.
Part V
CHAPTER I
The cuckoo clock in Mrs. Roots's kitchen had just struck three. A wind roared from the north-east, and light thickened beneath a sky which made threat of snow. Peak was in a mood to enjoy the crackling fire; he settled himself with a book in his easy-chair, and thought with pleasure of two hours' reading, before the appearance of the homely teapot.
Christmas was just over--one cause of the feeling of relief and quietness which possessed him. No one had invited him for Christmas Eve or the day that followed, and he did not regret it. The letter he had received from Martin Warricombe was assurance enough that those he desired to remember him still did so. He had thought of using this season for his long postponed visit to Twybridge, but reluctance prevailed. All popular holidays irritated and depressed him; he loathed the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb. It was all over, and the sense of that afforded him a brief content.
This book, which he had just brought from the circulating library, was altogether to his taste. The author, Justin Walsh, he knew to be a brother of Professor Walsh, long ago the object of his rebellious admiration. Matter and treatment rejoiced him. No intellectual delight, though he was capable of it in many forms, so stirred his spirit as that afforded him by a vigorous modern writer joyously assailing the old moralities. Justin Walsh was a modern of the moderns; at once man of science and man of letters; defiant without a hint of popular cynicism, scornful of English reticences yet never gross. '_Oui, repondit Pococurante, il est beau d'ecrire ce qu 'on pense; c'est le privilege de l'homme_.' This stood by way of motto on the title-page, and Godwin felt his nerves thrill in sympathetic response.
What a fine fellow he must be to have for a friend! Now a man like this surely had companionship enough and of the kind he wished? He wrote like one who associates freely with the educated classes both at home and abroad. Was he married? Where would _he_ seek his wife? The fitting mate for him would doubtless be found among those women, cosmopolitan and emancipated, whose acquaintance falls only to men in easy circumstances and of good social standing, men who travel much, who are at home in all the great centres of civilisation.
As Peak meditated, the volume fell upon his knee. Had it not lain in his own power to win a reputation like that which Justin Walsh was achieving? His paper in _The Critical Review_, itself a decided success, might have been followed up by others of the same tenor. Instead of mouldering in a dull cathedral town, he might now be living and working in France or Germany. His money would have served one purpose as well as the other, and two or three years of determined effort----
Mrs. Roots showed her face at the door.
'A gentleman is asking for you, sir,--Mr. Chilvers.'
'Mr. Chilvers? Please ask him to come up.'
He threw his book on to the table, and stood in expectancy. Someone ascended the stairs with rapid stride and creaking boots. The door was flung open, and a cordial but affected voice burst forth in greeting.
'Ha, Mr. Peak! I hope you haven't altogether forgotten me? Delighted to see you again!'
Godwin gave his hand, and felt it strongly pressed, whilst Chilvers gazed into his face with a smiling wistfulness which could only be answered with a grin of discomfort. The Rev. Bruno had grown very tall, and seemed to be in perfect health; but the effeminacy of his brilliant youth still declared itself in his attitudes, gestures, and attire. He was dressed with marked avoidance of the professional pattern. A hat of soft felt but not clerical, fashionable collar and tie, a sweeping ulster, and beneath it a frock-coat, which was doubtless the pride of some West End tailor. His patent-leather boots were dandiacally diminutive; his glove fitted like that of a lady who lives but to be _bien gantee_. The feathery hair, which at Whitelaw he was wont to pat and smooth, still had its golden shimmer, and on his face no growth was permitted.
'I had heard of your arrival here, of course,' said Peak, trying to appear civil, though anything more than that was beyond his power. 'Will you sit down?'
'This is the "breathing time o' the day" with you, I hope? I don't disturb your work?'
'I was only reading