in different ways, christian and marcella moxey had both been lonely since their childhood. as a schoolgirl, marcella seemed to her companions conceited and repellent; only as the result of reflection in after years did sylvia moorhouse express so favourable an opinion of her. in all things she affected singularity; especially it was her delight to utter democratic and revolutionary sentiments among hearers who, belonging to a rigidly conservative order, held such opinions impious. arrived at womanhood, she affected scorn of the beliefs and habits cherished by her own sex, and shrank from association with the other. godwin peak was the first man with whom she conversed in the tone of friendship, and it took a year or more before that point was reached. as her intimacy with him established itself, she was observed to undergo changes which seemed very significant in the eyes of her few acquaintances. disregard of costume had been one of her characteristics, but now she moved gradually towards the opposite extreme, till her dresses were occasionally more noticeable for richness than for good taste.

christian, for kindred reasons, was equally debarred from the pleasures and profits of society. at school, his teachers considered him clever, his fellows for the most part looked down upon him as a sentimental weakling. the death of his parents, when he was still a lad, left him to the indifferent care of a guardian nothing akin to him. he began life in an uncongenial position, and had not courage to oppose the drift of circumstances. the romantic attachment which absorbed his best years naturally had a debilitating effect, for love was never yet a supporter of the strenuous virtues, save when it has survived fruition and been blessed by reason. in most men a fit of amorous mooning works its own cure; energetic rebound is soon inevitable. but christian was so constituted that a decade of years could not exhaust his capacity for sentimental languishment. he made it a point of honour to seek no female companionship which could imperil his faith. unfortunately, this avoidance of the society which would soon have made him a happy renegade, was but too easy. marcella and he practically encouraged each other in a life of isolation, though to both of them such an existence was anything but congenial. their difficulties were of the same nature as those which had always beset godwin peak; they had no relatives with whom they cared to associate, and none of the domestic friends who, in the progress of time, establish and extend a sphere of genuine intimacy.

most people who are capable of independent thought rapidly outgrow the stage when compromise is abhorred; they accept, at first reluctantly, but ere long with satisfaction, that code of polite intercourse which, as steele says, is ‘an expedient to make fools and wise men equal’. it was marcella’s ill-fate that she could neither learn tolerance nor persuade herself to affect it. the emancipated woman has fewer opportunities of relieving her mind than a man in corresponding position; if her temper be aggressive she must renounce general society, and, if not content to live alone, ally herself with some group of declared militants. by correspondence, or otherwise, marcella might have brought herself into connection with women of a sympathetic type, but this effort she had never made. and chiefly because of her acquaintance with godwin peak. in him she concentrated her interests; he was the man to whom her heart went forth with every kind of fervour. so long as there remained a hope of moving him to reciprocal feeling she did not care to go in search of female companions. year after year she sustained herself in solitude by this faint hope. she had lost sight of the two or three schoolfellows who, though not so zealous as herself, would have welcomed her as an interesting acquaintance; and the only woman who assiduously sought her was mrs. morton, the wife of one of christian’s friends, a good-natured but silly person bent on making known that she followed the ‘higher law’.

godwin’s disappearance sank her in profound melancholy. through the black weeks of january and february she scarcely left the house, and on the plea of illness refused to see any one but her brother. between christian and her there was no avowed confidence, but each knew the other’s secret; their mutual affection never spoke itself in words, yet none the less it was indispensable to their lives. deprived of his sister’s company, christian must have yielded to the vice which had already too strong a hold upon him, and have become a maudlin drunkard. left to herself, marcella had but slender support against a grim temptation already beckoning her in nights of sleeplessness. of the two, her nature was the more tragic. circumstances aiding, christian might still forget his melancholy, abandon the whisky bottle, and pass a lifetime of amiable uxoriousness, varied with scientific enthusiasm. but for marcella, frustrate in the desire with which every impulse of her being had identified itself, what future could be imagined?

when a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a semi-opaque atmosphere which london has to accept with gratitude) had announced that the seven-months’ winter was overcome, and when the newspapers began to speak, after their fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny, christian exerted himself to rouse his sister from her growing indolence. he succeeded in taking her to the academy. among the works of sculpture, set apart for the indifference of the public, was a female head, catalogued as ‘a nihilist’—in itself interesting, and specially so to marcella, because it was executed by an artist whose name she recognised as that of a schoolmate, agatha walworth. she spoke of the circumstance to christian, and added:

‘i should like to have that. let us go and see the price.’

the work was already sold. christian, happy that his sister could be aroused to this interest, suggested that a cast might be obtainable.

‘write to miss walworth,’ he urged. ‘bring yourself to her recollection.—i should think she must be the right kind of woman.’

though at the time she shook her head, marcella was presently tempted to address a letter to the artist, who responded with friendly invitation. in this way a new house was opened to her; but, simultaneously, one more illusion was destroyed. knowing little of life, and much of literature, she pictured miss walworth as inhabiting a delightful bohemian world, where the rules of conventionalism had no existence, and everything was judged by the brain-standard. modern french biographies supplied all her ideas of studio society. she prepared herself for the first visit with a joyous tremor, wondering whether she would be deemed worthy to associate with the men and women who lived for art. the reality was a shock. in a large house at chiswick she found a gathering of most respectable english people, chatting over the regulation tea-cup; not one of them inclined to disregard the dictates of mrs. grundy in dress, demeanour, or dialogue. agatha walworth lived with her parents and her sisters like any other irreproachable young woman. she had a nice little studio, and worked at modelling with a good deal of aptitude; but of bohemia she knew nothing whatever, save by hearsay. her ‘nihilist’ was no indication of a rebellious spirit; some friend had happened to suggest that a certain female model, a russian, would do very well for such a character, and the hint was tolerably well carried out—nothing more. marcella returned in a mood of contemptuous disappointment. the cast she had desired to have was shortly sent to her as a gift, but she could take no pleasure in it.

still, she saw more of the walworths and found them not illiberal. agatha was intelligent, and fairly well read in modern authors; no need to conceal one’s opinions in conversation with her. marcella happened to be spending the evening with these acquaintances whilst her brother was having his chat at staple inn; on her return, she mentioned to christian that she had been invited to visit the walworths in devonshire a few weeks hence.

‘go, by all means,’ urged her brother.

‘i don’t think i shall. they are too respectable.’

‘nonsense! they seem very open-minded; you really can’t expect absolute unconventionality. is it desirable? really is it, now?—suppose i were to marry some day, marcella; do you think my household would be unconventional?’

his voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted. marcella, to whom her brother’s romance was anything but an agreeable subject,—the slight acquaintance she had with the modern laura did not encourage her to hope for that lady’s widowhood,—gave no heed to the question.

‘they are going to have a house at budleigh salterton; do you know of the place? somewhere near the mouth of the exe. miss walworth tells me that one of our old school friends is living there—sylvia moorhouse. did i ever mention sylvia? she had gleams of sense, i remember; but no doubt society has drilled all that out of her.’

christian sighed.

‘why?’ he urged. ‘society is getting more tolerant than you are disposed to think. very few well-educated people would nowadays object to an acquaintance on speculative grounds. some one—who was it?—was telling me of a recent marriage between the daughter of some well-known church people and a man who made no secret of his agnosticism; the parents acquiescing cheerfully. the one thing still insisted on is decency of behaviour.’

marcella’s eyes flashed.

‘how can you say that? you know quite well that most kinds of immorality are far more readily forgiven by people of the world than sincere heterodoxy on moral subjects.’

‘well, well, i meant decency from their point of view. and there really must be such restrictions, you know. how very few people are capable of what you call sincere heterodoxy, in morals or religion! your position is unphilosophical; indeed it is. take the world as you find it, and make friends with kind, worthy people. you have suffered from a needless isolation. do accept this opportunity of adding to your acquaintances!—do, marcella! i shall take it as a great kindness, dear girl.’

his sister let her head lie back against the chair, her face averted. a stranger seated in christian’s place, regarding marcella whilst her features were thus hidden, would have thought it probable that she was a woman of no little beauty. her masses of tawny hair, her arms and hands, the pose and outline of her figure, certainly suggested a countenance of corresponding charm, and the ornate richness of her attire aided such an impression. this thought came to christian as he gazed at her; his eyes, always so gentle, softened to a tender compassion. as the silence continued, he looked uneasily about him; when at length he spoke, it was as though a matter of trifling moment had occurred to him.

‘by-the-bye, i am told that malkin (earwaker’s friend, you know) saw peak not long ago—in america.’

marcella did not change her position, but at the sound of peak’s name she stirred, as if with an intention, at once checked, of bending eagerly forward.

‘in america?’ she asked, incredulously.

‘at boston. he met him in the street—or thinks he did. there’s a doubt. when malkin spoke to the man, he declared that he was not peak at all—said there was a mistake.’

marcella moved so as to show her face; endeavouring to express an unemotional interest, she looked coldly scornful.

‘that ridiculous man can’t be depended upon,’ she said.

there had been one meeting between marcella and mr. malkin, with the result that each thoroughly disliked the other—an antipathy which could have been foreseen.

‘well, there’s no saying,’ replied christian. ‘but of one thing i feel pretty sure: we have seen the last of peak. he’ll never come back to us.’

‘why not?’

‘i can only say that i feel convinced he has broken finally with all his old friends.—we must think no more of him, marcella.’

his sister rose slowly, affected to glance at a book, and in a few moments said good-night. for another hour christian sat by himself in gloomy thought.

at breakfast next morning marcella announced that she would be from home the whole day; she might return in time for dinner, but it was uncertain. her brother asked no questions, but said that he would lunch in town. about ten o’clock a cab was summoned, and marcella, without leave-taking, drove away.

christian lingered as long as possible over the morning paper, unable to determine how he should waste the weary hours that lay before him. there was no reason for his remaining in london through this brief season of summer glow. means and leisure were his, he could go whither he would. but the effort of decision and departure seemed too much for him. worst of all, this lassitude (not for the first time) was affecting his imagination; he thought with a dull discontent of the ideal love to which he had bound himself. could he but escape from it, and begin a new life! but he was the slave of his airy obligation; for very shame’s sake his ten years’ consistency must be that of a lifetime.

there was but one place away from london to which he felt himself drawn, and that was the one place he might not visit. this morning’s sunshine carried him back to that day when he had lain in the meadow near twybridge and talked with godwin peak. how distinctly he remembered his mood! ‘be practical—don’t be led astray after ideals—concentrate yourself;’—yes, it was he who had given that advice to peak: and had he but recked his own rede—! poor little janet! was she married? if so, her husband must be a happy man.

why should he not go down to twybridge? his uncle, undoubtedly still living, must by this time have forgotten the old resentment, perhaps would be glad to see him. in any case he might stroll about the town and somehow obtain news of the moxey family.

with vague half-purpose he left the house and walked westward. the stream of traffic in edgware road brought him to a pause; he stood for five minutes in miserable indecision, all but resolving to go on as far as euston and look for the next northward train. but the vice in his will prevailed; automaton-like he turned in another direction, and presently came out into sussex square. here was the house to which his thoughts had perpetually gone forth ever since that day when constance gave her hand to a thriving city man, and became mrs. palmer. at present, he knew, it was inhabited only by domestics: mr. palmer, recovering from illness that threatened to be fatal, had gone to bournemouth, where constance of course tended him. but he would walk past and look up at the windows.

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 when the time comes.’

‘that’s right!’ exclaimed her brother, with satisfaction. ‘you couldn’t do better—couldn’t possibly. it will be a very good thing for you in several ways.’

and each withdrew to brood over a perturbing secret.