martin warricombe was reconciled to the prospect of a metropolitan winter by the fact that his old friend thomas gale, formerly geological professor at whitelaw college, had of late returned from a three years’ sojourn in north america, and now dwelt in london. the breezy man of science was welcomed back among his brethren with two-fold felicitation; his book on the appalachians would have given no insufficient proof of activity abroad, but evidence more generally interesting accompanied him in the shape of a young and beautiful wife. not every geologist whose years have entered the fifties can go forth and capture in second marriage a charming new england girl, thirty years his junior. yet those who knew mr. gale—his splendid physique, his bluff cordiality, the vigour of his various talk—were scarcely surprised. the young lady was no heiress; she had, in fact, been a school teacher, and might have wearied through her best years in that uncongenial pursuit. transplanted to the richest english soil, she developed remarkable aptitudes. a month or two of london exhibited her as a type of all that is most attractive in american womanhood.

between mrs. gale and the warricombes intimacy was soon established. sidwell saw much of her, and liked her. to this meditative english girl the young american offered an engrossing problem, for she avowed her indifference to all religious dogmas, yet was singularly tolerant and displayed a moral fervour which sidwell had believed inseparable from christian faith. at the gales’ house assembled a great variety of intellectual people, and with her father’s express approval (martin had his reasons) sidwell made the most of this opportunity of studying the modern world. only a few days after her arrival in london, she became acquainted with a mr. walsh, a brother of that heresiarch, the whitelaw professor, whose name was still obnoxious to her mother. he was a well-favoured man of something between thirty and forty, brilliant in conversation, personally engaging, and known by his literary productions, which found small favour with conservative readers. with surprise, sidwell in a short time became aware that mr. walsh had a frank liking for her society. he was often to be seen in mrs. warricombe’s drawing-room, and at mrs gale’s he yet more frequently obtained occasions of talking with her. the candour with which he expressed himself on most subjects enabled her to observe a type of mind which at present had peculiar interest for her. discretion often put restraint upon her curiosity, but none the less mr. walsh had plausible grounds for believing that his advances were not unwelcome. he saw that sidwell’s gaze occasionally rested upon him with a pleasant gravity, and noted the mood of meditation which sometimes came upon her when he had drawn apart. the frequency of these dialogues was observed by mrs warricombe, and one evening she broached the subject to her daughter rather abruptly.

‘i am surprised that you have taken such a liking to mr. walsh.’

sidwell coloured, and made answer in the quiet tone which her mother had come to understand as a reproof, a hint of defective delicacy:

‘i don’t think i have behaved in a way that should cause you surprise.’

‘it seemed to me that you were really very—friendly with him.’

‘yes, i am always friendly. but nothing more.’

‘don’t you think there’s a danger of his misunderstanding you, sidwell?’

‘i don’t, mother. mr. walsh understands that we differ irreconcilably on subjects of the first importance. i have never allowed him to lose sight of that.’

intellectual differences were of much less account to mrs. warricombe than to her daughter, and her judgment in a matter such as this was consequently far more practical.

‘if i may advise you, dear, you oughtn’t to depend much on that. i am not the only one who has noticed something—i only mention it, you know.’

sidwell mused gravely. in a minute or two she looked up and said in her gentlest voice:

‘thank you, mother. i will be more careful.’

perhaps she had lost sight of prudence, forgetting that mr. walsh could not divine her thoughts. her interest in him was impersonal; when he spoke she was profoundly attentive, only because her mind would have been affected in the same way had she been reading his words instead of listening to them. she could not let him know that another face was often more distinct to her imagination than his to her actual sight, and that her thoughts were frequently more busy with a remembered dialogue than with this in which she was engaged. she had abundantly safe-guarded herself against serious misconstruction, but if gossip were making her its subject, it would be inconsiderate not to regard the warning.

it came, indeed, at a moment when she was very willing to rest from social activity. at the time of her last stay in london, three years ago, she had not been ripe for reflection on what she saw. now her mind was kept so incessantly at strain, and her emotions answered so intensely to every appeal, that at length she felt the need of repose. it was not with her as with the young women who seek only to make the most of their time in agreeable ways. sidwell’s vital forces were concentrated in an effort of profound spiritual significance. the critical hour of her life was at hand, and she exerted every faculty in the endeavour to direct herself aright.

having heard from his brother that sidwell had not been out for several days, buckland took an opportunity of calling at the house early one morning. he found her alone in a small drawing-room, and sat down with an expression of weary discontent. this mood had been frequent in the young man of late. sidwell remarked a change that was coming over him, a gloominess unnatural to his character.

‘seen the walworths lately?’ he asked, when his sister had assured him that she was not seriously ailing.

‘we called a few days ago.’

‘meet anyone there?’

‘two or three people. no one that interested me.’

‘you haven’t come across some friends of theirs called moxey?’

‘oh yes! miss moxey was there one afternoon about a fortnight ago.’

‘did you talk to her at all?’ buckland asked.

‘yes; we hadn’t much to say to each other, though. how do you know of her? through sylvia, i daresay.’

‘met her when i was last down yonder.’

sidwell had long since heard from her friend of miss moxey’s visit to budleigh salterton, but she was not aware that buckland had been there at the same time. sylvia had told her, however, of the acquaintance existing between miss moxey and peak, a point of much interest to her, though it remained a mere unconnected fact. in her short conversation with marcella, she had not ventured to refer to it.

‘do you know anything of the family?’

‘i was going to ask you the same,’ returned buckland. ‘i thought you might have heard something from the walworths.’

sidwell had in fact sought information, but, as her relations with the walworths were formal, such inquiry as she could make from them elicited nothing more than she already knew from sylvia.

‘are you anxious to discover who they are?’ she asked.

buckland moved uneasily, and became silent.

‘oh, not particularly.’

‘i dined with walsh yesterday,’ he said, at length, struggling to shake off the obvious dreariness that oppressed him. ‘he suits me; we can get on together.’

‘no doubt.’

‘but you don’t dislike him, i think?’

‘implying that i dislike you,’ said sidwell, lightsomely.

‘you have no affection for my opinions.—walsh is an honest man.’

‘i hope so.’

‘he says what he thinks. no compromise with fashionable hypocrisy.’

‘i despise that kind of thing quite as much as you do.’

they looked at each other. buckland had a sullen air.

‘yes, in your own way,’ he replied, ‘you are sincere enough, i have no doubt. i wish all women were so.

‘what exception have you in mind?’

he did not seem inclined to answer.

‘perhaps it is your understanding of them that’s at fault,’ added sidwell, gently.

‘not in one case, at all events,’ he exclaimed. ‘supposes you were asked to define miss moorhouse’s religious opinions, how would you do it?’

‘i am not well enough acquainted with them.’

‘do you imagine for a moment that she has any more faith in the supernatural than i have?’

‘i think there is a great difference between her position and yours.’

‘because she is hypocritical!’ cried buckland, angrily. ‘she deceives you. she hasn’t the courage to be honest.’

sidwell wore a pained expression.

‘you judge her,’ she replied, ‘far too coarsely. no one is called upon to make an elaborate declaration of faith as often as such subjects are spoken of. sylvia thinks so differently from you about almost everything that, when she happens to agree with you, you are misled and misinterpret her whole position.’

‘i understand her perfectly,’ buckland went on, in the same irritated voice. ‘there are plenty of women like her—with brains enough, but utter and contemptible cowards. cowards even to themselves, perhaps. what can you expect, when society is based on rotten shams?’

for several minutes he pursued this vein of invective, then took an abrupt leave. sidwell had a piece of grave counsel ready to offer him, but he was clearly in no mood to listen, so she postponed it.

a day or two after this, she received a letter from sylvia. miss moorhouse was anything but a good correspondent; she often confessed her inability to compose anything but the briefest and driest statement of facts. with no little surprise, therefore, sidwell found that the envelope contained two sheets all but covered with her friend’s cramped handwriting. the letter began with apology for long delay in acknowledging two communications.

‘but you know well enough my dilatory disposition. i have written to you mentally at least once a day, and i hope you have mentally received the results—that is to say, have assured yourself of my goodwill to you, and i had nothing else to send.’

at this point sylvia had carefully obliterated two lines, blackening the page into unsightliness. in vain sidwell pored over the effaced passage, led to do so by a fancy that she could discern a capital p, which looked like the first letter of a name. the writer continued:

‘don’t trouble yourself so much about insoluble questions. try to be more positive—i don’t say become a positivist. keep a receptive mind, and wait for time to shape your views of things. i see that london has agitated and confused you; you have lost your bearings amid the maze of contradictory finger-posts. if you were here i could soothe you with sylvian (much the same as sylvan) philosophy, but i can’t write.’

here the letter was to have ended, for on the line beneath was legible ‘give my love to fanny’, but this again had been crossed out, and there followed a long paragraph:

i have been reading a book about ants. perhaps you know all the wonderful things about them, but i had neglected that branch of natural history. their doings are astonishingly like those of an animal called man, and it seems to me that i have discovered one point of resemblance which perhaps has never been noted. are you aware that at an early stage of their existence ants have wings? they fly—how shall i express it?—only for the brief time of their courtship and marriage and when these important affairs are satisfactorily done with their wings wither away, and thenceforth they have to content themselves with running about on the earth. now isn’t this a remarkable parallel to one stage of human life? do not men and women also soar and flutter—at a certain time? and don’t their wings manifestly drop off as soon as the end of that skyward movement has been achieved? if the gods had made me poetical, i would sonnetise on this idea. do you know any poet with a fondness for the ant-philosophy? if so, offer him this suggestion with liberty to “make any use of it he likes”.

‘but the fact of the matter is that some human beings are never winged at all. i am decidedly coming to the conclusion that i am one of those. think of me henceforth as an apteryx—you have a dictionary at hand? like the tailless fox, i might naturally maintain that my state is the more gracious, but honestly i am not assured of that. it may be (i half believe it is) a good thing to soar and flutter, and at times i regret that nature has forbidden me that experience. decidedly i would never try to persuade anyone else to forego the use of wings. bear this in mind, my dear girl. but i suspect that in time to come there will be an increasing number of female human creatures who from their birth are content with walking. not long ago, i had occasion to hint that—though under another figure—to your brother buckland. i hope he understood me—i think he did—and that he wasn’t offended.

‘i had something to tell you. i have forgotten it—never mind.’

and therewith the odd epistle was concluded. sidwell perused the latter part several times. of course she was at no loss to interpret it. buckland’s demeanour for the past two months had led her to surmise that his latest visit to budleigh salterton had finally extinguished the hopes which drew him in that direction. his recent censure of sylvia might be thus explained. she grieved that her brother’s suit should be discouraged, but could not persuade herself that sylvia’s decision was final. the idea of a match between those two was very pleasant to her. for buckland she imagined it would be fraught with good results, and for sylvia, on the whole, it might be the best thing.

before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed, and christmas was at hand. again she had been much in society. mr. walsh had renewed his unmistakable attentions, and, when her manner of meeting them began to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the air by making a formal offer of marriage. sidwell’s negative was absolute, much to her mother’s relief. on the day of that event, she wrote rather a long letter to sylvia, but mr. walsh’s name was not mentioned in it.

‘mother tells me [it began] that your mother has written to her from salisbury, and that you yourself are going there for a stay of some weeks. i am sorry, for on the monday after christmas day i shall be in exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you. we—mother and i—are going to run down together, to see after certain domestic affairs; only for three days at most.

‘your ant-letter was very amusing, but it saddened me, dear sylvia. i can’t make any answer. on these subjects it is very difficult even for the closest friends to open their minds to each other. i don’t—and don’t wish to—believe in the apteryx profession; that’s all i must say.

‘my health has been indifferent since i last wrote. we live in all but continuous darkness, and very seldom indeed breathe anything that can be called air. no doubt this state of things has its effect on me. i look forwards, not to the coming of spring, for here we shall see nothing of its beauties, but to the month which will release us from london. i want to smell the pines again, and to see the golden gorse in our road.

‘by way of being more “positive”, i have read much in the newspapers, supplementing from them my own experience of london society. the result is that i am more and more confirmed in the fears with which i have already worried you. two movements are plainly going on in the life of our day. the decay of religious belief is undermining morality, and the progress of radicalism in politics is working to the same end by overthrowing social distinctions. evidence stares one in the face from every column of the papers. of course you have read more or less about the recent “scandal”—i mean the most recent.—it isn’t the kind of thing one cares to discuss, but we can’t help knowing about it, and does it not strongly support what i say? here is materialism sinking into brutal immorality, and high social rank degrading itself by intimacy with the corrupt vulgar. there are newspapers that make political capital out of these “revelations”.

i have read some of them, and they make me so fiercely aristocratic that i find it hard to care anything at all even for the humanitarian efforts of people i respect. you will tell me, i know, that this is quite the wrong way of looking at it. but the evils are so monstrous that it is hard to fix one’s mind on the good that may long hence result from them.

‘i cling to the essential (that is the spiritual) truths of christianity as the only absolute good left in our time. i would say that i care nothing for forms, but some form there must be, else one’s faith evaporates. it has become very easy for me to understand how men and women who know the world refuse to believe any longer in a directing providence. a week ago i again met miss moxey at the walworths’, and talked with her more freely than before. this conversation showed me that i have become much more tolerant towards individuals. but though this or that person may be supported by moral sense alone, the world cannot dispense with religion. if it tries to—and it will—there are dreadful times before us.

‘i wish i were a man! i would do something, however ineffectual. i would stand on the side of those who are fighting against mob-rule and mob-morals. how would you like to see exeter cathedral converted into a “coffee music-hall”? and that will come.’

reading this, sylvia had the sense of listening to an echo. some of the phrases recalled to her quite a different voice from sidwell’s. she smiled and mused.

on the morning appointed for her journey to exeter sidwell rose early, and in unusually good spirits. mrs. warricombe was less animated by the prospect of five hours in a railway carriage, for london had a covering of black snow, and it seemed likely that more would fall. martin suggested postponement, but circumstances made this undesirable.

‘let fanny go with me,’ proposed sidwell, just after breakfast. ‘i can see to everything perfectly well, mother.’

but fanny hastened to decline. she was engaged for a dance on the morrow.

‘then i’ll run down with you myself, sidwell,’ said her father.

mrs. warricombe looked at the weather and hesitated. there were strong reasons why she should go, and they determined her to brave discomforts.

it chanced that the morning post had brought mr. warricombe a letter from godwin peak. it was a reply to one that he had written with christmas greetings; a kindness natural in him, for he had remembered that the young man was probably hard at work in his lonely lodgings. he spoke of it privately to his wife.

‘a very good letter—thoughtful and cheerful. you’re not likely to see him, but if you happen to, say a pleasant word.’

‘i shouldn’t have written, if i were you,’ remarked mrs. warricombe.

‘why not? i was only thinking the other day that he contrasted very favourably with the younger generation as we observe it here. yes, i have faith in peak. there’s the right stuff in him.’

‘oh, i daresay. but still’——

and mrs. warricombe went away with an air of misgiving.