sidwell had fallen into conversation with mr. moorhouse. miss moorhouse, mrs. warricombe, and louis were grouped in animated talk. observing that fanny threw glances towards him from a lonely corner, peak went over to her, and was pleased with the smile he met. fanny had watched eyes, much brighter than sidwell’s; her youthful vivacity blended with an odd little fashion of schoolgirl pedantry in a very piquant way. godwin’s attempts at conversation with her were rather awkward; he found it difficult to strike the suitable note, something not too formal yet not deficient in respect.

‘do you think,’ he asked presently, ‘that i should disturb your father if i went to him?’

‘oh, not at all! i often go and sit in the study at this time.’

‘will you show me the way?’

fanny at once rose, and together they crossed the hall, passed through a sort of anteroom connecting with a fernery, and came to the study door. a tap was answered by cheerful summons, and fanny looked in.

‘well, my ladybird? ah, you are bringing mr. peak; come in, come in!’

it was a large and beautiful room, its wide windows, in a cushioned recess, looking upon the lawn where the yew tree cast solemn shade. one wall presented an unbroken array of volumes, their livery sober but handsome; detached bookcases occupied other portions of the irregular perimeter. cabinets, closed and open, were arranged with due regard to convenience. above the mantelpiece hung a few small photographs, but the wall-space at disposal was chiefly occupied with objects which illustrated mr. warricombe’s scientific tastes. on a stand in the light of the window gleamed two elaborate microscopes, provocative of enthusiasm in a mind such as godwin’s.

in a few minutes, fanny silently retired. her father, by no means forward to speak of himself and his pursuits, was led in that direction by peak’s expressions of interest, and the two were soon busied with matters which had a charm for both. a collection of elvans formed the starting-point, and when they had entered upon the wide field of palaeontology it was natural for mr. warricombe to invite his guest’s attention to the species of homalonotus which he had had the happiness of identifying some ten years ago—a discovery now recognised and chronicled. though his sympathy was genuine enough, godwin struggled against an uneasy sense of manifesting excessive appreciation. never oblivious of himself, he could not utter the simplest phrase of admiration without criticising its justice, its tone. and at present it behoved him to bear in mind that he was conversing with no half-bred sciolist. mr warricombe obviously had his share of human weakness, but he was at once a gentleman and a student of well-stored mind; insincerity must be very careful if it would not jar upon his refined ear. so godwin often checked himself in the utterance of what might sound too much like flattery. a young man talking with one much older, a poor man in dialogue with a wealthy, must under any circumstances guard his speech; for one of godwin’s aggressive idiosyncrasy the task of discretion had peculiar difficulties, and the attitude he had assumed at luncheon still further complicated the operations of his mind. only at moments could he speak in his true voice, and silence meant for the most part a studious repression of much he would naturally have uttered.

resurgent envy gave him no little trouble. on entering the room, he could not but exclaim to himself, ‘how easy for a man to do notable work amid such surroundings! if i were but thus equipped for investigation!’ and as often as his eyes left a particular object to make a general survey, the same thought burned in him. he feared lest it should be legible on his countenance.

taking a pamphlet from the table, mr. warricombe, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, inquired whether peak read german; the answer being affirmative:

‘naturally,’ he rejoined, ‘you could hardly have neglected so important a language. i, unfortunately, didn’t learn it in my youth, and i have never had perseverance enough to struggle with it since. something led me to take down this brochure the other day—an old attempt of mine to write about the weathering of rocks. it was printed in ‘76, and no sooner had it seen the light than friends of mine wanted to know what i meant by appropriating, without acknowledgement, certain facts quite recently pointed out by professor pfaff of erlangen! unhappily, professor pfaff’s results were quite unknown to me, and i had to get them translated. the coincidences, sure enough, were very noticeable. just before you came in, i was reviving that old discomfiture.’

peak, in glancing over the pages, murmured with a smile:

‘pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt!’

‘even so!’ exclaimed mr. warricombe, laughing with a subdued heartiness which was one of his pleasant characteristics. and, after a pause, he inquired, ‘do you find any time to keep up your classics?’

‘by fits and starts. sometimes i return to them for a month or two.’

‘why, it’s pretty much the same with me. here on my table, for instance, lies tacitus. i found it mentioned not long ago that the first sentence of the annals is a hexameter—did you know it?—and when i had once got hold of the book i thought it a shabby thing to return it to the dust of its shelf without reading at least a few pages. so i have gone on from day to day, with no little enjoyment. buckland, as you probably know, regards these old fellows with scorn.’

‘we always differed about that.’

‘i can’t quite decide whether he is still sincere in all he says about them. time, i suspect, is mellowing his judgment.’

they moved to the shelves where greek and latin books stood in serried order, and only the warning dinner-bell put an end to their sympathetic discussion of the place such authors should hold in modern educational systems.

‘have they shown you your room?’ mr. warricombe asked.

but, as he spoke, the face of his eldest son appeared at the door.

‘your traps have safely arrived, peak.’

the bedroom to which godwin was conducted had a delicious fragrance, of source indeterminable. when he had closed the door, he stood for a few moments looking about him; it was his first experience of the upper chambers of houses such as this. merely to step upon the carpet fluttered his senses: merely to breathe the air was a purification. luxury of the rational kind, dictated by regard for health of body and soul, appeared in every detail. on the walls were water-colours, scenery of devon and cornwall; a hanging book-case held about a score of volumes poets, essayists, novelists. elsewhere, not too prominent, lay a bible and a prayer-book.

he dressed, as never before, with leisurely enjoyment of the process. when the mirror declared him ready, his eyes returned frequently to an inspection of the figure he presented, and it seemed to him that he was not unworthy to take his place at the dinner-table. as for his visage, might he not console himself with the assurance that it was of no common stamp? ‘if i met that man in a room, i should be curious about him; i should see at once that he didn’t belong to the vulgar; i should desire to hear him speak.’ and the warricombes were not lacking in discernment. he would compare more than favourably with mr. moorhouse, whose aspect, bright and agreeable enough, made no promise of originality.—it must be time to go down. he left the room with an air of grave self-confidence.

at dinner he was careful to attempt no repetition of the display which had done very well at luncheon; it must not be thought that he had the habit of talking for effect. mrs. warricombe, unless he mistook, had begun to view him more favourably; her remarks made less distinction between him and the other guests. but he could not like his hostess; he thought her unworthy to be the mother of sidwell and fanny, of buckland and louis; there was a marked strain of the commonplace in her. the girls, costumed for the evening, affected him with a return of the awe he had all but overcome. sidwell was exquisite in dark colours, her sister in white. miss moorhouse (addressed by her friends as ‘sylvia’) looked older than in the day-time, and had lost something of her animation; possibly the country routine had begun to weary her a little.

peak was at a vast distance from the hour which saw him alight at exeter and begin his ramble about the city. he no longer felt himself alone in the world; impossible to revive the mood in which he deliberately planned to consume his economies in a year or two of desert wandering; far other were the anticipations which warmed his mind when the after-dinner repose attuned him to unwonted hopefulness. this family were henceforth his friends, and it depended only upon himself to make the connection lasting, with all manner of benefits easily imagined. established in the country, the warricombes stood to him in quite a different relation from any that could have arisen had he met with them in london. there he would have been nothing more than a casual dinner-guest, welcomed for the hour and all but forgotten when he had said good-night. for years he had understood that london offered him no prospect of social advancement. but a night passed under this roof practically raised him to a level whence he surveyed a rich field of possible conquest. with the genial geologist he felt himself on excellent terms, and much of this was ascribable to a singular chance which had masked his real being, and represented him, with scarce an effort of his own, in a light peculiarly attractive to mr. warricombe. he was now playing the conscious hypocrite; not a pleasant thing to face and accept, but the fault was not his—fate had brought it about. at all events, he aimed at no vulgar profit; his one desire was for human fellowship; he sought nothing but that solace which every code of morals has deemed legitimate. let the society which compelled to such an expedient bear the burden of its shame.

that must indeed have been a circle of great intellects amid which godwin peak felt himself subordinate. he had never known that impression, and in the warricombe family was no one whom he could regard even as his equal. buckland, doubtless, had some knowledge of the world, and could boast of a free mind; but he lacked subtlety: a psychological problem would easily puzzle him. mr. warricombe’s attainments were respectable, but what could be said of a man who had devoted his life to geology, and still (in the year 1884) remained an orthodox member of the church of england? godwin, as he sat in the drawing-room and enjoyed its atmosphere of refinement, sincerely held himself of far more account as an intellectual being than all the persons about him.

but if his brain must dwell in solitude his heart might compass worthy alliances—the thing most needful to humanity. one may find the associates of his intellect in libraries—the friend of one’s emotions must walk in flesh and blood. earwaker, moxey—these were in many respects admirable fellows, and he had no little love for them, but the world they represented was womanless, and so of flagrant imperfection. of marcella moxey he could not think emotionally; indeed she emphasised by her personality the lack which caused his suffering. sidwell warricombe suggested, more completely than any woman he had yet observed, that companionship without which life must to the end taste bitter. his interest in her was not strictly personal; she moved and spoke before him as a typical woman, not as the daughter of martin warricombe and the sister of buckland. here at last opened to his view that sphere of female society which he had known as remotely existing, the desperate aim of ambition.

conventional women—but was not the phrase tautological? in the few females who have liberated their souls, was not much of the woman inevitably sacrificed, and would it not be so for long years to come? on the other hand, such a one as sidwell might be held a perfect creature, perfect in relation to a certain stage of human development. look at her, as she sat conversing with moorhouse, soft candle-light upon her face; compare her on the one hand with an average emancipated girl, on the other with a daughter of the people. how unsatisfying was the former; the latter, how repulsive! here one had the exquisite mean, the lady as england has perfected her towards the close of this nineteenth century. a being of marvellous delicacy, of purest instincts, of unsurpassable sweetness. who could not detail her limitations, obvious and, in certain moods, irritating enough? these were nothing to the point, unless one would roam the world a hungry idealist; and godwin was weary of the famined pilgrimage.

the murmur of amiable voices softened him to the reception of all that was good in his present surroundings, and justified in the light of sentiment his own dishonour. this english home, was it not surely the best result of civilisation in an age devoted to material progress? here was peace, here was scope for the kindliest emotions. upon him—the born rebel, the scorner of average mankind, the consummate egoist—this atmosphere exercised an influence more tranquillising, more beneficent, than even the mood of disinterested study. in the world to which sincerity would condemn him, only the worst elements of his character found nourishment and range; here he was humanised, made receptive of all gentle sympathies. heroism might point him to an unending struggle with adverse conditions, but how was heroism possible without faith? absolute faith he had none; he was essentially a negativist, guided by the mere relations of phenomena. nothing easier than to contemn the mode of life represented by this wealthy middle class; but compare it with other existences conceivable by a thinking man, and it was emphatically good. it aimed at placidity, at benevolence, at supreme cleanliness,—things which more than compensated for the absence of higher spirituality. we can be but what we are; these people accepted themselves, and in so doing became estimable mortals. no imbecile pretensions exposed them to the rebuke of a social satirist; no vulgarity tainted their familiar intercourse. their allegiance to a worn-out creed was felt as an added grace; thus only could their souls aspire, and the imperfect poetry of their natures be developed.

he took an opportunity of seating himself by mrs. warricombe, with whom as yet he had held no continuous dialogue.

‘has there been anything of interest at the london theatres lately?’ she asked.

‘i know so little of them,’ godwin replied, truthfully. ‘it must be several years since i saw a play.’

‘then in that respect you have hardly become a londoner.’

‘nor in any other, i believe,’ said peak, with a smile. ‘i have lived there ten years, but am far from regarding london as my home. i hope a few months more will release me from it altogether.’

‘indeed!—perhaps you think of leaving england?’

‘i should be very sorry to do that—for any length of time. my wish is to settle somewhere in the country, and spend a year or two in quiet study.’

mrs. warricombe looked amiable surprise, but corrected herself to approving interest.

‘i have heard some of our friends say that their minds get unstrung, if they are long away from town, but i should have thought that country quietness would be much better than london noise. my husband certainly finds it so.’

‘people are very differently constituted,’ said godwin. ‘and then it depends much on the nature of one’s work.’

uttering these commonplaces with an air of reflection, he observed that they did not cost him the self-contempt which was wont to be his penalty for concession to the terms of polite gossip; rather, his mind accepted with gratitude this rare repose. he tasted something of the tranquil self-content which makes life so enjoyable when one has never seen a necessity for shaping original remarks. no one in this room would despise him for a platitude, were it but recommended with a pleasant smile. with the moxeys, with earwaker, he durst not thus have spoken.

when the hour of separation was at hand, buckland invited his guest to retire with him to a part of the house where they could smoke and chat comfortably.

‘moorhouse and louis are fagged after their twenty mile stretch this morning; i have caught both of them nodding during the last few minutes. we can send them to bed without apology.’

he led the way upstairs to a region of lumber-rooms, whence a narrow flight of steps brought them into a glass-house, octangular and with pointed tops, out upon the roof. this, he explained, had been built some twenty years ago, at a time when mr. warricombe amused himself with photography. a few indications of its original purposes were still noticeable; an easel and a box of oil-colours showed that someone—doubtless of the younger generation—had used it as a painting-room; a settee and deep cane chairs made it an inviting lounge on a warm evening like the present, when, by throwing open a hinged wall, one looked forth into the deep sky and tasted the air from the sea.

‘sidwell used to paint a little,’ said buckland, as his companion bent to examine a small canvas on which a landscape was roughed in. it lay on a side table, and was half concealed by an ordnance map, left unfolded. ‘for the last year or two i think she has given it up. i’m afraid we are not strong in matters of art. neither of the girls can play very well, though of course they both tinkle for their own amusement. maurice—the poor lad who was killed—gave a good deal of artistic promise; father keeps some little water-colours of his, which men in that line have praised—perhaps sincerely.’

‘i remember you used to speak slightingly of art,’ said godwin, as he took an offered cigar.

‘did i? and of a good many other things, i daresay. it was my habit at one time, i believe, to grow heated in scorn of euclid’s definitions. what an interesting book euclid is! half a year ago, i was led by a talk with moorhouse to go through some of the old “props”, and you can’t imagine how they delighted me. moorhouse was so obliging as to tell me that i had an eminently deductive mind.’

he laughed, but not without betraying some pleasure in the remark.

‘surprising,’ he went on, ‘how very little such a mind as moorhouse’s suggests itself in common conversation. he is really profound in mathematics, a man of original powers, but i never heard him make a remark of the slightest value on any other subject. now his sister—she has studied nothing in particular, yet she can’t express an opinion that doesn’t bear the stamp of originality.’

godwin was contented to muse, his eyes fixed on a brilliant star in the western heaven.

‘there’s only one inconsistency in her that annoys and puzzles me,’ buckland pursued, speaking with the cigar in his mouth. ‘in religion, she seems to be orthodox. true, we have never spoken on the subject, but—well, she goes to church, and carries prayer-books. i don’t know how to explain it. hypocrisy is the last thing one could suspect her of. i’m sure she hates it in every form. and such a clear brain!—i can’t understand it.’

the listener was still star-gazing. he had allowed his cigar, after the first few puffs, to smoulder untasted; his lips were drawn into an expression very unlike the laxity appropriate to pleasurable smoking. when the murmur of the pines had for a moment been audible, he said, with a forced smile:

‘i notice you take for granted that a clear brain and religious orthodoxy are incompatible.’

the other gave him a keen look.

‘hardly,’ was buckland’s reply, spoken with less ingenuousness of tone than usual. ‘i say that miss moorhouse has undeniably a strong mind, and that it is impossible to suspect her of the slightest hypocrisy.’

‘whence the puzzle that keeps you occupied,’ rejoined peak, in a voice that sounded like assumption of superiority, though the accent had an agreeable softness.

warricombe moved as if impatiently, struck a match to rekindle his weed, blew tumultuous clouds, and finally put a blunt question:

‘what do you think about it yourself?’

‘from my point of view, there is no puzzle at all,’ godwin replied, in a very clear voice, smiling as he met the other’s look.

‘how am i to understand that?’ asked buckland, good-naturedly, though with a knitting of his brows.

‘not as a doubt of miss moorhouse’s sincerity. i can’t see that a belief in the christian religion is excluded by any degree of intellectual clearness.’

‘no—your views have changed, peak?’

‘on many subjects, this among them.’

‘i see.’

the words fell as if involuntarily from warricombe’s lips. he gazed at the floor awhile, then, suddenly looking up, exclaimed:

‘it would be civil to accept this without surprise, but it is too much for me. how has it come about?’

‘that would take me a long time to explain.’

‘then,’ pursued his companion, watching him closely, ‘you were quite in sympathy with that exposition you gave at lunch today?’

‘quite. i hope there was nothing in my way of speaking that made you think otherwise?’

‘nothing at all. i couldn’t help wondering what it meant. you seemed perfectly in earnest, yet such talk had the oddest sound on your lips—to me, i mean. of course i thought of you as i used to know you.’

‘naturally.’ peak was now in an attitude of repose, his legs crossed, thumb and forefinger stroking his chin. ‘i couldn’t very well turn aside to comment on my own mental history.’

here again was the note of something like genial condescension. buckland seemed sensible of it, and slightly raised his eyebrows.

‘i am to understand that you have become strictly orthodox in matters of religious faith?’

‘the proof is,’ replied godwin, ‘that i hope before long to take orders.’

again there was silence, and again the sea-breath made its whispering in the pines. warricombe, with a sudden gesture, pointed towards the sky.

‘a shooting star—one of the brightest i ever saw!’

‘i missed it,’ said peak, just glancing in that direction.

the interruption enabled buckland to move his chair; in this new position he was somewhat further from peak, and had a better view of his face.

‘i should never have imagined you a clergyman,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘but i can see that your mind has been developing powers in that direction.—well, so be it! i can only hope you have found your true work in life.’

‘but you doubt it?’

‘i can’t say that i doubt it, as i can’t understand you. to be sure, we have been parted for many years. in some respects i must seem much changed’—

‘greatly changed,’ godwin put in, promptly.

‘yes,’ pursued the other, correctively, ‘but not in a way that would seem incredible to anyone whatever. i am conscious of growth in tolerance, but my attitude in essentials is unchanged. thinking of you—as i have often enough done—i always kept the impression you made on me when we were both lads; you seemed most distinctly a modern mind—one of the most modern that ever came under my notice. now, i don’t find it impossible to understand my father, when he reconciles science with religion; he was born sixty years ago. but godwin peak as a—a—’

‘parson,’ supplied peak, drily.

‘yes, as a parson—i shall have to meditate much before i grasp the notion.’

‘perhaps you have dropped your philosophical studies?’ said godwin, with a smile of courteous interest.

‘i don’t know. metaphysics have no great interest for me, but i philosophise in a way. i thought myself a student of human nature, at all events.’

‘but you haven’t kept up with philosophical speculation on the points involved in orthodox religion?’

‘i confess my ignorance of everything of the kind—unless you include bishop blougram among the philosophers?’

godwin bore the gaze which accompanied this significant inquiry. for a moment he smiled, but there followed an expression of gravity touched with pain.

‘i hadn’t thought of broaching this matter,’ he said, with slow utterance, but still in a tone of perfect friendliness. ‘let us put it aside.’

warricombe seemed to make an effort, and his next words had the accent of well-bred consideration which distinguished his ordinary talk.

‘pray forgive my bad joke. i merely meant that i have no right whatever to argue with anyone who has given serious attention to such things. they are altogether beyond my sphere. i was born an agnostic, and no subtlety of demonstration could incline me for a moment to theological views; my intellect refuses to admit a single preliminary of such arguments. you astonish me, and that’s all i am justified in saying.’

‘my dear warricombe, you are justified in saying whatever your mind suggests. that is one of the principles which i hold unaltered—let me be quite frank with you. i should never have decided upon such a step as this, but for the fact that i have managed to put by a small sum of money which will make me independent for two or three years. till quite lately i hadn’t a thought of using my freedom in this way; it was clear to me that i must throw over the old drudgery at rotherhithe, but this resolve which astonishes you had not yet ripened—i saw it only as one of the possibilities of my life. well, now, it’s only too true that there’s something of speculation in my purpose; i look to the church, not only as a congenial sphere of activity, but as a means of subsistence. in a man of no fortune this is inevitable; i hope there is nothing to be ashamed of. even if the conditions of the case allowed it, i shouldn’t present myself for ordination forthwith; i must study and prepare myself in quietness. how the practical details will be arranged, i can’t say; i have no family influence, and i must hope to make friends who will open a way for me. i have always lived apart from society; but that isn’t natural to me, and it becomes more distasteful the older i grow. the probability is that i shall settle somewhere in the country, where i can live decently on a small income. after all, it’s better i should have let you know this at once. i only realised a few minutes ago that to be silent about my projects was in a way to be guilty of false pretences.’

the adroitness of this last remark, which directed itself, with such show of candour, against a suspicion precisely the opposite of that likely to be entertained by the listener, succeeded in disarming warricombe; he looked up with a smile of reassurance, and spoke encouragingly.

‘about the practical details i don’t think you need have any anxiety. it isn’t every day that the church of england gets such a recruit. let me suggest that you have a talk with my father.’

peak reflected on the proposal, and replied to it with grave thoughtfulness:

‘that’s very kind of you, but i should have a difficulty in asking mr. warricombe’s advice. i’m afraid i must go on in my own way for a time. it will be a few months, i daresay, before i can release myself from my engagements in london.’

‘but i am to understand that your mind is really made up?’

‘oh, quite!’

‘well, no doubt we shall have opportunities of talking. we must meet in town, if possible. you have excited my curiosity, and i can’t help hoping you’ll let me see a little further into your mind some day. when i first got hold of newman’s apologia, i began to read it with the utmost eagerness, flattering myself that now at length i should understand how a man of brains could travel such a road. i was horribly disappointed, and not a little enraged, when i found that he began by assuming the very beliefs i thought he was going to justify. in you i shall hope for more logic.’

‘newman is incapable of understanding such an objection,’ said peak, with a look of amusement.

‘but you are not.’

the dialogue grew chatty. when they exchanged good-night, peak fancied that the pressure of buckland’s hand was less fervent than at their meeting, but his manner no longer seemed to indicate distrust. probably the agnostic’s mood was one of half-tolerant disdain.

godwin turned the key in his bedroom door, and strayed aimlessly about. he was fatigued, but the white, fragrant bed did not yet invite him; a turbulence in his brain gave warning that it would be long before he slept. he wound up his watch; the hands pointed to twelve. chancing to come before the mirror, he saw that he was unusually pale, and that his eyes had a swollen look.

the profound stillness was oppressive to him; he started nervously at an undefined object in a dim corner, and went nearer to examine it; he was irritable, vaguely discontented, and had even a moment of nausea, perhaps the result of tobacco stronger than he was accustomed to smoke. after leaning for five minutes at the open window, he felt a soothing effect from the air, and could think consecutively of the day’s events. what had happened seemed to him incredible; it was as though he revived a mad dream, of ludicrous coherence. since his display of rhetoric at luncheon all was downright somnambulism. what fatal power had subdued him? what extraordinary influence had guided his tongue, constrained his features? his conscious self had had no part in all this comedy; now for the first time was he taking count of the character he had played.

had he been told this morning that—why, what monstrous folly was all this? into what unspeakable baseness had he fallen? happily, he had but to take leave of the warricombe household, and rush into some region where he was unknown. years hence, he would relate the story to earwaker.

for a long time he suffered the torments of this awakening. shame buffeted him on the right cheek and the left; he looked about like one who slinks from merited chastisement. oh, thrice ignoble varlet! to pose with unctuous hypocrisy before people who had welcomed him under their roof, unquestioned, with all the grace and kindliness of english hospitality! to lie shamelessly in the face of his old fellow-student, who had been so genuinely glad to meet him again!

yet such possibility had not been unforeseen. at the times of his profound gloom, when solitude and desire crushed his spirit, he had wished that fate would afford him such an opportunity of knavish success. his imagination had played with the idea that a man like himself might well be driven to this expedient, and might even use it with life-long result. of a certainty, the church numbered such men among her priests,—not mere lukewarm sceptics who made religion a source of income, nor yet those who had honestly entered the portal and by necessity were held from withdrawing, though their convictions had changed; but deliberate schemers from the first, ambitious but hungry natures, keen-sighted, unscrupulous. and they were at no loss to defend themselves against the attack of conscience. life is a terrific struggle for all who begin it with no endowments save their brains. a hypocrite was not necessarily a harm-doer; easy to picture the unbelieving priest whose influence was vastly for good, in word and deed.

but he, he who had ever prided himself on his truth-fronting intellect, and had freely uttered his scorn of the credulous mob! he who was his own criterion of moral right and wrong! no wonder he felt like a whipped cur. it was the ancestral vice in his blood, brought out by over-tempting circumstance. the long line of base-born predecessors, the grovelling hinds and mechanics of his genealogy, were responsible for this. oh for a name wherewith honour was hereditary!

his eyes were blinded by a rush of hot tears. down, down—into the depths of uttermost despondency, of self-pity and self-contempt! had it been practicable, he would have fled from the house, leaving its occupants to think of him as they would; even as, ten years ago, he had fled from the shame impending over him at kingsmill. a cowardly instinct, this; having once acted upon it gave to his whole life a taint of craven meanness. mere bluster, all his talk of mental dignity and uncompromising scorn of superstitions. a weak and idle man, whose best years were already wasted!

he gazed deliberately at himself in the glass, at his red eyelids and unsightly lips. darkness was best; perhaps he might forget his shame for an hour or two, ere the dawn renewed it. he threw off his garments heedlessly, extinguished the lamp, and crept into the ready hiding-place.