Godwin, meeting her look.
Sidwell's eyes were at once averted.
'I hope,' she said, 'we may talk of that again very soon. You have told me much of yourself, but I have said little or nothing of my own--difficulties. It won't be long before we come back from London, and then'----
Once more their eyes met steadily.
'You think,' Godwin asked, 'that I am right in aiming at a life of retirement?'
'It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be useful anywhere; but most useful, surely, among people of active mind.'
'Perhaps I shan't be able to choose. Remember that I am seeking for a livelihood as well as for a sphere of usefulness.'
His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no means of learning whether Sidwell would bring her husband a dowry substantial enough to be considered. Though he could not feel that she had betrothed herself to him, their talk was so nearly that of avowed lovers that perchance she would disclose whatever might help to put his mind at rest. The thought revived his painful self-consciousness; it was that of a schemer, yet would not the curse of poverty have suggested it to any man?
'Perhaps you won't be able to choose--at first,' Sidwell assented, thereby seeming to answer his unspoken question. 'But I am sure my father will use whatever influence he has.'
Had he been seated near enough, he would have been tempted to the boldness of taking her hand. What more encouragement did he await? But the distance between them was enough to check his embarrassed impulses. He could not even call her 'Sidwell'; it would have been easier a few minutes ago, before she had begun to speak with such calm friendliness. Now, in spite of everything, he felt that to dare such a familiarity must needs call upon him the reproof of astonished eyes.
'You return to-morrow?' he asked, suddenly.
'I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home again.'
'A promise to be cheerful wouldn't mean much. But it _does_ mean much that I can think of what you have said to-day.'
Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to rise. It was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave face, and the flowing outlines of her figure. Why could he not say to her, 'I love you; give me your hands; give me your lips'? Such words seemed impossible. Yet passion thrilled in him as he watched the grace of her movements, the light and shadow upon her features. She had risen and come a step or two forward.
'I think you look taller--in that dress.'
The words rather escaped him than were spoken. His need was to talk of common things, of trifles, that so he might come to feel humanly.
Sidwell smiled with unmistakable pleasure.
'Do I? Do you like the dress?'
'Yes. It becomes you.'
'Are you critical in such things?'
'Not with understanding. But I should like to see you every day in a new and beautiful dress.'
'Oh, I couldn't afford it!' was the laughing reply.
He offered his hand; the touch of her warm, soft fingers fired his blood.
'Sidwell!'
It was spoken at last, involuntarily, and he stood with his eyes on hers, her hand crushed in his.
'Some day!' she whispered.
If their lips met, the contact was so slight as to seem accidental; it was the mere timorous promise of a future kiss. And both were glad of the something that had imposed restraint.
When Sidwell went up to her mother's sitting-room, a servant had just brought tea.
'I hear that Mr. Peak has been,' said Mrs. Warricombe, who looked puffy and uncomfortable after her sleep. 'Emma was going to take tea to the study, but I thought it unnecessary. How could he know that we were here?'
'I met him this morning on my way into the town.'
'Surely it was rather inconsiderate of him to call.'
'He asked if he might.'
Mrs. Warricombe turned her head and examined Sidwell.
'Oh! And did he stay long?'
'Not very long,' replied Sidwell, who was in quiet good-humour.
'I think it would have been better if you had told him by the servant that I was not well enough to see callers. You didn't mention that he might be coming.'
Mrs. Warricombe's mind worked slowly at all times, and at present she was suffering from a cold.
'Why didn't you speak of it, Sidwell?'
'Really--I forgot,' replied the daughter, lightly.
'And what had he to say?'
'Nothing new, mother. Is your head better, dear?'
There was no answer. Mrs. Warricombe had conceived a vague suspicion which was so alarming that she would not press inquiries alluding to it. The encouragement given by her husband to Godwin Peak in the latter's social progress had always annoyed her, though she could not frame solid objections. To be sure, to say of a man that he is about to be ordained meets every possible question that society can put; but Mrs. Warricombe's uneasiness was in part due to personal dislike. Oftener than not, she still thought of Peak as he appeared some eleven years ago--an evident plebeian, without manners, without a redeeming grace. She knew the story of his relative who had opened a shop in Kingsmill; plebeian, without manners, without a redeeming grace. She knew the story of his relative who had opened a shop in Kingsmill; thinking of that now, she shuddered.
Sidwell began to talk of indifferent matters, and Peak was not again mentioned.
Her throat being still troublesome, Mrs. Warricombe retired very soon after dinner. About nine o'clock Sidwell went to the library, and sat down at her father's writing-table, purposing a letter to Sylvia. She penned a line or two, but soon lapsed into reverie, her head on her hands. Of a sudden the door was thrown open, and there stood Buckland, fresh from travel.
'What has brought you?' exclaimed his sister, starting up anxiously, for something in the young man's look seemed ominous.
'Oh, nothing to trouble about. I had to come down--on business. Mother gone to bed?'
Sidwell explained.
'All right; doesn't matter. I suppose I can sleep here? Let them get me a mouthful of something; cold meat, anything will do.'
His needs were quickly supplied, and before long he was smoking by the library fire.
'I was writing to Sylvia,' said his sister, glancing at her fragmentary letter.
'Oh!'
'You know she is at Salisbury?'
'Salisbury? No, I didn't.'
His carelessness proved to Sidwell that she was wrong in conjecturing that his journey had something to do with Miss Moorhouse. Buckland was in no mood for conversation; he smoked for a quarter of an hour whilst Sidwell resumed her writing.
'Of course you haven't seen Peak?' fell from him at length.
His sister looked at him before replying.
'Yes. He called this afternoon.'
'But who told him you were here?'
His brows were knitted, and he spoke very abruptly. Sidwell gave the same explanation as to her mother, and had further to reply that she alone