to keep courageously onward. If I can't _believe_ that any such duty is imposed upon me, where is the obligation to persevere, the morality of doing so? That is the worst hypocrisy. I have been honest, inasmuch as I have acted in accordance with my actual belief.'
'M--m--m,' muttered Earwaker, slowly. 'Then you have never been troubled with a twinge of conscience?'
'With a thousand! I have been racked, martyred. What has that to do with it? Do you suppose I attach any final significance to those torments? Conscience is the same in my view as an inherited disease which may possibly break out on any most innocent physical indulgence.--What end have I been pursuing? Is it criminal? Is it mean? I wanted to win the love of a woman--nothing more. To do that, I have had to behave like the grovelling villain who has no desire but to fill his pockets. And with success!--You understand that, Earwaker? I have succeeded! What respect can I have for the common morality, after this?'
'You have succeeded?' the other asked, thoughtfully. 'I could have imagined that you had been in appearance successful'----
He paused, and Peak resumed with vehemence:
'No, not in appearance only. I can't tell you the story'----
'I don't wish you to'----
'But what I have won is won for ever. The triumph no longer rests on deceit. What I insist upon is that by deceit only was it rendered possible. If a starving man succeeds in stealing a loaf of bread, the food will benefit him no less than if he had purchased it; it is good, true sustenance, no matter how he got it. To be sure, the man may prefer starvation; he may have so strong a metaphysical faith that death is welcome in comparison with what he calls dishonour. I--I have no such faith; and millions of other men in this country would tell the blunt truth if they said the same. I have _used means_, that's all. The old way of candour led me to bitterness and cursing; by dissimulation I have won something more glorious than tongue can tell.'
It was in the endeavour to expel the subtlest enemy of his peace that Godwin dwelt so defiantly upon this view of the temptation to which he had yielded. Since his farewell interview with Sidwell, he knew no rest from the torment of a mocking voice which bade him bear in mind that all his dishonour had been superfluous, seeing that whilst he played the part of a zealous Christian, Sidwell herself was drifting further and further from the old religion. This voice mingled with his dreams, and left not a waking hour untroubled. He refused to believe it, strove against the suggestion as a half-despairing man does against the persistent thought of suicide. If only he could obtain Earwaker's assent to the plan he put forward, it would support him in disregard of idle regrets.
'It is impossible,' said the journalist, 'for anyone to determine whether that is true or not--for you, as much as for anyone else. Be glad that you have shaken off the evil and retained the good, no use in saying more than that.'
'Yes,' declared the other, stubbornly, 'there is good in exposing false views of life. I ought to have come utterly to grief and shame, and instead'----
'Instead----? Well?'
'What I have told you.'
'Which I interpret thus: that you have permission to redeem your character, if possible, in the eyes of a woman you have grievously misled.'
Godwin frowned.
'Who suggested this to you, Earwaker?'
'You; no one else. I don't even know who the woman is of whom you speak.'
'Grant you are right. As an honest man, I should never have won her faintest interest.'
'It is absurd for us to talk about it. Think in the way that is most helpful to you,--that, no doubt, is a reasonable rule. Let us have done with all these obscurities, and come to a practical question. Can I be of any use to you? Would you care, for instance, to write an article now and then on some scientific matter that has a popular interest? I think I could promise to get that kind of thing printed for you. Or would you review an occasional book that happened to be in your line?'
Godwin reflected.
'Thank you,' he replied, at length. 'I should be glad of such work--if I can get into the mood for doing it properly. That won't be just yet; but perhaps when I have found a place'----
'Think it over. Write to me about it.'
Peak glanced round the room.
'You don't know how glad I am,' he said, 'that your prosperity shows itself in this region of bachelordom. If I had seen you in a comfortable house, married to a woman worthy of you--I couldn't have been sincere in my congratulations: I should have envied you so fiercely.'
'You're a strange fellow. Twenty years hence--as you said just now--you will one way or another have got rid of your astounding illusions. At fifty--well, let us say at sixty--you will have a chance of seeing things without these preposterous sexual spectacles.'
'I hope so. Every stage of life has its powers and enjoyments. When I am old, I hope to perceive and judge without passion of any kind. But is that any reason why my youth should be frustrated? We have only one life, and I want to live mine throughout.'
Soon after this Peak rose. He remembered that the journalist's time was valuable, and that he no longer had the right to demand more of it than could be granted to any casual caller. Earwaker behaved with all friendliness, but their relations had necessarily suffered a change. More than a year of separation, spent by the one in accumulating memories of dishonour, had given the other an enviable position among men; Earwaker had his place in the social system, his growing circle of friends, his congenial labour; perhaps--notwithstanding the tone in which he spoke of marriage--his hopes of domestic happiness. All this with no sacrifice of principle. He was fortunate in his temper, moral and intellectual; partly directing circumstances, partly guided by their pressure, he advanced on the way of harmonious development. Nothing great would come of his endeavours, but what he aimed at he steadily perfected. And this in spite of the adverse conditions under which he began his course. Nature had been kind to him; what more could one say?
When he went forth into the street again, Godwin felt his heart sink. His solitude was the more complete for this hour of friendly dialogue. No other companionship offered itself; if he lingered here, it must be as one of the drifting crowd, as an idle and envious spectator of the business and pleasure rife about him. He durst not approach that quarter of the town where Sidwell was living--if indeed she still remained here. Happily, the vastness of London enabled him to think of her as at a great distance; by keeping to the district in which he now wandered he was practically as remote from her as when he walked the streets of Bristol.
Yet there was one person who would welcome him eagerly if he chose to visit her. And, after all, might it not be as well if he heard what Marcella had to say to him? He could not go to the house, for it would be disagreeable to encounter Moxey; but, if he wrote, Marcella would speedily make an appointment. After an hour or two of purposeless rambling, he decided to ask for an interview. He might learn something that really concerned him; in any case, it was a final meeting with Marcella, to whom he perhaps owed this much courtesy.
The reply was as prompt as that from Earwaker. By the morning post came a letter inviting him to call upon Miss Moxey as soon as possible before noon. She added, 'My brother is away in the country; you will meet no one here.'
By eleven o'clock he was at Notting Hill; in the drawing-room, he sat alone for two or three minutes. Marcella entered silently, and came towards him without a smile; he saw that she read his face eagerly, if not with a light of triumph in her eyes. The expression might signify that she rejoiced at having been an instrument of his discomfiture; perhaps it was nothing more than gladness at seeing him again.
'Have you come to live in London?' she asked, when they had shaken hands without a word.
'I am only here for a day or two.'
'My letter reached you without delay?'