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 anythi............