‘That article was Peak’s?’ Buckland asked, in a very quiet voice.

Christian at last found his opportunity.

’He never mentioned it to you?  Perhaps he thought he had gone rather too far in his Broad Churchism, and might be misunderstood.’

‘Broad Churchism?’ cried Malkin.  ‘Uncommonly broad, I must say!’

And he laughed heartily; Marcella seemed to join in his mirth.

‘Then it would surprise you,’ said Buckland, in the same quiet tone as before, ‘to hear that Peak is about to take Orders?’

‘Orders?—­For what?’

Christian laughed.  The worst was over; after all, it came as a relief.

‘Not for wines,’ he replied.  ’Mr. Warricombe means that Peak is going to be ordained.’

Malkin’s amazement rendered him speechless.  He stared from one person to another, his features strangely distorted.

‘You can hardly believe it?’ pressed Buckland.

The reply was anticipated by Christian saying: 

’Remember, Malkin, that you had no opportunity of studying Peak.  It’s not so easy to understand him.’

‘But I don’t see,’ burst out the other, ’how I could possibly so misunderstand him!  What has Earwaker to say?’

Buckland rose from his seat, advanced to Marcella, and offered his hand.  She said mechanically, ‘Must you go?’ but was incapable of another word.  Christian came to her relief, performed the needful civilities, and accompanied his acquaintance to the foot of the stairs.  Buckland had become grave, stiff, monosyllabic; Christian made no allusion to the scene thus suddenly interrupted, and they parted with a formal air.

Malkin remained for another quarter of an hour, when the muteness of his companions made it plain to him that he had better withdraw.  He went off with a sense of having been mystified, half resentful, and vastly impatient to see Earwaker.

Part V

CHAPTER I

The cuckoo clock in Mrs. Roots’s kitchen had just struck three.  A wind roared from the north-east, and light thickened beneath a sky which made threat of snow.  Peak was in a mood to enjoy the crackling fire; he settled himself with a book in his easy-chair, and thought with pleasure of two hours’ reading, before the appearance of the homely teapot.

Christmas was just over—­one cause of the feeling of relief and quietness which possessed him.  No one had invited him for Christmas Eve or the day that followed, and he did not regret it.  The letter he had received from Martin Warricombe was assurance enough that those he desired to remember him still did so.  He had thought of using this season for his long postponed visit to Twybridge, but reluctance prevailed.  All popular holidays irritated and depressed him; he loathed the spectacle of multitudes in Sunday garb.  It was all over, and the sense of that afforded him a brief content.