b him, but
his position was no longer a cause of uneasiness--save, indeed, at
those moments when he feared lest any of his old acquaintances might
hear of him before time was ripe. This was a source of anxiety, but
inevitable; one of the risks he dared.

Had it seemed possible, he would have kept even from his mother the
secret of his residence at Exeter; but this would have necessitated the
establishment of some indirect means of communication with her, a
troublesome and uncertain expedient. He shrank from leaving her in
ignorance of his whereabouts, and from passing a year or two without
knowledge of her condition. And, on the whole, there could not be much
danger in this correspondence. The Moxeys, who alone of his friends had
ever been connected with Twybridge, were now absolutely without
interests in that quarter. From them he had stolen away, only
acquainting Christian at the last moment, in a short letter, with his
departure from London. 'It will be a long time before we again see each
other--at least, I think so. Don't trouble your head about me. I can't
promise to write, and shall be sorry not to hear how things go with
you; but may all happen as you wish!' In the same way he had dealt with
Earwaker, except that his letter to Staple Inn was much longer, and
contained hints which the philosophic journalist might perchance truly
interpret. '"He either fears his fate too much"--you know the old song.
I have set out on my life's adventure. I have gone to seek that without
which life is no longer worth having. Forgive my shabby treatment of
you, old friend. You cannot help me, and your displeasure would be a
hindrance in my path. A last piece of counsel: throw overboard the
weekly rag, and write for people capable of understanding you.'
Earwaker was not at all likely to institute a search; he would accept
the situation, and wait with quiet curiosity for its upshot. No doubt
he and Moxey would discuss the affair together, and any desire
Christian might have to hunt for his vanished comrade would yield
before the journalist's surmises. No one else had any serious reason
for making inquiries. Probably he might dwell in Devonshire, as long as
he chose, without fear of encountering anyone from his old world.

Occasionally--as to-night, under the full moon--he was able to cast off
every form of trouble, and rejoice in his seeming liberty. Though every
step in the life before him was an uncertainty, an appeal to fortune,