Born in Exile (12 page)

On the morrow, splendour of sunshine drew him forth to some
distance from the town. He went along the lanes singing; now it was
holiday with him, and for the first time he could enjoy the broad
golden daylight, the genial warmth. In a hollow of grassy fields,
where he least expected to encounter an acquaintance, it was his
chance to come upon Christian Moxey, stretched at full length in
the company of nibbling sheep. Since the dinner at Mr. Moxey's, he
had neither seen nor heard of Christian, who, it seemed probable,
was back at his work in Rotherhithe. As their looks met, both
laughed.

'I won't get up,' said Christian; 'the effort would be too
great. Sit down and let us have a talk.'

'I disturb your thoughts,' answered Godwin.

'A most welcome disturbance; they weren't very pleasant just
then. In fact, I have come as far as this in the hope of escaping
them. I'm not much of a walker, are you?'

'Well, yes, I enjoy a good walk.'

'You are of an energetic type,' said Christian, musingly. 'You
will do something in life. When do you go up for Honours?'

'I have decided not to go in at all.'

'Indeed; I'm sorry to hear that.'

'I have half made up my mind not to return to Whitelaw.'

Observing his hearer's look of surprise, Godwin asked himself
whether it signified a knowledge of his footing at Whitelaw. The
possibility of this galled him; but it was such a great step to
have declared, as it were in public, an intention of freeing
himself, that he was able to talk on with something of aggressive
confidence.

'I think I shall go in for some practical work of a scientific
kind. It was a mistake for me to pursue the Arts course.'

Christian looked at him earnestly.

'Are you sure of that?'

'Yes, I feel sure of it.'

There was silence. Christian beat the ground with his stick.

'Your state of mind, then,' he said at length, 'is more like my
own than I imagined. I, too, have wavered for a long time between
literature and science, and now at last I have quite
decided—quite—that scientific study is the only safe line for me.
The fact is, a man must concentrate himself. Not only for the sake
of practical success, but—well, for his own sake.'

He spoke lazily, dreamily, propped upon his elbow, seeming to
watch the sheep which panted at a few yards from him.

'I have no right,' he pursued, with a shadow of kindly anxiety
on his features, 'to offer you advice, but—well, if you will let me
insist on what I have learned from my own experience. There's
nothing like having a special line of work and sticking to it
vigorously. I, unfortunately, shall never do anything of any
account,—but I know so well the conflict between diverging tastes.
It has played the deuce with me, in all sorts of ways. At Zurich I
utterly wasted my time, and I've done no better since I came back
to England. Don't think me presumptuous. I only mean—well, it is so
important to—to go ahead in one line.'

His air of laughing apology was very pleasant. Godwin felt his
heart open to the kind fellow.

'No one needs the advice more than I,' he replied. 'I am going
back to the line I took naturally when I first began to study at
all.'

'But why leave Whitelaw?' asked Christian, gently.

'Because I dislike it—I can't tell you why.'

With ready tact Moxey led away from a subject which he saw was
painful.

'Of course there are many other places where one can study just
as well.'

'Do you know anything of the School of Mines in London?' Godwin
inquired, abruptly.

'I worked there myself for a short time.'

'Then you could tell me about the—the fees, and so on?'

Christian readily gave the desired information, and the listener
mused over it.

'Have you any friends in London?' Moxey asked, at length.

'No. But I don't think that matters. I shall work all the
harder.' 'Perhaps so,' said the other, with some hesitation. And he
added thoughtfully, 'It depends on one's temperament. Doesn't
answer to be too much alone—I speak for myself at all events. I
know very few people in London—very few that I care anything about.
That, in fact, is one reason why I am staying here longer than I
intended.' He seemed to speak rather to himself than to Godwin; the
half-smile on his lips expressed a wish to disclose circumstances
and motives which were yet hardly a suitable topic in a dialogue
such as this. 'I like the atmosphere of a—of a comfortable home. No
doubt I should get on better—with things in general—if I had a home
of my own. I live in lodgings, you know; my sister lives with
friends. Of course one has a sense of freedom, but then'—

His voice murmured off into silence, and again he beat the
ground with his cane. Godwin was strongly interested in this broken
revelation; he found it difficult to understand Moxey's yearning
for domesticity, all his own impulses leading towards quite a
contrary ideal. To him, life in London lodgings made rich promise;
that indeed would be freedom, and full of all manner of high
possibilities!

Each communed with his thoughts. Happening to glance at
Christian, Godwin was struck with the graceful attitude in which
the young man reclined; he himself squatted awkwardly on the grass,
unable to abandon himself in natural repose, even as he found it
impossible to talk with the ease of unconsciousness. The contrast,
too, between his garments, his boots, and those of the Londoner was
painful enough to him. Without being a dandy, Christian, it was
evident, gave a good deal of thought to costume. That kind of thing
had always excited Godwin's contempt, but now he confessed himself
envious; doubtless, to be well dressed was a great step towards the
finished ease of what is called a gentlemanly demeanour, which he
knew he was very far from having attained.

'Well,' exclaimed Christian, unexpectedly, 'if I can be of ever
so little use to you, pray let me. I must get back to town in a few
days, but you know my address. Write to me, I beg, if you wish for
any more information.'

The talk turned to less difficult topics. Godwin made inquiries
about Zurich, then about Switzerland in general.

'Did you see much of the Alps?'

'Not as a climber sees them. That sort of thing isn't in my way;
I haven't the energy—more's the pity. Would you like to see a lot
of good photographs I brought back? I have them here; brought them
to show the girls.'

In spite of the five Miss Moxeys and Christian's sister, Peak
accepted the invitation to walk back with his companion, and
presently they began to stroll towards Twybridge.

'I have an absurd tendency to dream—to lose myself amid ideals—I
don't quite know how to express it,' Christian resumed, when both
had been silent for some minutes. 'That's why I mean to go in
earnestly for science—as a corrective. Fortunately, I have to work
for my living; otherwise, I should moon my life away—no doubt. My
sister has ten times as much energy—she knows much more than I do
already. What a splendid thing it is to be of an independent
character! I had rather be a self-reliant coal-heaver than a
millionaire of uncertain will. My uncle—there's a man who knows his
own mind. I respect those strong practical natures. Don't be misled
by ideals. Make the most of your circumstances. Don't aim at—but I
beg your pardon; I don't know what right I have to lecture you in
this way.' And he broke off with his pleasant, kind-hearted laugh,
colouring a little.

They reached Mr. Moxey's house. In a garden chair on the lawn
sat Miss Janet, occupied with a book. She rose to meet them, shook
hands with Godwin, and said to her cousin:

'The postman has just left a letter for you—forwarded from
London.'

'Indeed? I'm going to show Mr. Peak my Swiss photographs. You
wouldn't care to come and help me in the toil of turning them
over?'

'O lazy man!'

Her laugh was joyous. Any one less prejudiced than Peak would
have recognised the beauty which transformed her homely features as
she met Christian's look.

On the hall table lay the letter of which Janet had spoken.
Christian took it up, and Godwin, happening at that moment to
observe him, caught the tremor of a sudden emotion on lip and
eyelid. Instantly, prompted by he knew not what perception, he
turned his gaze to Janet, and in time to see that she also was
aware of her cousin's strong interest in the letter, which was at
once put away in Christian's pocket.

They passed into the sitting-room, where a large portfolio stood
against the back of a chair. The half-hour which ensued was to
Godwin a time of uneasiness. His pleasure in the photographs
suffered disturbance from a subtle stress on his nerves, due to
something indeterminable in the situation, of which he formed a
part. Janet's merry humour seemed to be subdued. Christian was
obviously forcing himself to entertain the guest whilst his
thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as possible, Godwin rose to
depart. He was just saying good-bye to Janet, when Marcella entered
the room. She stood still, and Christian said, hurriedly:

'It's possible, Marcella, that Mr. Peak will be coming to London
before long. We may have the pleasure of seeing him there.'

'You will be glad, I'm sure,' answered his sister. Then, as if
forcing herself to address Peak directly, she faced to him and
added, 'It isn't easy to find sympathetic companions.'

'I, at all events, haven't found very many,' Godwin replied,
meaning to speak in a tone only half-serious, but conscious at once
that he had made what might seem an appeal for sympathy. Thereupon
his pride revolted, and in a moment drove him from the room.

Christian followed, and at the front door shook hands with him.
Nervous impatience was unmistakable in the young man's look and
words. Again Godwin speculated on the meaning of this, and
wondered, in connection therewith, what were the characteristics
which Marcella Moxey looked for in a 'sympathetic companion'.

In the course of the afternoon, Godwin sat down to pen the rough
draft of a letter to Lady Whitelaw. When the first difficulties
were surmounted, he wrote rapidly, and at considerable length. It
was not easy, at his time of life, to compress into the limits of
an ordinary epistle all he wished to say to the widow of his
benefactor. His purpose was, with all possible respect yet as
firmly as might be, to inform Lady Whitelaw that he could not spend
the last of his proposed three years at the College in Kingsmill,
and furthermore to request of her that she would permit his using
the promised sum of money as a student at the Royal School of
Mines. This had to be done without confession of the reasons for
his change of plan; he could not even hint at them. Yet cause must
be assigned, and the best form of words he could excogitate ran
thus: 'Family circumstances render it desirable—almost
necessary—that I should spend the next twelve months in London. In
spite of sincere reluctance to leave Whitelaw College, I am
compelled to take this step.' The lady must interpret that as best
she might. Very hard indeed was the task of begging a continuance
of her bounty under these changed conditions. Could he but have
resigned the money, all had been well; his tone might then have
been dignified without effort. But such disinterestedness he could
not afford. His mother might grant him money enough barely to live
upon until he discovered means of support—for his education she was
unable to pay. After more than an hour's work he had moderately
satisfied himself; indeed, several portions of the letter struck
him as well composed, and he felt that they must heighten the
reader's interest in him. With an author's pleasure (though at the
same time with much uneasiness) he perused the appeal again and
again.

Late in the evening, when he was alone with his mother, he told
her what he had done, and read the letter for her opinion. Mrs.
Peak was gravely troubled.

'Lady Whitelaw will ask her sisters for an explanation,' she
said.

'I have thought of that,' Godwin replied, with the confident,
cheerful air he had assumed from the first. 'If the Miss Lumbs go
to aunt, she must be prepared to put them off in some way. But look
here, mother, when uncle has opened his shop, it's pretty certain
that some one or other will hit on the true explanation of my
disappearance. Let them. Then Lady Whitelaw will understand and
forgive me.'

After much musing, the mother ventured a timid question, the
result of her anxieties rather than of her judgment on the point at
issue.

'Godwin, dear, are you quite sure that his shop would make so
much difference?'

The young man gave a passionate start.

'What! To have the fellows going there to eat, and hearing his
talk, and—? Not for a day could I bear it! Not for an hour!'

He was red with anticipated shame, and his voice shook with
indignation at the suggested martyrdom. Mrs. Peak dried a tear.

'You would be so alone in London, Godwin.'

'Not a bit of it. Young Mr. Moxey will be a useful friend, I am
convinced he will. To tell you the whole truth, I aim at getting a
place at the works in Rotherhithe, where he no doubt has influence.
You see, mother, I might manage it even before the end of the year.
Our Mr. Moxey will be disposed to help me with his
recommendation.'

'But, my dear, wouldn't it come to the same thing, then, if you
went back to Mr. Moxey's?'

He made a gesture of impatience.

'No, no, no! I couldn't live at Twybridge. I have my way to
make, mother, and the place for that is London. You know I am
ambitious. Trust me for a year or two, and see the result. I depend
upon your help in this whole affair. Don't refuse it me. I have
done with Whitelaw, and I have done with Twybridge: now comes
London. You can't regard me as a boy, you know.'