Born in Exile (14 page)

And now to plan seriously his mode of life in London. With
Christian Moxey he was so slightly acquainted that it was
impossible to seek his advice with regard to lodgings; besides, the
lodgings must be of a character far too modest to come within Mr.
Moxey's sphere of observation. Other acquaintance he had none in
the capital, so it was clear that he must enter boldly upon the
unknown world, and find a home for himself as best he might. Mrs.
Peak could offer suggestions as to likely localities, and this was
of course useful help. In the meantime (for it would be waste of
money to go up till near the end of the holiday season) he made
schemes of study and completed his information concerning the
School of Mines. So far from lamenting the interruption of his
promising career at Whitelaw, he persuaded himself that Uncle
Andrew had in truth done him a very good turn: now at length he was
fixed in the right course. The only thing he regretted was losing
sight of his two or three student-friends, especially Earwaker and
Buckland Warricombe. They, to be sure, would soon guess the reason
of his disappearance. Would they join in the laughter certain to be
excited by 'Peak's Dining and Refreshment Rooms'? Probably; how
could they help it? Earwaker might be superior to a prejudice of
that kind; his own connections were of humble standing. But
Warricombe must wince and shrug his shoulders. Perhaps even some of
the Professors would have their attention directed to the ludicrous
mishap: they were gentlemen, and, even though they smiled, must
certainly sympathise with him.

Wait a little. Whitelaw College should yet remember the student
who seemed to have vanished amid the world's obscure tumult.

Resolved that he was about to turn his back on Twybridge for
ever, he found the conditions of life there quite supportable
through this last month or two; the family reaped benefit from his
improved temper. Even to Mr. Cusse he behaved with modified
contempt. Oliver was judicious enough to suppress his nigger
minstrelsy and kindred demonstrations of spirit in his brother's
presence, and Charlotte, though steadily resentful, did her best to
avoid conflict.

Through the Misses Lumb, Godwin's change of purpose had of
course become known to his aunt, who for a time took it ill that
these debates had been concealed from her. When Mrs. Peak, in
confidence, apprised her of the disturbing cause, Miss Cadman's
indignation knew no bounds. What! That low fellow had been allowed
to interfere with the progress of Godwin Peak's education, and not
a protest uttered? He should have been
forbidden
to
establish himself in Kingsmill! Why had they not taken
her
into council? She would have faced the man, and have overawed him;
he should have been made to understand the gross selfishness of his
behaviour. Never had she heard of such a monstrous case—

Godwin spent much time in quiet examination of the cabinets
bequeathed to him by Mr. Gunnery. He used a pound or two of Lady
Whitelaw's money for the purchase of scientific books, and set to
work upon them with freshened zeal. The early morning and late
evening were given to country walks, from which he always returned
with brain excited by the forecast of great achievements.

When the time of his departure approached, he decided to pay a
farewell visit to Mr. Moxey. He chose an hour when the family would
probably be taking their ease in the garden. Three of the ladies
were, in fact, amusing themselves with croquet, while their father,
pipe in mouth, bent over a bed of calceolarias.

'What's this that I hear?' exclaimed Mr. Moxey, as he shook
hands. 'You are not going back to Whitelaw?'

The story had of course spread among all Twybridge people who
knew anything of the Peaks, and it was generally felt that some
mystery was involved. Godwin had reasonably feared that his
obligations to Sir Job Whitelaw must become known; impossible for
such a matter to be kept secret; all who took any interest in the
young man had long been privately acquainted with the facts of his
position. Now that discussion was rife, it would have been prudent
in the Misses Lumb to divulge as much of the truth at they knew,
but (in accordance with the law of natural perversity) they
maintained a provoking silence. Hence whispers and suspicious
questions, all wide of the mark. No one had as yet heard of Andrew
Peak, and it seemed but too likely that Lady Whitelaw, for some
good reason, had declined to discharge the expenses of Godwin's
last year at the College.

Mr. Moxey himself felt that an explanation was desirable, but he
listened with his usual friendly air to Godwin's account of the
matter—which of course included no mention of Lady Whitelaw.

'Have you friends in London?' he inquired—like everyone
else.

'No. Except that your nephew was so kind as to ask me to call on
him, if ever I happened to be there.'

There passed over Mr. Moxey's countenance a curious shadow.
Godwin noticed it, and at once concluded that the manufacturer
condemned Christian for undue advances to one below his own
station. The result of this surmise was of course a sudden coldness
on Godwin's part, increased when he found that Mr. Moxey turned to
another subject, without a word about his nephew.

In less than ten minutes he offered to take leave, and no one
urged him to stay longer. Mr. Moxey made sober expression of good
wishes, and hoped he might hear that the removal to London had
proved 'advantageous'. This word sufficed to convert Godwin's
irritation into wrath; he said an abrupt 'good-evening', raised his
hat as awkwardly as usual, and stalked away.

A few paces from the garden gate, he encountered Miss Janet
Moxey, just coming home from walk or visit. Another grab at his
hat, and he would have passed without a word, but the girl stopped
him.

'We hear that you are going to London, Mr. Peak.'

'Yes, I am, Miss Moxey.'

She examined his face, and seemed to hesitate.

'Perhaps you have just been to say good-bye to father?'

'Yes.'

Janet paused, looked away, again turned her eyes upon him.

'You have friends there, I hope?' she ventured.

'No, I have none.'

'My cousin—Christian, you remember—would, I am sure, be very
glad to help you in any way.' Her voice sank, and at the same time
she coloured just perceptibly under Godwin's gaze.

'So he assured me,' was the reply. 'But I must learn to be
independent, Miss Moxey.'

Whereupon Godwin performed a salute, and marched forward.

His boxes were packed, and now he had but one more evening in
the old home. It was made less pleasant than it might have been by
a piece of information upon which he by chance alighted in a
newspaper. The result of the Honours examination for the First B.A.
at London had just been made known, and in two subjects a high
place was assigned to Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers—not the first place
happily, but it was disagreeable enough.

Pooh! what matter? What are academic successes? Ten years hence,
which name would have wider recognition—Bruno Chilvers or Godwin
Peak? He laughed with scornful superiority.

No one was to accompany him to the station; on that he insisted.
He had decided for as early a train as possible, that the dolours
of leave-taking might be abridged. At a quarter to eight the cab
drove up to the door. Out with the trunks labelled 'London'!

'Take care of the cabinets!' were his last words to his mother.
'I may want to have them sent before long.'

He implied, what he had not ventured to say plainly, that he was
leaving Twybridge for good, and henceforth would not think of it as
home. In these moments of parting, he resented the natural feeling
which brought moisture to his eyes. He hardened himself against the
ties of blood, and kept repeating to himself a phrase in which of
late he had summed his miseries: 'I was born in exile—born in
exile.' Now at length had he set forth on a voyage of discovery, to
end perchance in some unknown land among his spiritual kith and
kin.

In the spring of 1882 Mr. Jarvis Runcorn, editor and
co-proprietor of the London
Weekly Post
, was looking about
for a young man of journalistic promise whom he might associate
with himself in the conduct of that long established Radical paper.
The tale of his years warned him that he could not hope to support
much longer a burden which necessarily increased with the growing
range and complexity of public affairs. Hitherto he had been the
autocrat of the office, but competing Sunday papers exacted an
alertness, a versatile vigour, such as only youth can supply; for
there was felt to be a danger that the
Weekly Post
might
lose its prestige in democratic journalism. Thus on the watch, Mr.
Runcorn—a wary man of business, who had gone through many trades
before he reached that of weekly literature—took counsel one day
with a fellow-campaigner, Malkin by name, who owned two or three
country newspapers, and had reaped from them a considerable
fortune; in consequence, his attention was directed to one John
Earwaker, then editing the
Wattleborough Courier
. Mr.
Malkin's eldest son had recently stood as Liberal candidate for
Wattleborough, and though defeated was loud in his praise of the
Courier
; with its editor he had come to be on terms of
intimate friendship. Earwaker was well acquainted with journalistic
life in the provinces. He sprang from a humble family living at
Kingsmill, had studied at Whitelaw College, and was now but
nine-and-twenty: the style of his 'leaders' seemed to mark him for
a wider sphere of work. It was decided to invite him to London, and
the young man readily accepted Mr. Runcorn's proposals. A few
months later he exchanged temporary lodgings for chambers in Staple
Inn, where he surrounded himself with plain furniture and many
books.

In personal appearance he had changed a good deal since that
prize-day at Whitelaw when his success as versifier and essayist
foretold a literary career. His figure was no longer ungainly; the
big head seemed to fit better upon the narrow shoulders. He neither
walked with extravagant paces, nor waved his arms like a windmill.
A sufficiency of good food, and the habit of intercourse with
active men; had given him an every-day aspect; perhaps the sole
peculiarity he retained from student times was his hollow chuckle
of mirth, a laugh which struggled vainly for enlargement. He
dressed with conventional decency, even submitting to the
chimney-pot hat. His features betrayed connection with a physically
coarse stock; but to converse with him was to discover the man of
original vigour and wide intellectual scope. With ordinary
companions, it was a rare thing for him to speak of his
professional interests. But for his position on
The Weekly
Post
it would not have been easy to surmise how he stood with
regard to politics, and he appeared to lean as often towards the
conservative as to the revolutionary view of abstract
questions.

The newspaper left him time for other literary work, and it was
known to a few people that he wrote with some regularity for
reviews, but all the products of his pen were anonymous. A fact
which remained his own secret was that he provided for the
subsistence of his parents, old people domiciled in a quiet corner
of their native Kingsmill. The strict sobriety of life which is
indispensable to success in such a career as this cost him no
effort. He smoked moderately, ate and drank as little as might be,
could keep his health on six hours of sleep, and for an occasional
holiday liked to walk his twenty or thirty miles. Earwaker was
naturally marked for survival among the fittest.

On an evening of June in the year '84, he was interrupted whilst
equipping himself for dinner abroad, by a thunderous
rat-tat-tat.

'You must wait, my friend, whoever you are,' he murmured
placidly, as he began to struggle with the stiff button-holes of
his shirt.

The knock was repeated, and more violently.

'Now there's only one man of my acquaintance who knocks like
that,' he mused, elaborating the bow of his white tie. 'He, I
should imagine, is in Brazil; but there's no knowing. Perhaps our
office is on fire.—Anon, anon!'

He made haste to don waistcoat and swallow-tail, then crossed
his sitting-room and flung open the door of the chambers.

'Ha! Then it
is
you! I was reminded of your patient
habits.'

A tall man, in a light overcoat and a straw hat of spacious
brim, had seized both his hands, with shouts of excited
greeting.

'Confound you! Why did you keep me waiting? I thought I had
missed you for the evening. How the deuce are you? And why the
devil have you left me without a line from you for more than six
months?'

Earwaker drew aside, and allowed his tumultuous friend to rush
into the nearest room.

'Why haven't you written?—confound you!' was again vociferated,
amid bursts of boyish laughter. 'Why hasn't anybody written?'

'If everybody was as well informed of your movements as I, I
don't wonder,' replied the journalist. 'Since you left Buenos
Ayres, I have had two letters, each containing twenty words, which
gave me to understand that no answer could by possibility reach
you.'

'Humbug! You could have written to half-a-dozen likely places.
Did I really say that? Ha, ha, ha!—Shake hands again, confound you!
How do you do? Do I look well? Have I a tropical colour? I say,
what a blessed thing it was that I got beaten down at
Wattleborough! All this time I should have been sitting in the fog
at Westminster. What a time I've had! What a time I've had!'

It was more than twelve months since Malkin's departure from
England. Though sun and sea had doubtless contributed to his
robustness, he must always have been a fair example of the vigorous
Briton. His broad shoulders, upright bearing, open countenance, and
frank resonant voice, declared a youth passed amid the wholesome
conditions which wealth alone can command. The hearty extravagance
of his friendliness was only possible in a man who has never been
humiliated by circumstances, never restricted in his natural needs
of body and mind. Yet he had more than the heartiness of a
contented Englishman. The vivacity which made a whirlwind about him
probably indicated some ancestral mingling with the blood of a more
ardent race. Earwaker examined him with a smile of pleasure.