Born in Exile (39 page)

'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the reply, 'that Mr. Palmer died
last night. We received the news only an hour or two ago.'

Christian tottered on his feet and turned so pale that the
servant regarded him with anxiety. For a minute or two he stared
vacantly into the gloomy hall; then, without a word, he turned
abruptly and walked away.

Unconscious of the intervening distance, he found himself at
home, in his library. The parlour-maid was asking him whether he
would have luncheon. Scarcely understanding the question, he
muttered a refusal and sat down.

So, it had come at last. Constance was a widow. In a year or so
she might think of marrying again.

He remained in the library for three or four hours. At first
incapable of rejoicing, then ashamed to do so, he at length
suffered from such a throbbing of the heart that apprehension of
illness recalled him to a normal state of mind. The favourite
decanter was within reach, and it gave him the wonted support. Then
at length did heart and brain glow with exulting fervour.

Poor Constance! Noble woman! Most patient of martyrs! The hour
of her redemption had struck. The fetters had fallen from her
tender, suffering body. Of
him
she could not yet think. He
did not wish it. The womanhood must pay its debt to nature before
she could gladden in the prospect of a new life. Months must go by
before he could approach her, or even remind her of his existence.
But at last his reward was sure.

And he had thought of Twybridge, of his cousin Janet! O unworthy
lapse!

He shed tears of tenderness. Dear, noble Constance! It was now
nearly twelve years since he first looked upon her face. In those
days he mingled freely with all the society within his reach. It
was not very select, and Constance Markham shone to him like a
divinity among creatures of indifferent clay. They said she was
coquettish, that she played at the game of love with every
presentable young man—envious calumny! No, she was single-hearted,
inexperienced, a lovely and joyous girl of not yet twenty. It is so
difficult for such a girl to understand her own emotions. Her
parents persuaded her into wedding Palmer. That was all gone into
the past, and now his concern—their concern—was only with the
blessed future.

At three o'clock he began to feel a healthy appetite. He sent
for a cab and drove towards the region of restaurants.

Had he yielded to the impulse which this morning directed him to
Twybridge, he would have arrived in that town not very long after
his sister.

For that was the aim of Marcella's journey. On reaching the
station, she dropped a light veil over her face and set forth on
foot to discover the abode of Mrs. Peak. No inhabitant of Twybridge
save her uncle and his daughters could possibly recognise her, but
she shrank from walking through the streets with exposed
countenance. Whether she would succeed in her quest was uncertain.
Godwin Peak's mother still dwelt here, she knew, for less than a
year ago she had asked the question of Godwin himself; but a woman
in humble circumstances might not have a house of her own, and her
name was probably unknown save to a few friends.

However, the first natural step was to inquire for a directory.
A stationer supplied her with one, informing her, with pride, that
he himself was the author of it—that this was only the second year
of its issue, and that its success was 'very encouraging'. Retiring
to a quiet street, Marcella examined her purchase, and came upon
'Peak, Oliver; seedsman'—the sole entry of the name. This was
probably a relative of Godwin's. Without difficulty she found Mr
Peak's shop; behind the counter stood Oliver himself, rubbing his
hands. Was there indeed a family likeness between this
fresh-looking young shopkeeper and the stern, ambitious,
intellectual man whose lineaments were ever before her mind? Though
with fear and repulsion, Marcella was constrained to recognise
something in the commonplace visage. With an uncertain voice, she
made known her business.

'I wish to find Mrs. Peak—a widow—an elderly lady'——

'Oh yes, madam! My mother, no doubt. She lives with her sister,
Miss Cadman—the milliner's shop in the first street to the left.
Let me point it out.'

With a sinking of the heart, Marcella murmured thanks and walked
away. She found the milliner's shop—and went past it.

Why should discoveries such as these be so distasteful to her?
Her own origin was not so exalted that she must needs look down on
trades-folk. Still, for the moment she all but abandoned her
undertaking. Was Godwin Peak in truth of so much account to her?
Would not the shock of meeting his mother be final? Having come
thus far, she must go through with it. If the experience cured her
of a hopeless passion, why, what more desirable?

She entered the shop. A young female assistant came forward with
respectful smile, and waited her commands.

'I wish, if you please, to see Mrs. Peak.'

'Oh yes, madam! Will you have the goodness to walk this
way?'

Too late Marcella remembered that she ought to have gone to the
house-entrance. The girl led her out of the shop into a dark
passage, and thence into a sitting-room which smelt of lavender.
Here she waited for a few moments; then the door opened softly, and
Mrs. Peak presented herself.

There was no shock. The widow had the air of a
gentlewoman—walked with elderly grace—and spoke with propriety. She
resembled Godwin, and this time it was not painful to remark the
likeness.

'I have come to Twybridge,' began Marcella, gently and
respectfully, 'that is to say, I have stopped in passing—to ask for
the address of Mr. Godwin Peak. A letter has failed to reach
him.

It was her wish to manage without either disclosing the truth
about herself or elaborating fictions, but after the first words
she felt it impossible not to offer some explanation. Mrs. Peak
showed a slight surprise. With the courage of cowardice, Marcella
continued more rapidly:

'My name is Mrs. Ward. My husband used to know Mr. Peak, in
London, a few years ago, but we have been abroad, and unfortunately
have lost sight of him. We remembered that Mr. Peak's relatives
lived at Twybridge, and, as we wish very much to renew the old
acquaintance, I took the opportunity—passing by rail. I made
inquiries in the town, and was directed to you—I hope
rightly'——

The widow's face changed to satisfaction. Evidently her
straightforward mind accepted the story as perfectly credible.
Marcella, with bitterness, knew herself far from comely enough to
suggest perils. She looked old enough for the part she was playing,
and the glove upon her hand might conceal a wedding-ring.

'Yes, you were directed rightly,' Mrs. Peak made quiet answer.
'I shall be very glad to give you my son's address. He left London
about last Christmas, and went to live at Exeter.'

'Exeter? We thought he might be out of England.'

'No; he has lived all the time at Exeter. The address is
Longbrook Street'—she added the number. 'He is studying, and finds
that part of the country pleasant. I am hoping to see him here
before very long.'

Marcella did not extend the conversation. She spoke of having to
catch a train, and veiled as well as she could beneath ordinary
courtesies her perplexity at the information she had received.

When she again reached the house at Notting Hill, Christian was
absent. He came home about nine in the evening. It was impossible
not to remark his strange mood of repressed excitement; but
Marcella did not question him, and Christian had resolved to
conceal the day's event until he could speak of it without
agitation. Before they parted for the night, Marcella said
carelessly:

'I have decided to go down to Budleigh Salterton when the time
comes.'

'That's right!' exclaimed her brother, with satisfaction. 'You
couldn't do better—couldn't possibly. It will be a very good thing
for you in several ways.'

And each withdrew to brood over a perturbing secret.

Three or four years ago, when already he had conceived the idea
of trying his fortune in some provincial town, Peak persuaded
himself that it would not be difficult to make acquaintances among
educated people, even though he had no credentials to offer. He
indulged his fancy and pictured all manner of pleasant accidents
which surely, sooner or later, must bring him into contact with
families of the better sort. One does hear of such occurrences, no
doubt. In every town there is some one or other whom a stranger may
approach: a medical man—a local antiquary—a librarian—a
philanthropist; and with moderate advantages of mind and address,
such casual connections may at times be the preface to intimacy,
with all resulting benefits. But experience of Exeter had taught
him how slight would have been his chance of getting on friendly
terms with any mortal if he had depended solely on his personal
qualities. After a nine months' residence, and with the friendship
of such people as the Warricombes, he was daily oppressed by his
isolation amid this community of English folk. He had done his
utmost to adopt the tone of average polished life. He had sat at
the tables of worthy men, and conversed freely with their sons and
daughters; he exchanged greetings in the highways: but this availed
him nothing. Now, as on the day of his arrival, he was an alien—a
lodger. What else had he ever been, since boyhood? A lodger in
Kingsmill, a lodger in London, a lodger in Exeter. Nay, even as a
boy he could scarcely have been said to 'live at home', for from
the dawn of conscious intelligence he felt himself out of place
among familiar things and people, at issue with prevalent opinions.
Was he never to win a right of citizenship, never to have a
recognised place among men associated in the duties and pleasures
of life?

Sunday was always a day of weariness and despondency, and at
present he suffered from the excitement of his conversation with
Sidwell, followed as it had been by a night of fever. Extravagant
hope had given place to a depression which could see nothing beyond
the immediate gloom. Until mid-day he lay in bed. After dinner,
finding the solitude of his little room intolerable, he went out to
walk in the streets.

Not far from his door some children had gathered in a quiet
corner, and were playing at a game on the pavement with pieces of
chalk. As he drew near, a policeman, observing the little group,
called out to them in a stern voice:

'Now then! what are you doing there? Don't you know
what
day
it is?'

The youngsters fled, conscious of shameful delinquency.

There it was! There spoke the civic voice, the social rule, the
public sentiment! Godwin felt that the policeman had rebuked
him
, and in doing so had severely indicated the cause of
that isolation which he was condemned to suffer. Yes, all his life
he had desired to play games on Sunday; he had never been able to
understand why games on Sunday should be forbidden. And the angry
laugh which escaped him as he went by the guardian of public morals
declared the impossibility of his ever being at one with
communities which made this point the prime test of worthiness.

He walked on at a great speed, chafing, talking to himself. His
way took him through Heavitree (when Hooker saw the light here, how
easy to believe that the Anglican Church was the noblest outcome of
human progress!) and on and on, until by a lane with red banks of
sandstone, thick with ferns, shadowed with noble boughs, he came to
a hamlet which had always been one of his favourite resorts, so
peacefully it lay amid the exquisite rural landscape. The cottages
were all closed and silent; hark for the reason! From the old
church sounded an organ prelude, then the voice of the
congregation, joining in one of the familiar hymns.

A significant feature of Godwin's idiosyncrasy. Notwithstanding
his profound hatred and contempt of multitudes, he could never hear
the union of many voices in song but his breast heaved and a
choking warmth rose in his throat. Even where prejudice wrought
most strongly with him, it had to give way before this rush of
emotion; he often hurried out of earshot when a group of
Salvationists were singing, lest the involuntary sympathy of his
senses should agitate and enrage him. At present he had no wish to
draw away. He entered the churchyard, and found the leafy nook with
a tombstone where he had often rested. And as he listened to the
rude chanting of verse after verse, tears fell upon his cheeks.

This sensibility was quite distinct from religious feeling. If
the note of devotion sounding in that simple strain had any effect
upon him at all, it merely intensified his consciousness of pathos
as he thought of the many generations that had worshipped here,
living and dying in a faith which was at best a helpful delusion.
He could appreciate the beautiful aspects of Christianity as a
legend, its nobility as a humanising power, its rich results in
literature, its grandeur in historic retrospect. But at no moment
in his life had he felt it as a spiritual influence. So far from
tending in that direction, as he sat and brooded here in the
churchyard, he owed to his fit of tearfulness a courage which
determined him to abandon all religious pretences, and henceforth
trust only to what was sincere in him—his human passion. The future
he had sketched to Sidwell was impossible; the rural pastorate, the
life of moral endeavour which in his excitement had seemed so
nearly a genuine aspiration that it might perchance become
reality—dreams, dreams! He must woo as a man, and trust to fortune
for his escape from a false position. Sidwell should hear nothing
more of clerical projects. He was by this time convinced that she
held far less tenaciously than he had supposed to the special
doctrines of the Church; and, if he had not deceived himself in
interpreting her behaviour, a mutual avowal of love would involve
ready consent on her part to his abandoning a career which—as he
would represent it—had been adopted under a mistaken impulse. He
returned to the point which he had reached when he set forth with
the intention of bidding good-bye to the Warricombes—except that in
flinging away hypocrisy he no longer needed to trample his desires.
The change need not be declared till after a lapse of time. For the
present his task was to obtain one more private interview with
Sidwell ere she went to London, or, if that could not be, somehow
to address her in unmistakable language.