Born in Exile (56 page)

'This sounds all very well, but it is weakness and
selfishness.'

'How can you say so?'

'There's no proving to so short-sighted a man the result of his
mistaken course. I've a good mind to let you have your way just for
the satisfaction of saying afterwards, "Didn't I tell you so?" You
propose to behave with abominable injustice to two people, putting
yourself aside. Doesn't it occur to you that Bella may already look
upon you as her future husband? Haven't you done your best to plant
that idea in her mind?'

Malkin started, but quickly recovered himself.

'No, I haven't! I have behaved with the utmost discretion. Bella
thinks of me only as of a friend much older than herself.'

'I don't believe it!'

'Nonsense, Earwaker! A child of fifteen!'

'The other day you had quite a different view, and after seeing
her again I agreed with you. She is a young girl, and if not
already in love with you, is on the way to be so.'

'That will come to nothing when she hears that I am going to be
her step-father.'

'Far more likely to develop into a grief that will waste the
best part of her lifetime. She will be shocked and made miserable.
But do as you like. I am tired of arguing.'

Earwaker affected to abandon the matter in disgust. For several
minutes there was silence, then a low voice sounded from the corner
where Malkin stood leaning.

'So it is your honest belief that Bella has begun to think of me
in that way?'

'I am convinced of it.'

'But if I run away, I shall never see her again.'

'Why not?
She
won't run away. Come back when things have
squared themselves. Write to Mrs. Jacox from the ends of the earth,
and let her understand that there is no possibility of your
marrying her.'

'Tell her about Bella, you mean?'

'No, that's just what I don't mean. Avoid any mention of the
girl. Come back when she is seventeen, and, if she is willing,
carry her off to be happy ever after.'

'But she may have fallen in love with someone else.'

'I think not. You must risk it, at all events.'

'Look here!' Malkin came forward eagerly. 'I'll write to Mrs.
Jacox to-night, and make a full confession. I'll tell her exactly
how the case stands. She's a good woman; she'll gladly sacrifice
herself for the sake of her daughter.'

Earwaker was firm in resistance. He had no faith whatever in the
widow's capacity for self-immolation, and foresaw that his friend
would be drawn into another 'frightful scene', resulting probably
in a marriage as soon as the licence could be obtained.

'When are you to see her again?' he inquired.

'On Wednesday.'

'Will you undertake to do nothing whatever till Wednesday
morning, and then to have another talk with me? I'll come and see
you about ten o'clock.'

In the end Malkin was constrained into making this engagement,
and not long after midnight the journalist managed to get rid of
him.

On Tuesday afternoon arrived a distracted note. 'I shall keep my
promise, and I won't try to see you till you come here tomorrow.
But I am sore beset. I have received
three
letters from Mrs.
Jacox, all long and horribly pathetic. She seems to have a
presentiment that I shall forsake her. What a beast I shall be if I
do! Tom comes here to-night, and I think I shall tell him all.'

The last sentence was a relief to the reader; he knew nothing of
Mr Thomas Malkin, but there was a fair presumption that this
gentleman would not see his brother bent on making such a notable
fool of himself without vigorous protest.

At the appointed hour next morning, Earwaker reached his
friend's lodgings, which were now at Kilburn. On entering the room
he saw, not the familiar figure, but a solid, dark-faced,
black-whiskered man, whom a faint resemblance enabled him to
identify as Malkin the younger.

'I was expecting you,' said Thomas, as they shook hands. 'My
brother is completely floored. When I got here an hour ago, I
insisted on his lying down, and now I think he's asleep. If you
don't mind, we'll let him rest for a little. I believe he has
hardly closed his eyes since this unfortunate affair happened.'

'It rejoiced me to hear that he was going to ask your advice.
How do matters stand?'

'You know Mrs. Jacox?'

Thomas was obviously a man of discretion, but less intellectual
than his brother; he spoke like one who is accustomed to the
management of affairs. At first he was inclined to a polite
reserve, but Earwaker's conversation speedily put him more at
ease.

'I have quite made up my mind,' he said presently, 'that we must
take him away with us to-morrow. The voyage will bring him to his
senses.'

'Of course he resists?'

'Yes, but if you will give me your help, I think we can manage
him. He is not very strong-willed. In a spasmodic way he can defy
everyone, but the steady pressure of common sense will prevail with
him, I think.'

They had talked for half-an-hour, when the door opened and the
object of their benevolent cares stood before them. He was clad in
a dressing-gown, and his disordered hair heightened the look of
illness which his features presented.

'Why didn't you call me?' he asked his brother, irritably.
'Earwaker, I beg a thousand pardons! I'm not very well; I've
overslept myself.'

'Yes, yes; come and sit down.'

Thomas made an offer to leave them.

'Don't go,' said Malkin. 'No need whatever. You know why
Earwaker has been so kind as to come here. We may as well talk it
over together.'

He sat on the table, swinging a tassel of his dressing-gown
round and round.

'Now, what do you really think of doing?' asked the journalist,
in a kind voice.

'I don't know. I absolutely do not know. I'm unutterably
wretched.'

'In that case, will you let your brother and me decide for you?
We have no desire but for your good, and we are perfectly at one in
our judgment.'

'Of course I know what you will propose!' cried the other,
excitedly. 'From the prudential point of view, you are right, I
have no doubt. But how can you protect me against remorse? If you
had received letters such as these three,' he pulled them out of a
pocket, 'you would be as miserable as I am. If I don't keep my
promise, I shall never know another moment of peace.'

'You certainly won't if you
do
keep it,' remarked
Thomas.

'No,' added Earwaker, 'and one if not two other persons will be
put into the same case. Whereas by boldly facing these reproaches
of conscience, you do a great kindness to the others.'

'If only you could assure me of that!'

'I
can
assure you. That is to say, I can give it as my
unassailable conviction.'

And Earwaker once more enlarged upon the theme, stating it from
every point of view that served his purpose.

'You're making a mountain out of a mole-heap,' was the
confirmatory remark that came from Thomas. 'This respectable lady
will get over her sorrows quickly enough, and some day she'll
confirmatory remark that came from Thomas. 'This respectable be
only too glad to have you for a son-in-law, if Miss Bella still
pleases you.'

'It's only right,' urged Earwaker, in pursuance of his subtler
intention, 'that you should bear the worst of the suffering, for
the trouble has come out of your own thoughtlessness. You are fond
of saying that you have behaved with the utmost discretion; so far
from that you have been outrageously indiscreet. I foresaw that
something of this kind might come to pass'——

'Then why the devil didn't you warn me?' shouted Malkin, in an
agony of nervous strain.

'It would have been useless. In fact, I foresaw it too
late.'

The discussion continued for an hour. By careful insistence on
the idea of self-sacrifice, Earwaker by degrees demolished the
arguments his friend kept putting forward. Thomas, who had gone
impatiently to the window, turned round with words that were meant
to be final.

'It's quite decided. You begin your preparations at once, and
to-morrow morning you go on board with us.'

'But if I don't go to Wrotham this afternoon, she'll be here
either to-night or the first thing to-morrow. I'm sure of it!'

'By four or five o'clock,' said Earwaker, 'you can have broken
up the camp. You've often done it at shorter notice. Go to an hotel
for the night.'

'I must write to the poor woman.'

'Do as you like about that.'

'Who is to help her, if she gets into difficulties—as she's
always doing? Who is to advise her about Bella's education? Who is
to pay—I mean, who will see to——? Oh, confound it!'

The listeners glanced at each other.

'Are her affairs in order?' asked Earwaker. 'Has she a
sufficient income?'

'For ordinary needs, quite sufficient. But'——

'Then you needn't be in the least uneasy. Let her know where you
are, when the equator is between you. Watch over her interests from
a distance, if you like. I can as good as promise you that Bella
will wait hopefully to see her friend again.'

Malkin succumbed to argument and exhaustion. Facing Earwaker
with a look of pathetic appeal, he asked hoarsely:

'Will you stand by me till it's over? Have you time?'

'I can give you till five o'clock.'

'Then I'll go and dress. Ring the bell, Tom, and ask them to
bring up some beer.'

Before three had struck, the arrangements for flight were
completed. A heavily-laden cab bore away Malkin's personal
property; within sat the unhappy man and his faithful friend.

The next morning Earwaker went down to Tilbury, and said
farewell to the travellers on board the steamship Orient. Mrs.
Thomas had already taken her brother-in-law under her special
care.

'It's only three children to look after, instead of two,' she
remarked, in a laughing aside to the journalist. 'How grateful he
will be to you in a few days! And I'm sure
we
are
already.'

Malkin's eyes were no longer quite lustreless. At the last
moment he talked with animation of 'two years hence', and there was
vigour in the waving of his hand as the vessel started seaward.

Peak lost no time in leaving Exeter. To lighten his baggage, and
to get rid of possessions to which hateful memories attached, he
sold all his books that had any bearing on theology. The incomplete
translation of
Bibel und Natur
he committed to the flames in
Mrs Roots's kitchen, scattering its black remnants with savage
thrusts of the poker. Whilst engaged in packing, he debated with
himself whether or not he should take leave of the few
acquaintances to whom he was indebted for hospitality and other
kindness. The question was: Had Buckland Warricombe already warned
these people against him? Probably it had seemed to Buckland the
wiser course to be content with driving the hypocrite away; and, if
this were so, regard for the future dictated a retirement from
Exeter which should in no way resemble secret flight. Sidwell's
influence with her parents would perhaps withhold them from making
his disgrace known, and in a few years he might be glad that he had
behaved with all possible prudence. In the end, he decided to write
to Mr. Lilywhite, saying that he was obliged to go away at a
moment's notice, and that he feared it would be necessary
altogether to change the scheme of life which he had had in view.
This was the best way. From the Lilywhites, other people would hear
of him, and perchance their conjectures would be charitable.

Without much hesitation he had settled his immediate plans. To
London he would not return, for he dreaded the temptations to which
the proximity of Sidwell would expose him, and he had no mind to
meet with Moxey or Earwaker. As it was now imperative that he
should find work of the old kind, he could not do better than go to
Bristol, where, from the safe ground of a cheap and obscure
lodging, he might make inquiries, watch advertisements, and so on.
He already knew of establishments in Bristol where he might
possibly obtain employment. Living with the utmost economy, he need
not fall into difficulties for more than a year, and before then
his good repute with the Rotherhithe firm would ensure him some
position or other; if not in Bristol, then at Newcastle, St.
Helen's—any great centre of fuming and malodorous industry. He was
ready to work, would delight in work. Idleness was now the
intolerable thing.

So to Bristol he betook himself, and there made his temporary
abode. After spending a few weeks in fruitless search for an
engagement, he at length paid his oft-postponed visit to Twybridge.
In the old home he felt completely a stranger, and his relatives
strengthened the feeling by declaring him so changed in appearance
that they hardly knew his face. With his mother only could he talk
in anything like an intimate way, and the falsehoods with which he
was obliged to answer her questions all but destroyed the pleasure
he would otherwise have found in being affectionately tended. His
sister, Mrs Cusse, was happy in her husband, her children, and a
flourishing business. Oliver was making money, and enjoyed
distinction among the shopkeeping community. His aunt still dealt
in millinery, and kept up her acquaintance with respectable
families. To Godwin all was like a dream dreamt for the second
time. He could not acknowledge any actual connection between these
people and himself. But their characteristics no longer gravely
offended him, and he willingly recognised the homespun worth which
their lives displayed. It was clear to him that by no possible
agency of circumstances could he have been held in normal relations
with his kinsfolk. However smooth his career, it must have wafted
him to an immeasurable distance from Twybridge. Nature had decreed
that he was to resemble the animals which, once reared, go forth in
complete independence of birthplace and the ties of blood. It was a
harsh fate, but in what had not fate been harsh to him? The one
consolation was that he alone suffered. His mother was no doubt
occasionally troubled by solicitude on his account, but she could
not divine his inward miseries, and an assurance that he had no
material cares sufficed to set her mind at ease.