Born in Exile (62 page)

There must be no more untruthfulness. Sidwell must have all the
facts laid before her, and make her choice.

Without a clear understanding of what he was going to write, he
sat down at eleven o'clock, and began, 'Dear Miss Warricombe'. Why
not 'Dear Sidwell'? He took another sheet of paper.

'Dear Sidwell,—To-night I can remember only your last word to me
when we parted. I cannot address you coldly, as though half a
stranger. Thus long I have kept silence about everything but the
outward events of my life; now, in telling you of something that
has happened, I must speak as I think.

'Early this evening I was surprised by a visit from Christian
Moxey—a name you know. He came to tell me that his sister (she of
whom I once spoke to you) was dead, and had bequeathed to me a
large sum of money. He said that it represented an income of eight
hundred pounds.

'I knew nothing of Miss Moxey's illness, and the news of her
will came to me as a surprise. In word or deed, I never sought more
than her simple friendship—and even
that
I believed myself
to have forfeited.

'If I were to refuse this money, it would be in consequence of a
scruple which I do not in truth respect. Christian Moxey tells me
that his sister's desire was to enable me to live the life of a
free man; and if I have any duty at all in the matter, surely it
does not constrain me to defeat her kindness. No condition whatever
is attached. The gift releases me from the necessity of leading a
hopeless existence—leaves me at liberty to direct my life how I
will.

'I wish, then, to put aside all thoughts of how this opportunity
came to me, and to ask you if you are willing to be my wife.

'Though I have never written a word of love, my love is
unchanged. The passionate hope of three years ago still rules my
life. Is
your
love strong enough to enable you to disregard
all hindrances? I cannot of course know whether, in your sight,
dishonour still clings to me, or whether you understand me well
enough to have forgiven and forgotten those hateful things in the
past. Is it yet too soon? Do you wish me still to wait, still to
prove myself? Is your interest in the free man less than in the
slave? For my life has been one of slavery and exile—exile, if you
know what I mean by it, from the day of my birth.

'Dearest, grant me this great happiness! We can live where we
will. I am not rich enough to promise all the comforts and
refinements to which you are accustomed, but we should be safe from
sordid anxieties. We can travel; we can make a home in any European
city. It would be idle to speak of the projects and ambitions that
fill my mind—but surely I may do something worth doing, win some
position among intellectual men of which you would not be ashamed.
You yourself urged me to hope that. With you at my side—Silwell
grant me this chance, that I may know the joy of satisfied love! I
am past the me to hope that. With you at my side—Sidwell, grant me
this age which is misled by vain fancies. I have suffered
unspeakably, longed for the calm strength, the pure, steady purpose
which would result to me from a happy marriage. There is no fatal
divergence between our minds; did you not tell me that? You said
that if I had been truthful from the first, you might have loved me
with no misgiving. Forget the madness into which I was betrayed.
There is no soil upon my spirit. I offer you love as noble as any
man is capable of. Think—think well—before replying to me; let your
true self prevail. You
did
love me, dearest.——

Yours ever, Godwin Peak.'

At first he wrote slowly, as though engaged on a literary
composition, with erasions, insertions. Facts once stated, he
allowed himself to forget how Sidwell would most likely view them,
and thereafter his pen hastened: fervour inspired the last
paragraph. Sidwell's image had become present to him, and exercised
all—or nearly all—its old influence.

The letter must be copied, because of that laboured beginning.
Copying one's own words is at all times a disenchanting drudgery,
and when the end was reached Godwin signed his name with hasty
contempt. What answer could he expect to such an appeal? How vast
an improbability that Sidwell would consent to profit by the gift
of Marcella Moxey!

Yet how otherwise could he write? With what show of sincerity
could he
offer
to refuse the bequest? Nay, in that case he
must not offer to do so, but simply state the fact that his refusal
was beyond recall. Logically, he had chosen the only course open to
him,—for to refuse independence was impossible.

A wheezy clock in his landlady's kitchen was striking two. For
very fear of having to revise his letter in the morning, he put it
into its envelope, and went out to the nearest pillar-post.

That was done. Whether Sidwell answered with 'Yes' or with 'No',
he was a free man.

On the morrow he went to his work as usual, and on the day after
that. The third morning might bring a reply—but did not. On the
evening of the fifth day, when he came home, there lay the expected
letter. He felt it; it was light and thin. That hideous choking of
suspense—Well, it ran thus:

'I cannot. It is not that I am troubled by your accepting the
legacy. You have every right to do so, and I know that your life
will justify the hopes of her who thus befriended you. But I am too
weak to take this step. To ask you to wait yet longer, would only
be a fresh cowardice. You cannot know how it shames me to write
this. In my very heart I believe I love you, but what is such love
worth? You must despise me, and you will forget me. I live in a
little world; in the greater world where your place is, you will
win a love very different.

S. W.'

Godwin laughed aloud as the paper dropped from his hand.

Well, she was not the heroine of a romance. Had he expected her
to leave home and kindred—the 'little world' so infinitely dear to
her—and go forth with a man deeply dishonoured? Very young girls
have been known to do such a thing; but a thoughtful mature
woman——! Present, his passion had dominated her: and perhaps her
nerves only. But she had had time to recover from that
weakness.

A woman, like most women of cool blood, temperate fancies. A
domestic woman; the ornament of a typical English home.

Most likely it was true that the matter of the legacy did not
trouble her. In any case she would not have consented to marry him,
and
therefore
she knew no jealousy. Her love! why, truly,
what was it worth?

(Much, much! of no less than infinite value. He knew it, but
this was not the moment for such a truth.)

A cup of tea to steady the nerves. Then thoughts, planning,
world-building.

He was awake all night, and Sidwell's letter lay within
reach.—Did
she
sleep calmly? Had she never stretched out her
hand for
his
letter, when all was silent? There were men who
would not take such a refusal. A scheme to meet her once more—the
appeal of passion, face to face, heart to heart—the means of escape
ready—and then the 'greater world'——

But neither was he cast in heroic mould. He had not the
self-confidence, he had not the hot, youthful blood. A critic of
life, an analyst of moods and motives; not the man who dares and
acts. The only important resolve he had ever carried through was a
scheme of ignoble trickery—to end in frustration.

'The greater world'. It was a phrase that had been in his own
mind once or twice since Moxey's visit. To point him thither was
doubtless the one service Sidwell could render him. And in a day or
two, that phrase was all that remained to him of her letter.

On a Sunday afternoon at the end of October, Godwin once more
climbed the familiar stairs at Staple Inn, and was welcomed by his
friend Earwaker. The visit was by appointment. Earwaker knew all
about the legacy; that it was accepted; and that Peak had only a
few days to spend in London, on his way to the Continent.

'You are regenerated,' was his remark as Godwin entered.

'Do I look it? Just what I feel. I have shaken off a good (or a
bad) ten years.'

The speaker's face, at all events in this moment, was no longer
that of a man at hungry issue with the world. He spoke
cheerily.

'It isn't often that fortune does a man such a kind turn. One
often hears it said: If only I could begin life again with all the
experience I have gained! That is what I
can
do. I can break
utterly with the past, and I have learnt how to live in the
future.'

'Break utterly with the past?'

'In the practical sense. And even morally to a great
extent.'

Earwaker pushed a box of cigars across the table. Godwin
accepted the offer, and began to smoke. During these moments of
silence, the man of letters had been turning over a weekly paper,
as if in search of some paragraph; a smile announced his
discovery.

'Here is something that will interest you—possibly you have seen
it.'

He began to read aloud:

'"On the 23rd inst. was celebrated at St. Bragg's, Torquay, the
marriage of the Rev. Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers, late Rector of St
Margaret's, Exeter, and the Hon. Bertha Harriet Cecilia Jute,
eldest daughter of the late Baron Jute. The ceremony was conducted
by the Hon. and Rev. J. C. Jute, uncle of the bride, assisted by
the Rev. F. Miller, the Very Rev. Dean Pinnock, the Rev. H. S.
Crook, and the Rev. William Tomkinson. The bride was given away by
Lord Jute. Mr Horatio Dukinfield was best man. The bridal dress was
of white brocade, draped with Brussels lace, the corsage being
trimmed with lace and adorned with orange blossoms. The tulle veil,
fastened with three diamond stars, the gifts of"——Well, shall I go
on?'

'The triumph of Chilvers!' murmured Godwin. 'I wonder whether
the Hon. Bertha is past her fortieth year?'

'A blooming beauty, I dare say. But Lord! how many people it
takes to marry a man like Chilvers! How sacred the union must
be!—Pray take a paragraph more: "The four bridesmaids—Miss—etc.,
etc.—wore cream crepon dresses trimmed with turquoise blue velvet,
and hats to match. The bridegroom's presents to them were diamond
and ruby brooches."'

'Chilvers
in excelsis
!—So he is no longer at Exeter; has
no living, it seems. What does he aim at next, I wonder?'

Earwaker cast meaning glances at his friend.

'I understand you,' said Godwin, at length. 'You mean that this
merely illustrates my own ambition. Well, you are right, I confess
my shame—and there's an end of it.'

He puffed at his cigar, resuming presently:

'But it would be untrue if I said that I regretted anything.
Constituted as I am, there was no other way of learning my real
needs and capabilities. Much in the past is hateful to me, but it
all had its use. There are men—why, take your own case. You look
back on life, no doubt, with calm and satisfaction.'

'Rather, with resignation.'

Godwin let his cigar fall, and laughed bitterly.

'Your resignation has kept pace with life. I was always a rebel.
My good qualities—I mean what I say—have always wrecked me. Now
that I haven't to fight with circumstances, they may possibly be
made subservient to my happiness.'

'But what form is your happiness to take?'

'Well, I am leaving England. On the Continent I shall make no
fixed abode, but live in the places where cosmopolitan people are
to be met. I shall make friends; with money at command, one may
hope to succeed in that. Hotels, boarding-houses, and so on, offer
the opportunities. It sounds oddly like the project of a swindler,
doesn't it? There's the curse I can't escape from! Though my
desires are as pure as those of any man living, I am compelled to
express myself as if I were about to do something base and
underhand. Simply because I have never had a social place. I am an
individual merely; I belong to no class, town, family,
club'——'Cosmopolitan people,' mused Earwaker. 'Your ideal is
transformed.'

'As you know. Experience only could bring that about. I seek now
only the free, intellectual people—men who have done with the old
conceptions—women who'——

His voice grew husky, and he did not complete the sentence. 'I
shall find them in Paris, Rome.—Earwaker, think of my being able to
speak like this! No day-dreams, but actual sober plans, their
execution to begin in a day or two. Paris, Rome! And a month ago I
was a hopeless slave in a vile manufacturing town.—I wish it were
possible for me to pray for the soul of that poor dead woman. I
don't speak to you of her; but do you imagine I am brutally
forgetful of her to whom I owe all this?'

'I do you justice,' returned the other, quietly.

'I believe you can and do.'

'How grand it is to go forth as I am now going!' Godwin resumed,
after a long pause. 'Nothing to hide, no shams, no pretences. Let
who will inquire about me. I am an independent Englishman, with so
and so much a year. In England I have one friend only—that is you.
The result, you see, of all these years savage striving to knit
myself into the social fabric.'

'Well, you will invite me some day to your villa at Sorrento,'
said Earwaker, encouragingly.

'That I shall!' Godwin's eyes flashed with imaginative delight.
'And before very long. Never to a home in England!'

'By-the-bye, a request. I have never had your portrait. Sit
before you leave London.'

'No. I'll send you one from Paris—it will be better done.'

'But I am serious. You promise?'

'You shall have the thing in less than a fortnight.'

The promise was kept. Earwaker received an admirable photograph,
which he inserted in his album with a curious sense of
satisfaction. A face by which every intelligent eye must be
arrested; which no two observers would interpret in the same
way.