Born in Exile (37 page)

Half a year went by, and at length he granted himself a short
holiday, the first in a twelvemonth. It took the form of a voyage
to Marseilles, and thence of a leisurely ramble up the Rhone.
Before returning, he spent a day or two in Paris, for the most part
beneath cafe' awnings, or on garden seats—an indulgence of
contented laziness.

On the day of his departure, he climbed the towers of Notre
Dame, and lingered for half-an-hour in pleasant solitude among the
stone monsters. His reverie was broken by an English voice, loud
and animated:

'Come and look at this old demon of a bird; he has always been a
favourite of mine.—Sure you're not tired, Miss Bella? When you want
to rest, Miss Lily, mind you say so at once. What a day! What a
sky!—When I was last up here I had my hat blown away. I watched it
as far as Montmartre. A fact! Never knew such a wind in my
life—unless it was that tornado I told you about—Hollo! By the
powers, if that isn't Earwaker! Confound you, old fellow! How the
deuce do you do? What a glorious meeting! Hadn't the least idea
where you were!—Let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Mrs.
Jacox—and to Miss Jacox—and to Miss Lily. They all know you
thoroughly well. Now who would have thought of our meeting up here!
Glorious!'

It was with some curiosity that Earwaker regarded the companions
of his friend Malkin—whose proximity was the last thing he could
have imagined, as only a few weeks ago he had heard of the restless
fellow's departing, on business unknown, for Boston, US. Mrs.
Jacox, the widow whose wrongs had made such an impression on
Malkin, announced herself, in a thin, mealy face and rag-doll
figure, as not less than forty, though her irresponsible look made
it evident that years profited her nothing, and suggested an
explanation of the success with which she had been victimised. She
was stylishly dressed, and had the air of enjoying an unusual
treat. Her children were of more promising type, though Earwaker
would hardly have supposed them so old as he knew them to be.
Bella, just beyond her fourteenth year, had an intelligent
prettiness, but was excessively shy; in giving her hand to the
stranger she flushed over face and neck, and her bosom palpitated
visibly. Her sister, two years younger, was a mere child, rather
self-conscious, but of laughing temper. Their toilet suited ill
with that of their mother; its plainness and negligence might have
passed muster in London, but here, under the lucent sky, it seemed
a wrong to their budding maidenhood.

'Mrs. Jacox is on the point of returning to England,' Malkin
explained. 'I happened to meet her, by chance—I'm always meeting my
friends by chance; you, for instance, Earwaker. She is so good as
to allow me to guide her and the young ladies to a few of the
sights of Paris.'

'O Mr. Malkin!' exclaimed the widow, with a stress on the
exclamation peculiar to herself—two notes of deprecating falsetto.
'How can you say it is good of me, when I'm sure there are no words
for your kindness to us all! If only you knew our debt to your
friend, Mr Earwaker! To our dying day we must all remember it. It
is entirely through Mr. Malkin that we are able to leave that most
disagreeable Rouen—a place I shall never cease to think of with
horror. O Mr Earwaker! you have only to think of that wretched
railway station, stuck between two black tunnels! O Mr.
Malkin!'

'What are you doing?' Malkin inquired of the journalist. 'How
long shall you be here? Why haven't I heard from you?'

'I go to London to-night.'

'And we to-morrow. On Friday I'll look you up. Stay, can't you
dine with me this evening? Anywhere you like. These ladies will be
glad to be rid of me, and to dine in peace at their hotel.'

'O Mr. Malkin!' piped the widow, 'you know how very far that is
from the truth. But we shall be very glad indeed to know that you
are enjoying yourself with Mr. Earwaker.'

The friends made an appointment to meet near the Madeleine, and
Earwaker hastened to escape the sound of Mrs. Jacox's voice.

Punctual at the rendezvous, Malkin talked with his wonted
effusiveness as he led towards the Cafe Anglais.

'I've managed it, my boy! The most complete success! I had to
run over to Boston to get hold of a scoundrelly relative of that
poor woman. You should have seen how I came over him—partly
dignified sternness, partly justifiable cajolery. The affair only
wanted some one to take it up in earnest. I have secured her about
a couple of hundred a year—withheld on the most paltry and
transparent pretences. They're going to live at Wrotham, in Kent,
where Mrs Jacox has friends. I never thought myself so much of a
man of business. Of course old Haliburton, the lawyer, had a hand
in it, but without my personal energy it would have taken him a
year longer. What do you think of the girls? How do you like
Bella?'

'A pretty child.'

'Child? Well, yes, yes—immature of course; but I'm rather in the
habit of thinking of her as a young lady. In three years she'll be
seventeen, you know. Of course you couldn't form a judgment of her
character. She's quite remarkably mature for her age; and, what
delights me most of all, a sturdy Radical! She takes the most
intelligent interest in all political and social movements, I
assure you! There's a great deal of democratic fire in her.'

'You're sure it isn't reflected from your own fervour?'

'Not a bit of it! You should have seen her excitement when we
were at the Bastille Column yesterday. She'll make a splendid
woman, I assure you. Lily's very interesting, too—profoundly
interesting. But then she is certainly very young, so I can't feel
so sure of her on the great questions. She hasn't her sister's
earnestness, I fancy.'

In the after-glow of dinner, Malkin became still more
confidential.

'You remember what I said to you long since? My mind is made
up—practically made up. I shall devote myself to Bella's education,
in the hope—you understand me? Impossible to have found a girl who
suited better with my aspirations. She has known the hardships of
poverty, poor thing, and that will keep her for ever in sympathy
with the downtrodden classes. She has a splendid intelligence, and
it shall be cultivated to the utmost.'

'One word,' said Earwaker, soberly. 'We have heard before of men
who waited for girls to grow up. Be cautious, my dear fellow, both
on your own account and hers.'

'My dear Earwaker! Don't imagine for a moment that I take it for
granted she will get to be fond of me. My attitude is one of the
most absolute discretion. You must have observed how I behaved to
them all—scrupulous courtesy, I trust; no more familiarity than any
friend might be permitted. I should never dream of addressing the
girls without ceremonious prefix—never! I talk of Bella's
education, but be assured that I regard my own as a matter of quite
as much importance. I mean, that I shall strive incessantly to make
myself worthy of her. No laxity! For these next three years I shall
live as becomes a man who has his eyes constantly on a high
ideal—the pure and beautiful girl whom he humbly hopes to win for a
wife.'

The listener was moved. He raised his wine-glass to conceal the
smile which might have been misunderstood. In his heart he felt
more admiration than had yet mingled with his liking for this
strange fellow.

'And Mrs. Jacox herself,' pursued Malkin; 'she has her
weaknesses, as we all have. I don't think her a very strong-minded
woman, to tell the truth. But there's a great deal of goodness in
her. If there's one thing I desire in people, it is the virtue of
gratitude, and Mrs Jacox is grateful almost to excess for the
paltry exertions I have made on her behalf. You know that kind of
thing costs me nothing; you know I like running about and getting
things done. But the poor woman imagines that I have laid her under
an eternal obligation. Of course I shall show her in time that it
was nothing at all; that she might have done just as much for
herself if she had known how to go about it.'

Earwaker was musing, a wrinkle of uneasiness at the corner of
his eye.

'She isn't the kind of woman, you know, one can regard as a
mother. But we are the best possible friends. She
may
,
perhaps, think of me as a possible son-in-law. Poor thing; I hope
she does. Perhaps it will help to put her mind at rest about the
girls.'

'Then shall you often be down at Wrotham?' inquired the
journalist, abstractedly.

'Oh, not often—that is to say, only once a month or so, just to
look in. I wanted to ask you: do you think I might venture to begin
a correspondence with Bella?'

'M—m—m! I can't say.'

'It would be so valuable, you know. I could suggest books for
her reading; I could help her in her study of politics, and so
on.'

'Well, think about it. But be cautious, I beg of you. Now I must
be off. Only just time enough to get my traps to the station.'

'I'll come with you. Gare du Nord? Oh, plenty of time, plenty of
time! Nothing so abominable as waiting for trains. I make a point
of never getting to the station more than three minutes before
time. Astonishing what one can do in three minutes! I want to tell
you about an adventure I had in Boston. Met a fellow so devilish
like Peak that I
couldn't
believe it wasn't he himself. I
spoke to him, but he swore that he knew not the man. Never saw such
a likeness!'

'Curious. It may have been Peak.'

'By all that's suspicious, I can't help thinking the same! He
had an English accent, too.'

'Queer business, this of Peak's. I hope I may live to hear the
end of the story.'

They left the restaurant, and in a few hours Earwaker was again
on English soil.

At Staple Inn a pile of letters awaited him, among them a note
from Christian Moxey, asking for an appointment as soon as possible
after the journalist's return. Earwaker at once sent an invitation,
and on the next evening Moxey came. An intimacy had grown up
between the two, since the mysterious retreat of their common
friend. Christian was at first lost without the companionship of
Godwin Peak; he forsook his studies, and fell into a state of
complete idleness which naturally fostered his tendency to find
solace in the decanter. With Earwaker, he could not talk as
unreservedly as with Peak, but on the other hand there was a tonic
influence in the journalist's personality which he recognised as
beneficial. Earwaker was steadily making his way in the world,
lived a life of dignified independence. What was the secret of
these strong, calm natures? Might it not be learnt by studious
inspection?

'How well you look!' Christian exclaimed, on entering. 'We
enjoyed your Provencal letter enormously. That's a ramble I have
always meant to do. Next year perhaps.'

'Why not this? Haven't you got into a dangerous habit of
postponement?'

'Yes, I'm afraid I have. But, by-the-bye, no news of Peak, I
suppose?'

Earwaker related the story he had heard from Malkin, adding:

'You must remember that they met only once in London; Malkin
might very well mistake another man for Peak.'

'Yes,' replied the other musingly. 'Yet it isn't impossible that
Peak has gone over there. If so, what on earth can he be up to? Why
should
he hide from his friends?'

'
Cherchez la femme
,' said the journalist, with a smile.
'I can devise no other explanation.'

'But I can't see that it would be an explanation at all. Grant
even—something unavowable, you know—are we Puritans? How could it
harm him, at all events, to let us know his whereabouts? No such
mystery ever came into my experience. It is too bad of Peak; it's
confoundedly unkind.'

'Suppose he has found it necessary to assume a character wholly
fictitious—or, let us say, quite inconsistent with his life and
opinions as known to us?'

This was a fruitful suggestion, long in Earwaker's mind, but not
hitherto communicated. Christian did not at once grasp its
significance.

'How could that be necessary? Peak is no swindler. You don't
imply that he is engaged in some fraud?'

'Not in the ordinary sense, decidedly. But picture some girl or
woman of conventional opinions and surroundings. What if he
resolved to win such a wife, at the expense of disguising his true
self?'

'But what an extraordinary idea!' cried Moxey. 'Why Peak is all
but a woman-hater!'

The journalist uttered croaking laughter.

'Have I totally misunderstood him?' asked Christian, confused
and abashed.

'I think it not impossible.'

'You amaze me!—But no, no; you are wrong, Earwaker. Wrong in
your suggestion, I mean. Peak could never sink to that. He is too
uncompromising'——

'Well, it will be explained some day, I suppose.'

And with a shrug of impatience, the journalist turned to another
subject. He, too, regretted his old friend's disappearance, and in
a measure resented it. Godwin Peak was not a man to slip out of
one's life and leave no appreciable vacancy. Neither of these men
admired him, in the true sense of the word, yet had his voice
sounded at the door both would have sprung up with eager welcome.
He was a force—and how many such beings does one encounter in a
lifetime?

In different ways, Christian and Marcella Moxey had both been
lonely since their childhood. As a schoolgirl, Marcella seemed to
her companions conceited and repellent; only as the result of
reflection in after years did Sylvia Moorhouse express so
favourable an opinion of her. In all things she affected
singularity; especially it was her delight to utter democratic and
revolutionary sentiments among hearers who, belonging to a rigidly
conservative order, held such opinions impious. Arrived at
womanhood, she affected scorn of the beliefs and habits cherished
by her own sex, and shrank from association with the other. Godwin
Peak was the first man with whom she conversed in the tone of
friendship, and it took a year or more before that point was
reached. As her intimacy with him established itself, she was
observed to undergo changes which seemed very significant in the
eyes of her few acquaintances. Disregard of costume had been one of
her characteristics, but now she moved gradually towards the
opposite extreme, till her dresses were occasionally more
noticeable for richness than for good taste.