Born in Exile (38 page)

Christian, for kindred reasons, was equally debarred from the
pleasures and profits of society. At school, his teachers
considered him clever, his fellows for the most part looked down
upon him as a sentimental weakling. The death of his parents, when
he was still a lad, left him to the indifferent care of a guardian
nothing akin to him. He began life in an uncongenial position, and
had not courage to oppose the drift of circumstances. The romantic
attachment which absorbed his best years naturally had a
debilitating effect, for love was never yet a supporter of the
strenuous virtues, save when it has survived fruition and been
blessed by reason. In most men a fit of amorous mooning works its
own cure; energetic rebound is soon inevitable. But Christian was
so constituted that a decade of years could not exhaust his
capacity for sentimental languishment. He made it a point of honour
to seek no female companionship which could imperil his faith.
Unfortunately, this avoidance of the society which would soon have
made him a happy renegade, was but too easy. Marcella and he
practically encouraged each other in a life of isolation, though to
both of them such an existence was anything but congenial. Their
difficulties were of the same nature as those which had always
beset Godwin Peak; they had no relatives with whom they cared to
associate, and none of the domestic friends who, in the progress of
time, establish and extend a sphere of genuine intimacy.

Most people who are capable of independent thought rapidly
outgrow the stage when compromise is abhorred; they accept, at
first reluctantly, but ere long with satisfaction, that code of
polite intercourse which, as Steele says, is 'an expedient to make
fools and wise men equal'. It was Marcella's ill-fate that she
could neither learn tolerance nor persuade herself to affect it.
The emancipated woman has fewer opportunities of relieving her mind
than a man in corresponding position; if her temper be aggressive
she must renounce general society, and, if not content to live
alone, ally herself with some group of declared militants. By
correspondence, or otherwise, Marcella might have brought herself
into connection with women of a sympathetic type, but this effort
she had never made. And chiefly because of her acquaintance with
Godwin Peak. In him she concentrated her interests; he was the man
to whom her heart went forth with every kind of fervour. So long as
there remained a hope of moving him to reciprocal feeling she did
not care to go in search of female companions. Year after year she
sustained herself in solitude by this faint hope. She had lost
sight of the two or three schoolfellows who, though not so zealous
as herself, would have welcomed her as an interesting acquaintance;
and the only woman who assiduously sought her was Mrs. Morton, the
wife of one of Christian's friends, a good-natured but silly person
bent on making known that she followed the 'higher law'.

Godwin's disappearance sank her in profound melancholy. Through
the black weeks of January and February she scarcely left the
house, and on the plea of illness refused to see any one but her
brother. Between Christian and her there was no avowed confidence,
but each knew the other's secret; their mutual affection never
spoke itself in words, yet none the less it was indispensable to
their lives. Deprived of his sister's company, Christian must have
yielded to the vice which had already too strong a hold upon him,
and have become a maudlin drunkard. Left to herself, Marcella had
but slender support against a grim temptation already beckoning her
in nights of sleeplessness. Of the two, her nature was the more
tragic. Circumstances aiding, Christian might still forget his
melancholy, abandon the whisky bottle, and pass a lifetime of
amiable uxoriousness, varied with scientific enthusiasm. But for
Marcella, frustrate in the desire with which every impulse of her
being had identified itself, what future could be imagined?

When a day or two of sunlight (the rays through a semi-opaque
atmosphere which London has to accept with gratitude) had announced
that the seven-months' winter was overcome, and when the newspapers
began to speak, after their fashion, of pictures awaiting scrutiny,
Christian exerted himself to rouse his sister from her growing
indolence. He succeeded in taking her to the Academy. Among the
works of sculpture, set apart for the indifference of the public,
was a female head, catalogued as 'A Nihilist'—in itself
interesting, and specially so to Marcella, because it was executed
by an artist whose name she recognised as that of a schoolmate,
Agatha Walworth. She spoke of the circumstance to Christian, and
added:

'I should like to have that. Let us go and see the price.'

The work was already sold. Christian, happy that his sister
could be aroused to this interest, suggested that a cast might be
obtainable.

'Write to Miss Walworth,' he urged. 'Bring yourself to her
recollection.—I should think she must be the right kind of
woman.'

Though at the time she shook her head, Marcella was presently
tempted to address a letter to the artist, who responded with
friendly invitation. In this way a new house was opened to her;
but, simultaneously, one more illusion was destroyed. Knowing
little of life, and much of literature, she pictured Miss Walworth
as inhabiting a delightful Bohemian world, where the rules of
conventionalism had no existence, and everything was judged by the
brain-standard. Modern French biographies supplied all her ideas of
studio society. She prepared herself for the first visit with a
joyous tremor, wondering whether she would be deemed worthy to
associate with the men and women who lived for art. The reality was
a shock. In a large house at Chiswick she found a gathering of most
respectable English people, chatting over the regulation tea-cup;
not one of them inclined to disregard the dictates of Mrs. Grundy
in dress, demeanour, or dialogue. Agatha Walworth lived with her
parents and her sisters like any other irreproachable young woman.
She had a nice little studio, and worked at modelling with a good
deal of aptitude; but of Bohemia she knew nothing whatever, save by
hearsay. Her 'Nihilist' was no indication of a rebellious spirit;
some friend had happened to suggest that a certain female model, a
Russian, would do very well for such a character, and the hint was
tolerably well carried out—nothing more. Marcella returned in a
mood of contemptuous disappointment. The cast she had desired to
have was shortly sent to her as a gift, but she could take no
pleasure in it.

Still, she saw more of the Walworths and found them not
illiberal. Agatha was intelligent, and fairly well read in modern
authors; no need to conceal one's opinions in conversation with
her. Marcella happened to be spending the evening with these
acquaintances whilst her brother was having his chat at Staple Inn;
on her return, she mentioned to Christian that she had been invited
to visit the Walworths in Devonshire a few weeks hence.

'Go, by all means,' urged her brother.

'I don't think I shall. They are too respectable.'

'Nonsense! They seem very open-minded; you really can't expect
absolute unconventionality. Is it desirable? Really is it,
now?—Suppose I were to marry some day, Marcella; do you think my
household would be unconventional?'

His voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted.
Marcella, to whom her brother's romance was anything but an
agreeable subject,—the slight acquaintance she had with the modern
Laura did not encourage her to hope for that lady's widowhood,—gave
no heed to the question.

'They are going to have a house at Budleigh Salterton; do you
know of the place? Somewhere near the mouth of the Exe. Miss
Walworth tells me that one of our old school friends is living
there—Sylvia Moorhouse. Did I ever mention Sylvia? She had gleams
of sense, I remember; but no doubt society has drilled all that out
of her.'

Christian sighed.

'Why?' he urged. 'Society is getting more tolerant than you are
disposed to think. Very few well-educated people would nowadays
object to an acquaintance on speculative grounds. Some one—who was
it?—was telling me of a recent marriage between the daughter of
some well-known Church people and a man who made no secret of his
agnosticism; the parents acquiescing cheerfully. The one thing
still insisted on is decency of behaviour.'

Marcella's eyes flashed.

'How can you say that? You know quite well that most kinds of
immorality are far more readily forgiven by people of the world
than sincere heterodoxy on moral subjects.'

'Well, well, I meant decency from
their
point of view.
And there really must be such restrictions, you know. How very few
people are capable of what you call sincere heterodoxy, in morals
or religion! Your position is unphilosophical; indeed it is. Take
the world as you find it, and make friends with kind, worthy
people. You have suffered from a needless isolation. Do accept this
opportunity of adding to your acquaintances!—Do, Marcella! I shall
take it as a great kindness, dear girl.'

His sister let her head lie back against the chair, her face
averted. A stranger seated in Christian's place, regarding Marcella
whilst her features were thus hidden, would have thought it
probable that she was a woman of no little beauty. Her masses of
tawny hair, her arms and hands, the pose and outline of her figure,
certainly suggested a countenance of corresponding charm, and the
ornate richness of her attire aided such an impression. This
thought came to Christian as he gazed at her; his eyes, always so
gentle, softened to a tender compassion. As the silence continued,
he looked uneasily about him; when at length he spoke, it was as
though a matter of trifling moment had occurred to him.

'By-the-bye, I am told that Malkin (Earwaker's friend, you know)
saw Peak not long ago—in America.'

Marcella did not change her position, but at the sound of Peak's
name she stirred, as if with an intention, at once checked, of
bending eagerly forward.

'In America?' she asked, incredulously.

'At Boston. He met him in the street—or thinks he did. There's a
doubt. When Malkin spoke to the man, he declared that he was not
Peak at all—said there was a mistake.'

Marcella moved so as to show her face; endeavouring to express
an unemotional interest, she looked coldly scornful.

'That ridiculous man can't be depended upon,' she said.

There had been one meeting between Marcella and Mr. Malkin, with
the result that each thoroughly disliked the other—an antipathy
which could have been foreseen.

'Well, there's no saying,' replied Christian. 'But of one thing
I feel pretty sure: we have seen the last of Peak. He'll never come
back to us.'

'Why not?'

'I can only say that I feel convinced he has broken finally with
all his old friends.—We must think no more of him, Marcella.'

His sister rose slowly, affected to glance at a book, and in a
few moments said good-night. For another hour Christian sat by
himself in gloomy thought.

At breakfast next morning Marcella announced that she would be
from home the whole day; she might return in time for dinner, but
it was uncertain. Her brother asked no questions, but said that he
would lunch in town. About ten o'clock a cab was summoned, and
Marcella, without leave-taking, drove away.

Christian lingered as long as possible over the morning paper,
unable to determine how he should waste the weary hours that lay
before him. There was no reason for his remaining in London through
this brief season of summer glow. Means and leisure were his, he
could go whither he would. But the effort of decision and departure
seemed too much for him. Worst of all, this lassitude (not for the
first time) was affecting his imagination; he thought with a dull
discontent of the ideal love to which he had bound himself. Could
he but escape from it, and begin a new life! But he was the slave
of his airy obligation; for very shame's sake his ten years'
consistency must be that of a lifetime.

There was but one place away from London to which he felt
himself drawn, and that was the one place he might not visit. This
morning's sunshine carried him back to that day when he had lain in
the meadow near Twybridge and talked with Godwin Peak. How
distinctly he remembered his mood! 'Be practical—don't be led
astray after ideals—concentrate yourself;'—yes, it was he who had
given that advice to Peak: and had he but recked his own rede—!
Poor little Janet! was she married? If so, her husband must be a
happy man.

Why should he not go down to Twybridge? His uncle, undoubtedly
still living, must by this time have forgotten the old resentment,
perhaps would be glad to see him. In any case he might stroll about
the town and somehow obtain news of the Moxey family.

With vague half-purpose he left the house and walked westward.
The stream of traffic in Edgware Road brought him to a pause; he
stood for five minutes in miserable indecision, all but resolving
to go on as far as Euston and look for the next northward train.
But the vice in his will prevailed; automaton-like he turned in
another direction, and presently came out into Sussex Square. Here
was the house to which his thoughts had perpetually gone forth ever
since that day when Constance gave her hand to a thriving City man,
and became Mrs. Palmer. At present, he knew, it was inhabited only
by domestics: Mr. Palmer, recovering from illness that threatened
to be fatal, had gone to Bournemouth, where Constance of course
tended him. But he would walk past and look up at the windows.

All the blinds were down—naturally. Thrice he went by and
retraced his steps. Then, still automaton-like, he approached the
door, rang the bell. The appearance of the servant choked his voice
for an instant, but he succeeded in shaping an inquiry after Mr.
Palmer's health.