Born in Exile (19 page)

'We are not talking of genius,' Peak replied.

'It was irrelevant, I know.—Well, yes, I
have
conversed
now and then with what you would call well-born women. They are
delightful creatures, some of them, in given circumstances. But do
you think I ever dreamt of taking a wife drenched with social
prejudices?'

Peak's face expressed annoyance, and he said nothing.

'A man's wife,' pursued Earwaker, 'may be his superior in
whatever you like,
except
social position. That is precisely
the distinction that no woman can forget or forgive. On that
account they are the obstructive element in social history. If I
loved a woman of rank above my own she would make me a renegade;
for her sake I should deny my faith. I should write for the
St.
James's Gazette
, and at last poison myself in an agony of
shame.'

A burst of laughter cleared the air for a moment, but for a
moment only. Peak's countenance clouded over again, and at length
he said in a lower tone:

'There are men whose character would defy that rule.'

'Yes—to their own disaster. But I ought to have made one
exception. There is a case in which a woman will marry without much
regard to her husband's origin. Let him be a parson, and he may aim
as high as he chooses.'

Peak tried to smile. He made no answer, and fell into a fit of
brooding.

'What's all this about?' asked the journalist, when he too had
mused awhile. 'Whose acquaintance have you been making?'

'No one's.'

The suspicion was inevitable.

'If it were true, perhaps you would be justified in mistrusting
my way of regarding these things. But it's the natural tendency of
my mind. If I ever marry at all, it will be a woman of far higher
birth than my own.'

'Don't malign your parents, old fellow. They gave you a brain
inferior to that of few men. You will never meet a woman of higher
birth.'

'That's a friendly sophism. I can't thank you for it, because it
has a bitter side.'

But the compliment had excited Peak, and after a moment's delay
he exclaimed:

'I have no other ambition in life—no other! Think the confession
as ridiculous as you like; my one supreme desire is to marry a
perfectly refined woman. Put it in the correct terms: I am a
plebeian, and I aim at marrying a lady.'

The last words were flung out defiantly. He quivered as he
spoke, and his face flushed.

'I can't wish you success,' returned his friend, with a grave
smile.

'You couldn't help it sounding like a sneer, if you did. The
desire is hopeless, of course. It's because I know that, that I
have made up my mind to travel for a year or two; it'll help me on
towards the age when I shall regard all women with indifference. We
won't talk about it any more.'

'One question. You seriously believe that you could find
satisfaction in the life to which such a marriage would condemn
you?'

'What life?' asked Peak, impatiently.

'That of an average gentleman, let us say, with house in town
and country, with friends whose ruling motive was social
propriety.'

'I could enjoy the good and throw aside the distasteful.'

'What about the distastefulness of your wife's crass
conventionalism, especially in religion?'

'It would not be
crass
, to begin with. If her religion
were genuine, I could tolerate it well enough; if it were merely a
form, I could train her to my own opinions. Society is growing
liberal—the best of it. Please remember that I have in mind a woman
of the highest type our civilisation can produce.'

'Then you mustn't look for her in society!' cried Earwaker.

'I don't care; where you will, so long as she had always lived
among people of breeding and high education, and never had her
thoughts soiled with the vile contact of poverty.'

Earwaker started up and reached a volume from a shelf. Quickly
finding the desired page, he began to read aloud:

'Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim—I know
you both, Have recognised your plighted troth, Am sponsor for you;
live in peace!'—

He read to the end of the poem, and then looked up with an
admiring smile.

'An ideal!' exclaimed Peak. 'An ideal akin to Murger's and
Musset's grisettes, who never existed.'

'An ideal, most decidedly. But pray what is this consummate lady
you have in mind? An ideal every bit as much, and of the two I
prefer Browning's. For my own part, I am a polygamist; my wives
live in literature, and too far asunder to be able to quarrel.
Impossible women, but exquisite. They shall suffice to me.'

Peak rose, sauntered about the room for a minute or two, then
said:

'I have just got a title for my paper. I shall call it "The New
Sophistry."'

'Do very well, I should think,' replied the other, smiling.
'Will you let me see it when it's done?'

'Who knows if I shall finish it? Nothing I ever undertook has
been finished yet—nothing won that I ever aimed at. Good night. Let
me hear about Malkin.'

In a week's time Godwin received another summons to Staple Inn,
with promise of Malkin's assured presence. In reply he wrote:

'Owing to a new arrangement at Bates's, I start tomorrow for my
holiday in Cornwall, so cannot see you for a few weeks. Please
offer Malkin my apologies; make them (I mean it) as profuse as
those he telegraphed. Herewith I send you my paper, "The New
Sophistry", which I have written at a few vehement sittings, and
have carelessly copied. If you think it worth while, will you have
the kindness to send it for me to
The Critical
? I haven't
signed it, as my unmeaning name would perhaps indispose the fellow
to see much good in it. I should thank you if you would write in
your own person, saying that you act for a friend; you are probably
well known in those quarters. If it is accepted, time enough to
claim my glory. If it seems to you to have no chance, keep it till
I return, as I hate the humiliation of refusals.—Don't think I made
an ass of myself the other night. We will never speak on that
subject again. All I said was horribly sincere, but I'm afraid you
can't understand that side of my nature. I should never have spoken
so frankly to Moxey, though he has made no secret with me of his
own weaknesses. If I perish before long in a South American swamp,
you will be able to reflect on my personality with completer
knowledge, so I don't regret the indiscretion.'

'
Pereunt et imputantur
.'

Godwin Peak read the motto beneath the clock in Exeter
Cathedral, and believed it of Christian origin. Had he known that
the words were found in Martial, his rebellious spirit would have
enjoyed the consecration of a phrase from such an unlikely author.
Even as he must have laughed had he stood in the Vatican before the
figures of those two Greek dramatists who, for ages, were revered
as Christian saints.

His ignorance preserved him from a clash of sentiments. This
afternoon he was not disposed to cynicism; rather he welcomed the
softening influence of this noble interior, and let the golden
sunlight form what shapes it would—heavenly beam, mystic
aureole—before his mind's eye. Architecture had no special interest
for him, and the history of church or faith could seldom touch his
emotions; but the glorious handiwork of men long dead, the solemn
stillness of an ancient sanctuary, made that appeal to him which is
independent of names.

'
Pereunt et imputantur
.'

He sat down where the soft, slow ticking of the clock could
guide his thoughts. This morning he had left London by the earliest
train, and after a night in Exeter would travel westward by
leisurely stages, seeing as much as possible of the coast and of
that inland scenery which had geological significance. His costume
declared him bent on holiday, but, at the same time, distinguished
him with delicate emphasis from the tourist of the season.
Trustworthy sartorial skill had done its best for his person.
Sitting thus, he had the air of a gentleman who enjoys no unwonted
ease. He could forget himself in reverie, and be unaware of soft
footfalls that drew near along the aisle.

But the sound of a young voice, subdued yet very clear, made
claim upon his attention.

'Sidwell!—Sidwell!'

She who spoke was behind him; on looking up, he saw that a lady
just in front had stopped and turned to the summons; smiling, she
retraced her steps. He moved, so as to look discreetly in the
backward direction, and observed a group of four persons, who were
occupied with a tablet on the wall: a young man (not long out of
boyhood), a girl who might be a year or two younger, and two
ladies, of whom it could only be said that they were mature in the
beauty of youth, probably of maidenhood—one of them, she who had
been called back by the name of 'Sidwell'.

Surely an uncommon name. From a guide-book, with which he had
amused himself in the train, he knew that one of the churches of
Exeter was dedicated to St. Sidwell, but only now did his
recollection apprise him of a long past acquaintance with the name
of the saint. Had not Buckland Warricombe a sister called Sidwell?
And—did he only surmise a connection between the Warricombes and
Devon? No, no; on that remote day, when he went out with Buckland
to the house near Kingsmill, Mr. Warricombe spoke to him of
Exeter,—mentioning that the town of his birth was Axminster, where
William Buckland, the geologist, also was born; whence the name of
his eldest son. How suddenly it all came back!

He rose and moved apart to a spot whence he might quietly
observe the strangers. 'Sidwell', once remarked, could not be
confused with the companion of her own age; she was slimmer,
shorter (if but slightly), more sedate in movement, and perhaps
better dressed—though both were admirable in that respect. Ladies,
beyond a doubt. And the young man—

At this distance it was easy to deceive oneself, but did not
that face bring something back? Now, as he smiled, it seemed to
recall Buckland Warricombe—with a difference. This might well be a
younger brother; there used to be one or two.

They were familiar with the Cathedral, and at present appeared
to take exclusive interest in certain mural monuments. For perhaps
ten minutes they lingered about the aisle, then, after a glance at
the west window, went forth. With quick step, Godwin pursued them;
he issued in time to see them entering an open carriage, which
presently drove away towards High Street.

For half an hour he walked the Cathedral Close. Not long ago, on
first coming into that quiet space, with its old houses, its smooth
lawns, its majestic trees, he had felt the charm peculiar to such
scenes—the natural delight in a form of beauty especially English.
Now, the impression was irrecoverable; he could see nothing but
those four persons, and their luxurious carriage, and the two
beautiful horses which had borne them—whither? As likely as not the
identity he had supposed for them was quite imaginary; yet it would
be easy to ascertain whether a Warricombe family dwelt at Exeter.
The forename of Buckland's father—? He never had known it. Still,
it was worth while consulting a directory.

He walked to his hotel.

Yes, the name Warricombe stood there, but it occurred more than
once. He sought counsel of the landlord. Which of these Warricombes
was a gentleman of position, with grown-up sons and daughters? To
such a description answered Martin Warricombe, Esquire, well known
in the city. His house was in the Old Tiverton Road, out beyond St
Sidwell's, two miles away; anyone in that district would serve as
guide to it.

With purpose indefinite, Godwin set forth in the direction
suggested. At little more than a saunter, he passed out of High
Street into its continuation, where he soon descried the Church of
St. Sidwell, and thence, having made inquiry, walked towards the
Old Tiverton Road. He was now quite beyond the town limits, and few
pedestrians came in sight; if he really wished to find the abode of
Martin Warricombe, he must stop the first questionable person. But
to what end this inquiry? He could not even be certain that Martin
was the man he had in mind, and even were he right in all his
conjectures, what had he to do with the Warricombes?

Ten years ago the family had received him courteously as
Buckland's fellow-student; he had spent an hour or two at their
house, and subsequently a few words had passed when they saw him on
prize-day at Whitelaw. To Buckland he had never written; he had
never since heard of him; that name was involved in the miserable
whirl of circumstances which brought his College life to a close,
and it was always his hope that Buckland thought no more of him.
Even had there been no disagreeable memories, it was surely
impossible to renew after this interval so very slight an
acquaintance. How could they receive him, save with civilly mild
astonishment?

An errand-boy came along, whistling townwards, a big basket over
his head. No harm in asking where Mr. Warricombe lived. The reply
was prompt: second house on the right hand, rather a large one, not
a quarter of a mile onward.

Here, then. The site was a good one. From this part of the
climbing road one looked over the lower valley of the Exe, saw the
whole estuary, and beyond that a horizon of blue sea. Fair, rich
land, warm under the westering sun. The house itself seemed to be
old, but after all was not very large; it stood amid laurels, and
in the garden behind rose a great yew-tree. No person was visible;
but for the wave-like murmur of neighbouring pines, scarce a sound
would have disturbed the air.

Godwin walked past, and found that the road descended into a
deep hollow, whence between high banks, covered with gorse and
bracken and many a summer flower, it led again up a hill thick
planted with firs; at the lowest point was a bridge over a
streamlet, offering on either hand a view of soft green meadows. A
spot of exquisite retirement: happy who lived here in security from
the struggle of life!