Born in Exile (54 page)

Marcella wore a singular expression; there was a moment of
silence, for Christian decidedly embarrassing, since it seemed to
be expected that he should greet the stranger.

'Don't you remember Janet?' said his sister.

'Janet?' He felt his face flush. 'You don't mean to say—? But
how you have altered! And yet, no; really, you haven't. It's only
my stupidity.' He grasped her hand, and with a feeling of genuine
pleasure, despite awkward reminiscences.

'One does alter in eleven years,' said Janet Moxey, in a very
pleasant, natural voice—a voice of habitual self-command, conveying
the idea of a highly cultivated mind, and many other agreeable
things.

'Eleven years? Yes, yes! How very glad I am to see you! And I'm
sure Marcella was. How very kind of you to call on us!'

Janet was as far as ever from looking handsome or pretty, but it
must have been a dullard who proclaimed her face unpleasing. She
had eyes of remarkable intelligence, something like Marcella's but
milder, more benevolent. Her lips were softly firm; they would not
readily part in laughter; their frequent smile meant more than that
of the woman who sets herself to be engaging.

'I am on my way home,' she said, 'from a holiday in the
South,—an enforced holiday, I'm sorry to say.'

'You have been ill?'

'Overworked a little. I am practising medicine in
Kingsmill.'

Christian did not disguise his astonishment.

'Medicine?'

'You don't remember that I always had scientific tastes?'

If it was a reproach, none could have been more gently
administered.

'Of course—of course I do! Your botany, your skeletons of birds
and cats and mice—of course! But where did you study?'

'In London. The Women's Medical School. I have been in practice
for nearly four years.'

'And have overworked yourself.—But why are we standing? Let us
sit down and talk. How is your father?'

Marcella was watching her brother closely, and with a curious
smile.

Janet remained for another hour. No reference was made to the
long rupture of intercourse between her family and these relatives.
Christian learnt that his uncle was still hale, and that Janet's
four sisters all lived, obviously unmarried. To-day he was disposed
to be almost affectionate with anyone who showed him a friendly
face: he expressed grief that his cousin must leave for Twybridge
early in the morning.

'Whenever you pass through the Midlands,' was Janet's indirect
reply, addressed to Marcella, 'try to stop at Kingsmill.'

And a few minutes after that she took her leave. There lingered
behind her that peculiar fragrance of modern womanhood, refreshing,
inspiriting, which is so entirely different from the merely
feminine perfume, however exquisite.

'What a surprising visit!' was Christian's exclamation, when he
and his sister were alone. 'How did she find us?'

'Directory, I suppose.'

'A lady doctor!' he mused.

'And a very capable one, I fancy,' said Marcella. 'We had nearly
an hour's talk before you came. But she won't be able to stand the
work. There'll be another breakdown before long.'

'Has she a large practice, then?'

'Not very large, perhaps; but she studies as well. I never
dreamt of Janet becoming so interesting a person.'

Christian had to postpone till after dinner the talk he purposed
about Mrs. Palmer. When that time came, he was no longer disposed
for sentimental confessions; it would be better to wait until he
could announce a settled project of marriage. Through the evening,
his sister recurred to the subject of Janet with curious frequency,
and on the following day her interest had suffered no diminution.
Christian had always taken for granted that she understood the
grounds of the breach between him and his uncle; without ever
unbosoming himself, he had occasionally, in his softer moments,
alluded to the awkward subject in language which he thought easy
enough to interpret. Now at length, in reply to some remark of
Marcella's, he said with significant accent:

'Janet was very friendly to me.'

'She has studied science for ten years,' was his sister's
comment.

'Yes, and can forgive a boy's absurdities.'

'Easier to forgive, certainly, than those of a man,' said
Marcella, with a curl of the lip.

Christian became silent, and went thoughtfully away.

A week later, he was again in Mrs. Palmer's drawing-room, where
again he met an assemblage of people such as seemed to profane this
sanctuary. To be sure—he said to himself—Constance could not at
once get rid of the acquaintances forced upon her by her husband;
little by little she would free herself. It was a pity that her
sister and her niece—persons anything but intelligent and
refined—should be permanent members of her household; for their
sake, no doubt, she felt constrained to welcome men and women for
whose society she herself had little taste. But when the year of
her widowhood was past——Petrarch's Laura was the mother of eleven
children; Constance had had only three, and one of these was dead.
The remaining two, Christian now learnt, lived with a governess in
a little house at Bournemouth, which Mrs. Palmer had taken for that
purpose.

'I'm going down to see them to-morrow,' she informed Christian,
'and I shall stay there over the next day. It's so quiet and
restful.'

These words kept repeating themselves to Christian's ear, as he
went home, and all through the evening. Were they not an
invitation? Down there at Bournemouth, Constance would be alone the
day after to-morrow. 'It is so quiet and restful;' that was to say,
no idle callers would break upon her retirement; she would be able
to welcome a friend, and talk reposefully with him. Surely she must
have meant that; for she spoke with a peculiar intonation—a
look——

By the second morning he had worked himself up to a persuasion
that yonder by the seaside Constance was expecting him. To miss the
opportunity would be to prove himself dull of apprehension, a
laggard in love. With trembling hands, he hurried through his
toilet and made haste downstairs to examine a railway time-table.
He found it was possible to reach Bournemouth by about two o'clock,
a very convenient hour; it would allow him to take refreshment, and
walk to the house shortly after three.

His conviction strong as ever, he came to the journey's end, and
in due course discovered the pleasant little house of which
Constance had spoken. At the door, his heart failed him; but
retreat could not now be thought of. Yes, Mrs. Palmer was at home.
The servant led him into a sitting-room on the ground floor, took
his name, and left him.

It was nearly ten minutes before Constance appeared. On her face
he read a frank surprise.

'I happened to—to be down here; couldn't resist the
temptation'——

'Delighted to see you, Mr. Moxey. But how did you know I was
here?'

He gazed at her.

'You—don't you remember? The day before yesterday—in Sussex
Square—you mentioned'——

'Oh, did I?' She laughed. 'I had quite forgotten.'

Christian sank upon his chair. He tried to convince himself that
she was playing a part; perhaps she thought that she had been
premature in revealing her wish to talk with him.

Mrs. Palmer was good-natured. This call evidently puzzled her,
but she did not stint her hospitality. When Christian asked after
the children, they were summoned; two little girls daintily
dressed, pretty, affectionate with their mother. The sight of them
tortured Christian, and he sighed deeply with relief when they left
the room. Constance appeared rather absent; her quick glance at him
signified something, but he could not determine what. In agony of
constraint, he rose as if to go.

'Oh, you will have a cup of tea with me,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'It
will be brought in a few minutes.'

Then she really wished him to stop. Was he not behaving like an
obtuse creature? Why, everything was planned to encourage him.

He talked recklessly of this and that, and got round to the
years long gone by. When the tea came, he was reviving memories of
occasions on which he and she had met as young people. Constance
laughed merrily, declared she could hardly remember.

'Oh, what a time ago!—But I was quite a child.'

'No—indeed, no! You were a young lady, and a brilliant one.'

The tea seemed to intoxicate him. He noticed again that
Constance glanced at him significantly. How good of her to allow
him this delicious afternoon!

'Mr. Moxey,' she said, after meditating a little, 'why haven't
you married? I should have thought you would have married long
ago.'

He was stricken dumb. Her jerky laugh came as a shock upon his
hearing.

'Married——?'

'What is there astonishing in the idea?'

'But—I—how can I answer you?'

The pretty, characterless face betrayed some unusual feeling.
She looked at him furtively; seemed to suppress a tendency to
laugh.

'I mustn't pry into secrets,' she simpered.

'But there is no secret!' Christian panted, laying down his
teacup for fear he should drop it. 'Whom should I—could I have
married?'

Constance also put aside her cup. She was bewildered, and just a
little abashed. With courage which came he knew not whence,
Christian bent forward and continued speaking:

'Whom could I marry after that day when I met you in the little
drawing-room at the Robinsons'?'

She stared in genuine astonishment, then was embarrassed.

'You cannot—cannot have forgotten——?'

'You surely don't mean to say, Mr. Moxey, that you have
remembered? Oh, I'm afraid I was a shocking flirt in those
days!'

'But I mean
after
your marriage—when I found you in
tears'——

'Please, please don't remind me!' she exclaimed, giggling
nervously. 'Oh how silly!—of me, I mean. To think that—but you are
making fun of me, Mr. Moxey?'

Christian rose and went to the window. He was not only shaken by
his tender emotions—something very like repugnance had begun to
affect him. If Constance were feigning, it was in very bad taste;
if she spoke with sincerity—what a woman had he worshipped! It did
not occur to him to lay the fault upon his own absurd romanticism.
After eleven years' persistence in one point of view, he could not
suddenly see the affair with the eyes of common sense.

He turned and approached her again.

'Do you not know, then,' he asked, with quiet dignity, 'that
ever since the day I speak of, I have devoted my life to the love I
then felt? All these years, have you not understood me?'

Mrs. Palmer was quite unable to grasp ideas such as these.
Neither her reading nor her experience prepared her to understand
what Christian meant. Courtship of a married woman was intelligible
enough to her; but a love that feared to soil itself, a devotion
from afar, encouraged by only the faintest hope of reward other
than the most insubstantial—of that she had as little conception as
any woman among the wealthy vulgar.

'Do you really mean, Mr. Moxey, that you—have kept unmarried for
my
sake?'

'You don't know that?' he asked, hoarsely.

'How could I? How was I to imagine such a thing? Really, was it
proper? How could you expect me, Mr. Moxey——?'

For a moment she looked offended. But her real feelings were
astonishment and amusement, not unmingled with an idle
gratification.

'I must ask you to pardon me,' said Christian, whose forehead
gleamed with moisture.

'No, don't say that. I am really so sorry! What an odd
mistake!'

'And I have hoped in vain—since you were free——?'

'Oh, you mustn't say such things! I shall never dream of
marrying again—never!'

There was a matter-of-fact vigour in the assertion which proved
that Mrs. Palmer spoke her genuine thought. The tone could not be
interpreted as devotion to her husband's memory; it meant, plainly
and simply, that she had had enough of marriage, and delighted in
her freedom.

Christian could not say another word. Disillusion was complete.
The voice, the face, were those of as unspiritual a woman as he
could easily have met with, and his life's story was that of a
fool.

He took his hat, held out his hand, with 'Good-bye, Mrs.
Palmer.' The cold politeness left her no choice but again to look
offended, and with merely a motion of the head she replied,
'Good-bye, Mr. Moxey.'

And therewith permitted him to leave the house.

On calling at Earwaker's chambers one February evening, Malkin
became aware, from the very threshold of the outer door, that the
domicile was not as he had known it. With the familiar fragrance of
Earwaker's special 'mixture' blended a suggestion of new
upholstery. The little vestibule had somehow put off its dinginess,
and an unwontedly brilliant light from the sitting-room revealed
changes of the interior which the visitor remarked with frank
astonishment.

'What the deuce! Has it happened at last? Are you going to be
married?' he cried, staring about him at unrecognised chairs,
tables, and bookcases, at whitened ceiling and pleasantly papered
walls, at pictures and ornaments which he knew not.

The journalist shook his head, and smiled contentedly.

'An idea that came to me all at once. My editorship seemed to
inspire it.'

After a year of waiting upon Providence, Earwaker had received
the offer of a substantial appointment much more to his taste than
those he had previously held. He was now literary editor of a
weekly review which made no kind of appeal to the untaught
multitude.

'I have decided to dwell here for the rest of my life,' he
added, looking round the walls. 'One must have a homestead, and
this shall be mine; here I have set up my penates. It's a portion
of space, you know; and what more can be said of Longleat or
Chatsworth? A house I shall never want, because I shall never have
a wife. And on the whole I prefer this situation to any other. I am
well within reach of everything urban that I care about, and as for
the country, that is too good to be put to common use; let it be
kept for holiday. There's an atmosphere in the old Inns that
pleases me. The new flats are insufferable. How can one live
sandwiched between a music-hall singer and a female politician? For
lodgings of any kind no sane man had ever a word of approval.
Reflecting on all these things, I have established myself in
perpetuity.'