Born in Exile Page 19

  'I don't see the necessity,' Peak replied, still in an impassive tone. 'We may very well be guided by circumstances as they arise. To be sure, there's a principle in that, but I take it you mean something different.'

  'Yes I do. I hold that the will must direct circumstances, not receive its impulse from them. How, then, are we to be guided? What do you set before yourself?'

  'To get through life with as much satisfaction and as little pain as possible.'

  'You are a hedonist, then. Well and good! Then that is your conscious principle'—

  'No, it isn't.'

  'How am I to understand you?'

  'By recognising that a man's intellectual and moral principles as likely as not tend to anything but his happiness.'

  'I can't admit it!' exclaimed Malkin, leaping from his chair. 'What is happiness?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Earwaker, what is happiness? What is happiness?'

  'I really don't know,' answered the journalist, mirthfully.

  'This is trifling with a grave question. We all know perfectly well that happiness is the conscious exertion of individual powers. Why is there so much suffering under our present social system? Because the majority of men are crushed to a dead level of mechanical toil, with no opportunity of developing their special faculties. Give a man scope, and happiness is put within his reach.'

  'What do you mean by scope?' inquired Godwin.

  'Scope? Scope? Why, room to expand. The vice of our society is hypocrisy; it comes of over-crowding. When a man isn't allowed to be himself, he takes refuge in a mean imitation of those other men who appear to be better off. That was what sent me off to South America. I got into politics, and found that I was in danger of growing dishonest, of compromising, and toadying. In the wilderness, I found myself again.—Do you seriously believe that happiness can be obtained by ignoring one's convictions?'

  He addressed the question to both, snuffing the air with head thrown back.

  'What if you have no convictions?' asked Peak.

  'Then you are incapable of happiness in any worthy sense! You may graze, but you will never feast.'

  The listeners joined in laughter, and Malkin, after a moment's hesitation, allowed his face to relax in good-humoured sympathy.

  'Now look here!' he cried. 'You—Earwaker; suppose you sent conscience to the devil, and set yourself to please Runcorn by increasing the circulation of your paper by whatever means. You would flourish, undoubtedly. In a short time you would be chief editor, and your pockets would burst with money. But what about your peace of mind? What about happiness?'

  'Why, I'm disposed to agree with Peak,' answered the journalist. 'If I could take that line, I should be a happier man than conscientiousness will ever make me.'

  Malkin swelled with indignation.

  'You don't mean it! You are turning a grave argument into jest!—Where's my hat? Where the devil is my hat? Send for me again when you are disposed to talk seriously.'

  He strode towards the door, but Earwaker arrested him with a shout.

  'You're leaving your pipe!'

  'So I am. Where is it?—Did I tell you where I bought this pipe?'

  'No. What's the wood?'

  On the instant Malkin fell into a cheerful vein of reminiscence. In five minutes he was giving a rapturous description of tropical scenes, laughing joyously as he addressed now one now the other of his companions.

  'I hear you have a mind to see those countries, Mr. Peak,' he said at length. 'If you care for a travelling companion—rather short-tempered, but you'll pardon that—pray give me the preference. I should enjoy above all things to travel with a man of science.'

  'It's very doubtful whether I shall ever get so far,' Godwin replied, musingly.

  And, as he spoke, he rose to take leave. Earwaker's protest that it was not yet ten o'clock did not influence him.

  'I want to reflect on the meaning of happiness,' he said, extending his hand to Malkin; and, in spite of the smile, his face had a sombre cast.

  The two who were left of course discussed him.

  'You won't care much for Peak,' said Earwaker. 'He and I suit each other, because there's a good deal of indifferentism in both of us. Moral earnestness always goes against the grain with him; I've noticed it frequently.'

  'I'm sorry I spoke so dogmatically. It wasn't altogether good manners. Suppose I write him a short letter, just expressing my regret for having been led away'—

  'Needless, needless,' laughed the journalist. 'He thinks all the better of you for your zeal. But happiness is a sore point with him; few men, I should think, have known less of it. I can't imagine any circumstances which would make him thoroughly at peace with himself and the world.'

  'Poor fellow! You can see something of that in his face. Why doesn't he get married?'

  'A remarkable suggestion!—By the way, why don't you?'.

  'My dear boy, there's nothing I wish more, but it's a business of such fearful precariousness. I'm one of those men whom marriage will either make or ruin. You know my characteristics; the slightest check upon my independence, and all's up with me. The woman I marry must be perfectly reasonable, perfectly good-tempered; she must have excellent education, and every delicacy of breeding. Where am I to find this paragon?'

  'Society is open to you.'

  'True, but I am not open to society. I don't take kindly to the people of my own class. No, I tell you what—my only chance of getting a suitable wife is to train some very young girl for the purpose. Don't misunderstand me, for heaven's sake! I mean that I must make a friendship with some schoolgirl in whose education I can have a voice, whose relatives will permit me to influence her mind and develop her character. What do you think of this idea?'

  'Not bad, but it demands patience.'

  'And who more patient than I? But let us talk of that poor Mrs. Jacox and her girls. You feel that you know them pretty well from my letters, don't you? Nothing more monstrous can be imagined than the treatment to which this poor woman has been subjected! I couldn't have believed that such dishonesty and brutality were possible in English families of decent position. Her husband deserted her, her brother robbed her, her sister-in-law libelled her,—the whole story is nauseating!'

  'You're quite sure that she tells you the truth?'

  Malkin glared with sudden resentment.

  'The truth? What! you also desire to calumniate her? For shame, Earwaker! A poor widow toiling to support herself in a foreign country, with two children dependent on her.'

  'Yes, yes, yes; but you seem to know very little of her.'

  'I know her perfectly, and all her circumstances!'

  Mrs. Jacox was the mother of the two girls whom Malkin had escorted to Rouen, after an hour or so of all but casual acquaintance. She and her history had come in a very slight degree under the notice of certain good-natured people with whom Malkin was on friendly terms, and hearing that the children, Bella and Lily, aged fourteen and twelve respectively, were about to undertake alone a journey to the Continent, the erratic hero felt it incumbent upon him to see them safe at their mother's side. Instead of returning forthwith, he lingered in Normandy for several weeks, striking off at length, on the summons of a friend, to Orleans, whence he was only to-day returned. Two or three letters had kept Earwaker informed of his movements. Of Mrs. Jacox he wrote as he now spoke, with compassionate respect, and the girls, according to him, were exquisite models of budding maidenhood.

  'You haven't told me,' said Earwaker, calmly fronting the indignant outburst, 'what her circumstances are—at present.'

  'She assists an English lady in the management of a boardinghouse,' Malkin replied, with an air which forbade trivial comment. 'Bella and Lily will of course continue their studies. I daresay I shall run over now and then to see them.'

  'May I, without offence, inquire if either of these young ladies seems suitable for the ideal training of which you spoke?'

  Malkin smiled thoughtfully. He stood with his legs apart and
stroked his blond beard.

  'The surmise is not unnatural. Well, I confess that Bella has inspired me with no little interest. She is rather mature, unfortunately; I wish she had been Lily's age. We shall see; we shall see.'

  Musing, he refilled his pipe, and gossip was prolonged till something after one o'clock. Malkin was never known to retire willingly from an evening's congenial talk until the small hours were in progress.

  Peak, on reaching home about eleven, was surprised to see a light in his sitting-room window. As he entered, his landlady informed him that Mr. Moxey had been waiting upstairs for an hour or two. Christian was reading. He laid down the book and rose languidly. His face was flushed, and he spoke with a laugh which suggested that a fit of despondency (as occasionally happened) had tempted him to excess in cordials. Godwin understood these signs. He knew that his friend's intellect was rather brightened than impaired by such stimulus, and he affected not to be conscious of any peculiarity.

  'As you wouldn't come to me,' Christian began, 'I had no choice but to come to you. My visit isn't unwelcome, I hope?'

  'Certainly not. But how are you going to get home? You know the time?'

  'Don't trouble. I shan't go to bed to-night. Let me sit here and read, will you? If I feel tired I can lie down on the sofa. What a delightful book this is! I must get it.'

  It was a history of the Italian Renaissance, recently published.

  'Where does this phrase come from?' he continued, pointing to a scrap of paper, used as a book-mark, on which Godwin had pencilled a note. The words were: 'Foris ut moris, intus ut libet.'

  'It's mentioned there,' Peak replied, 'as the motto of those humanists who outwardly conformed to the common faith.'

  'I see. All very well when the Inquisition was flourishing, but sounds ignoble nowadays.'

  'Do you think so? In a half-civilised age, whether the sixteenth or the nineteenth century, a wise man may do worse than adopt it.'

  'Better be honest, surely?'

  Peak stood for a moment as if in doubt, then exclaimed irritably:

  'Honest? Honest? Who is or can be honest? Who truly declares himself? When a man has learnt that truth is indeterminable, how is it more moral to go about crying that you don't believe a certain dogma than to concede that the dogma may possibly be true? This new morality of the agnostics is mere paltry conceit. Why must I make solemn declaration that I don't believe in absolute knowledge? I might as well be called upon to inform all my acquaintances how I stand with regard to the theories of chemical affinity. One's philosophy has nothing to do with the business of life. If I chose to become a Church of England clergyman, what moral objection could be made?'

  This illustration was so amusing to Moxey, that his surprise at what preceded gave way to laughter.

  'I wonder,' he exclaimed, 'that you never seriously thought of a profession for which you are so evidently cut out.'

  Godwin kept silence; his face had darkened, and he seated himself with sullen weariness.

  'Tell me what you've been doing,' resumed Moxey. 'Why haven't I heard from you?'

  'I should have come in a day or two. I thought you were probably out of town.'

  'Her husband is ill,' said the other, by way of reply. He leaned forward with his arms upon the table, and gazed at Godwin with eyes of peculiar brightness.

  'Ill, is he?' returned Godwin, with slow interest. 'In the same way as before?'

  'Yes, but much worse.'

  Christian paused; and when he again spoke it was hurriedly, confusedly.

  'How can I help getting excited about it? How can I behave decently? You're the only man I ever speak to on the subject, and no doubt I both weary and disgust you; but I must speak to some one. My nerves are strung beyond endurance; it's only by speaking that I can ease myself from the intolerable strain.'

  'Have you seen her lately?'

  'Yesterday, for a moment, in the street. It's ten months since the last meeting.'

  'Well,' remarked Godwin, abruptly, 'it's probable the man will die one of these days, then your trials will have a happy end. I see no harm in hoping that his life may be short—that's a conventional feeling. If two people can be benefited by the death of a single person, why shouldn't we be glad in the prospect of his dying? Not of his suffering—that's quite another thing. But die he must; and to curtail the life of a being who at length wholly ceases to exist is no injury. You can't injure a nonentity. Do you think I should take it ill if I knew that some persons were wishing my death? Why, look, if ever I crush a little green fly that crawls upon me in the fields, at once I am filled with envy of its fate—sincerest envy. To have passed so suddenly from being into nothingness—how blessed an extinction! To feel in that way, instinctively, in the very depths of your soul, is to be a true pessimist. If I had ever doubted my sincerity in pessimism, this experience, several times repeated, would have reassured me.'

  Christian covered his face, and brooded for a long time, whilst Godwin sat with his eyes on vacancy.

  'Come and see us to-morrow,' said the former, at length.

  'Perhaps.';

  'Why do you keep away?'

  'I'm in no mood for society.'

  'We'll have no one. Only Marcella and I.'

  Again a long silence.

  'Marcella is going in for comparative philology,' Christian resumed, with the gentle tone in which he invariably spoke of his sister. 'What a mind that girl has! I never knew any woman of half her powers.'

  Godwin said nothing.

  'No,' continued the other fervently, 'nor of half her goodness. I sometimes think that no mortal could come nearer to our ideal of moral justice and purity. If it were not for her, I should long ago have gone to perdition, in one way or another. It's her strength, not my own, that has saved me. I daresay you know this?'

  'There's some truth in it, I believe,' Peak answered, his eye wandering.

  'See how circumstances can affect one's judgment. If, just about the time I first knew you, I had abandoned myself to a life of sottish despair, of course I should have charged Constance with the blame of it. Now that I have struggled on, I can see that she has been a blessing to me instead of a curse. If Marcella has given me strength, I have to thank Constance for the spiritual joy which otherwise I should never have known.'

  Peak uttered a short laugh.

  'That is only saying that she might have been ruinous, but in the course of circumstances has proved helpful. I envy your power of deriving comfort from such reflections.'

  'Well, we view things differently. I have the habit of looking to the consolatory facts of life, you to the depressing. There's an unfortunate lack in you, Peak; you seem insensible to female influence, and I believe that is closely connected with your desperate pessimism.'

  Godwin laughed again, this time with mocking length of note. 'Come now, isn't it true?' urged the other. 'Sincerely, do you care for women at all?'

  'Perhaps not.'

  'A grave misfortune, depend upon it! It accounts for nearly everything that is unsatisfactory in your life. If you had ever been sincerely devoted to a woman, be assured your powers would have developed in a way of which you have no conception. It's no answer to tell me that I am still a mere trifler, never likely to do anything of account; I haven't it in me to be anything better, and I might easily have become much worse. But you might have made yourself a great position—I mean, you might do so; you are still very young. If only you knew the desire of a woman's help.'

  'You really think so?' said Godwin, with grave irony.

  'I am sure of it! There's no harm in repeating what you have often told me—your egoism oppresses you. A woman's influence takes one out of oneself. No man can be a better authority on this than I. For more than eleven years I have worshipped one woman with absolute faithfulness'——

  'Absolute?' interrupted Godwin, bluntly.

  'What exception occurs to you?'

  'As you challenge inquiry, forgive me for asking what your interest was in one of your
cousins at Twybridge?'

  Christian started, and averted his face with a look of embarrassment.

  'Do you mean to say that you knew anything about that?'

  'I was always an observer,' Peak replied, smiling. 'You don't remember, perhaps, that I happened to be present when a letter had just arrived for you at your uncle's house—a letter which evidently disturbed you?'

  'This is astonishing! Peak, you're a terrible fellow! Heaven forbid that I should ever be at your mercy! Yes, you are quite right,' he continued, despondently. 'But that was no real unfaithfulness. I don't quite know how to explain it. I did make love to poor Janet, and with the result that I have never since seen any of the family. My uncle, when he found I had drawn back, was very savage—naturally enough. Marcella and I never again went to Twybridge. I liked Janet; she was a good, kind girl. I believed just then that my love for Constance was hopeless; my mood impelled me to the conviction that the best thing I could do was to marry Janet and settle down to a peaceful domestic life. Then came that letter—it was from Constance herself. It meant nothing, yet it was enough to revive all my hopes. I rushed off—! How brutally I had behaved! Poor little Janet!'

  He let his face fall upon his hands.

  'Allow me an indiscreet question,' said Peak, after a silence. 'Have you any founded hope of marrying Constance if she becomes a widow?'

  Christian started and looked up with wide eyes.

  'Hope? Every hope! I have the absolute assurance of her love.'

  'I see.'

  'But I mustn't mislead you,' pursued the other, hurriedly. 'Our relations are absolutely pure. I have only allowed myself to see her at very long intervals. Why shouldn't I tell you? It was less than a year after her marriage; I found her alone in a room in a friend's house; her eyes were red with weeping. I couldn't help holding my hand to her. She took it, and held it for a moment, and looked at me steadily, and whispered my name—that was all. I knew then that she repented of her marriage—who can say what led her into it? I was poor, you know; perhaps—but in spite of all, she did love me. There has never since been anything like a scene of emotion between us—that her conscience couldn't allow. She is a noble-minded woman, and has done her duty. But if she is free'—