Born in Exile (11 page)

He lived as much as possible alone, generally avoiding the
society of his relatives, save at meal times. A careless remark
(not intentionally offensive) with reference to Mr. Cusse had so
affronted Charlotte that she never spoke to him save in reply to a
question. Godwin regretted the pain he had given, but could not
bring himself to express this feeling, for a discussion would
inevitably have disclosed all his mind concerning the draper's
assistant. Oliver seemed to have forgiven his brother's reproaches,
but no longer behaved with freedom when Godwin was present. For all
this, the elder's irritation was often aroused by things he saw and
heard; and at length—on a memorable Saturday afternoon—debate
revived between them. Oliver, as his custom was, had attired
himself sprucely for a visit to acquaintances, and a silk hat of
the very newest fashion lay together with his gloves upon the
table.

'What is this thing?' inquired Godwin, with ominous calm, as he
pointed to the piece of head-gear.

'A hat, I suppose,' replied his brother.

'You mean to say you are going to wear that in the street?'

'And why not?'

Oliver, not venturing to raise his eyes, stared at the
table-cloth indignantly.

'Can't you feel,' burst from the other, 'that it's a disgrace to
buy and wear such a thing?'

'Disgrace! what's the matter with the hat? It's the fashionable
shape.'

Godwin mastered his wrath, and turned contemptuously away. But
Oliver had been touched in a sensitive place; he was eager to
defend himself.

'I can't see what you're finding fault with,' he exclaimed.
'Everybody wears this shape.'

'And isn't that quite sufficient reason why anyone who respects
himself should choose something as different as possible?
Everybody! That is to say, all the fools in the kingdom. It's bad
enough to follow when you can't help it, but to imitate asses
gratuitously is the lowest depth of degradation. Don't you know
that that is the meaning of vulgarity? How you can offer such an
excuse passes my comprehension. Have you no self? Are you made,
like this hat, on a pattern with a hundred thousand others?'

'You and I are different,' said Oliver, impatiently. 'I am
content to be like other people.'

'And I would poison myself with vermin-killer if I felt any risk
of such contentment! Like other people? Heaven forbid and forfend!
Like other people? Oh, what a noble ambition!'

The loud passionate voice summoned Mrs. Peak from an adjacent
room.

'Godwin! Godwin!' she remonstrated. 'Whatever is it? Why should
you put yourself out so?'

She was a short and slender woman, with an air of gentility,
independent of her badly made and long worn widow's dress.
Self-possession marked her manner, and the even tones in which she
spoke gave indication of a mild, perhaps an unemotional,
temperament.

Oliver began to represent his grievance.

'What harm is there, if I choose to wear a hat that's in
fashion? I pay for it out of my own'—

But he was interrupted by a loud visitor's knock at the front
door, distant only a few paces. Mrs. Peak turned with a startled
look. Godwin, dreading contact with friends of the family, strode
upstairs. When the door was opened, there appeared the smiling
countenance of Andrew Peak; he wore the costume of a traveller, and
by his side stood a boy of ten, too plainly his son.

'Well, Grace!' was his familiar greeting, as the widow drew
back. 'I told you you'd 'ev the pleasure of seem' me again before
so very long. Godwin at 'ome with you, I s'pose? Thet you, Noll?
'Ow do, my bo-oy? 'Ere's yer cousin Jowey. Shike 'ands, Jowey
bo-oy! Sorry I couldn't bring my old lady over this time, Grace;
she sends her respects, as usual. 'Ow's Charlotte? Bloomin', I
'ope?'

He had made his way into the front parlour, dragging the
youngster after him. Having deposited his handbag and umbrella on
the sofa, he seated himself in the easy-chair, and began to blow
his nose with vigour.

'Set down, Jowey; set down, bo-oy! Down't be afride of your
awnt.'

'Oi ain't afride!' cried the youth, in a tone which supported
his assertion.

Mrs. Peak trembled with annoyance and indecision. Andrew
evidently meant to stay for some time, and she could not bring
herself to treat him with plain discourtesy; but she saw that
Oliver, after shaking hands in a very strained way, had abruptly
left the room, and Godwin would be anything but willing to meet his
uncle. When the name of her elder son was again mentioned she
withdrew on the pretence of summoning him, and went up to his room.
Godwin had heard the hateful voice, and was in profound
disturbance.

'What does he say, mother?' he inquired anxiously. 'Anything
about Kingsmill?'

'Not yet. Oh, I
do
so wish we could bring this connection
to an end!'

It was the first time Mrs. Peak had uttered her sentiments so
unreservedly.

'Then, shall I see him in private,' said Godwin, 'and simply let
him know the truth?'

'I dread the thought of that, Godwin. He would very likely be
coarse and violent. I must try to show him by my manner. Oliver has
gone out, and when Charlotte comes home I'll tell her to keep out
of sight. He has brought his boy. Suppose you don't come down at
all? I might say you are too busy.'

'No, no; you shan't have to do it all alone. I'll come down with
you. I must hear what he has to say.'

They descended. As soon as his nephew appeared, Andrew sprang
up, and shouted joyfully:

'Well, Godwin, bo-oy! It's all settled! Got the bloomin' shop
from next quarter dye! "Peak's Dinin' and Refreshment Rooms!" Jowey
an' me was over there all yisterday—wasn't us, Jowey? Oh, it's
immense!'

Godwin felt the blood buzz in his ears, and a hot choking clutch
at his throat. He took his stand by the mantelpiece, and began to
turn a little glass ornament round and round. Fate had spoken. On
the instant, all his College life was far behind him, all his
uneasiness regarding the next session was dispelled, and he had no
more connection with Kingsmill.

Mrs. Peak had heard from Oliver of her brother-in-law's proposed
undertaking. She had spoken of it with anxiety to Godwin, who
merely shrugged his shoulders and avoided the topic, ashamed to
dwell on the particulars of his shame. In hearing Andrew's
announcement she had much ado to repress tears of vexation;
silently she seated herself, and looked with pained countenance
from uncle to nephew.

'Shall you make any changes in the place?' Godwin asked,
carelessly.

'Shan't I, jest! It'll take a month to refit them eatin' rooms.
I'm agoin' to do it proper—up to Dick! and I want your 'elp, my
bo-oy. You an' me 'II jest write a bit of a circular—see? to send
round to the big pots of the Collige, an' all the parents of the
young fellers as we can get the addresses of—see?'

Even amid his pangs of mortification Godwin found himself
pondering an intellectual question. Was his uncle wholly
unconscious of the misery he was causing? Had it never occurred to
him that the public proximity of an uneducated shopkeeping relative
must be unwelcome to a lad who was distinguishing himself at
Whitelaw College? Were that truly the case, then it would be unjust
to regard Andrew resentfully; destiny alone was to blame. And,
after all, the man might be so absorbed in his own interest, so
strictly confined to the views of his own class, as never to have
dreamt of the sensibilities he wounded. In fact, the shame excited
by this prospect was artificial. Godwin had already felt that it
was unworthy alike of a philosopher and of a high-minded man of the
world. The doubt as to Andrew's state of mind, and this moral
problem, had a restraining effect upon the young man's temper. A
practical person justifies himself in wrath as soon as his judgment
is at one with that of the multitude. Godwin, though his passions
were of exceptional force, must needs refine, debate with himself
points of abstract justice.

'I've been tellin' Jowey, Grace, as I 'ope he may turn out such
another as Godwin 'ere. 'E'll go to Collige, will Jowey. Godwin,
jest arst the bo-oy a question or two, will you? 'E ain't been
doin' bad at 'is school. Jest put 'im through 'is pyces, as yer may
sye. Stend up, Jowey, bo-oy.'

Godwin looked askance at his cousin, who stood with pert face,
ready for any test.

'What's the date of William the Conqueror?' he asked,
mechanically.

'Ow!' shouted the youth. 'Down't mike me larff! Zif I didn't
know thet! Tensixsixtenightysivn, of course!'

The father turned round with an expression of such sincere pride
that Godwin, for all his loathing, was obliged to smile.

'Jowey, jest sye a few verses of poitry; them as you learnt
larst. 'E's good at poitry, is Jowey.'

The boy broke into fearsome recitation:

'The silly buckits
on
the deck That 'ed so long rem'ined,
I dreamt as they was filled with jew, End when I awowk, it
r'ined.'

Half-a-dozen verses were thus massacred, and the reciter stopped
with the sudden jerk of a machine.

'Goes str'ight on, don't 'e, Grace?' cried the father,
exultantly. 'Jowey ain't no fool. Know what he towld me the other
day? Somethin' as I never knew, and shouldn't never 'ave thought of
s'long as I lived. We was talkin' about jewellery, an' Jowey, 'e
pops up all at wunst. "It's called jewellery," says 'e, "'cos it's
mostly the Jews as sell it." Now, oo'd a thought o' that? But you
see it's right as soon as you're towld, eh? Now ain't it right,
Godwin?'

'No doubt,' was the dry answer.

'It never struck me,' murmured Mrs. Peak, who took her son's
assent seriously, and felt that it was impossible to preserve an
obstinate silence.

''E ain't no fool, ain't Jowey!' cried the parent. 'Wite till 'e
gits to Collige. Godwin'll put us up to all the ins and outs.
Plenty o' time for that; 'e'll often run over an' 'ev a bit o'
dinner, and no need to talk about p'yment.'

'Do you stay in Twybridge to-night?' inquired Godwin, who had
changed in look and manner, so that he appeared all but
cheerful.

'No, we're on our w'y 'ome, is Jowey an' me. Jest thought we'd
break the journey 'ere. We shall ketch the six-fifty hup.'

'Then you will have a cup of tea with us,' said Mrs. Peak,
surprised at Godwin's transformation, but seeing that hospitality
was now unavoidable.

Charlotte presently entered the house, and, after a private
conversation with her mother, went to greet Andrew. If only to
signify her contempt for Godwin's prejudices, Charlotte would have
behaved civilly to the London uncle. In the end, Andrew took his
leave in the friendliest possible way, repeating often that he
would soon have the pleasure of entertaining Mrs. Peak and all her
family at his new dining-rooms over against Whitelaw College.

Immediately upon his uncle's departure, Godwin disappeared; Mrs.
Peak caught only a glimpse of him as he went by the parlour window.
In a short time Oliver came home, and, having learned what had
happened, joined his mother and sister in a dull, intermittent
conversation on the subject of Godwin's future difficulties.

'He won't go back to Whitelaw,' declared the lad. 'He said he
wouldn't.'

'People must be above such false shame,' was Charlotte's
opinion. 'I can't see that it will make the slightest difference in
his position or his prospects.'

Whereupon her mother's patience gave way.

'Don't talk such nonsense, Charlotte! You understand perfectly
well how serious it will be. I never knew anything so cruel.'

'I was never taught,' persisted the girl, with calm obstinacy,
'that one ought to be ashamed of one's relatives just because they
are in a humble position.'

Oliver brought the tedious discussion to an end by clamouring
for supper. The table was laid, and all were about to sit down when
Godwin presented himself. To the general astonishment, he seemed in
excellent spirits, and ate more heartily than usual. Not a word was
spoken of Uncle Andrew, until Mrs. Peak and her elder son were left
alone together; then Godwin remarked in a tone of satisfied
decision:

'Of course, this is the end of my work at Whitelaw. We must make
new plans, mother.'

'But how can we, dear? What will Lady Whitelaw say?'

'I have to think it out yet. In a day or two I shall very likely
write a letter to Lady Whitelaw. There's no need, you know, to go
talking about this in Twybridge. Just leave it to me, will
you?'

'It's not a subject I care to talk about, you may be sure. But I
do hope you won't do anything rash, Godwin.'

'Not I. To tell you the truth, I'm not at all sorry to leave. It
was a mistake that I went in for the Arts course—Greek, and Latin,
and so on, you know; I ought to have stuck to science. I shall go
back to it now. Don't be afraid. I'll make a position for myself
before long. I'll repay all you have spent on me.'

To this conclusion had he come. The process of mind was favoured
by his defeat in all the Arts subjects; in that direction he could
see only the triumphant Chilvers, a figure which disgusted him with
Greeks, Romans, and all the ways of literature. As to his future
efforts he was by no means clear, but it eased him greatly to have
cast off a burden of doubt; his theorising intellect loved the
sensation of life thrown open to new, however vague, possibilities.
At present he was convinced that Andrew Peak had done him a
service. In this there was an indication of moral cowardice, such
as commonly connects itself with intense pride of individuality. He
desired to shirk the combat with Chilvers, and welcomed as an
excuse for doing so the shame which another temper would have
stubbornly defied.

Now he would abandon his B.A. examination,—a clear saving of
money. Presently it might suit him to take the B.Sc. instead; time
enough to think of that. Had he but pursued the Science course from
the first, who at Whitelaw could have come out ahead of him? He had
wasted a couple of years which might have been most profitably
applied: by this time he might have been ready to obtain a position
as demonstrator in some laboratory, on his way perhaps to a
professorship. How had he thus been led astray? Not only had his
boyish instincts moved strongly towards science, but was not the
tendency of the age in the same direction? Buckland Warricombe, who
habitually declaimed against classical study, was perfectly right;
the world had learned all it could from those hoary teachers, and
must now turn to Nature. On every hand, the future was with
students of the laws of matter. Often, it was true, he had been
tempted by the thought of a literary career; he had written in
verse and prose, but with small success. An attempt to compose the
Prize Poem was soon abandoned in discouragement; the essay he sent
in had not been mentioned. These honours had fallen to Earwaker,
with whom it was not easy to compete on such ground. No, he was not
born a man of letters. But in science, granted fair opportunity, he
might make a name. He might, and he would!