Born in Exile (3 page)

The ceremony, as is usual with all ceremonies, grew wearisome
before its end. Buckland was deep in one of the chapters of his
geologic prize when the last speaker closed the last report and
left the assembly free to disperse. Then followed the season of
congratulations: Professors, students, and the friendly public
mingled in a
conversazione
. A nucleus of vivacious
intercourse formed at the spot where young Mr. Chilvers stood amid
trophies of examinational prowess. When his numerous relatives had
all shaken hands with him, and laughed, smiled, or smirked their
felicitations, they made way for the press of eager acquaintances.
His prize library was reverently surveyed, and many were the
sportive sallies elicited by the victor's obvious inability to
carry away what he had won. Suavely exultant, ready with his reply
to every flattering address, Bruno Chilvers exhibited a social tact
in advance of his years: it was easy to imagine what he would
become when Oxford terms and the seal of ordination had matured his
youthful promise.

At no great distance stood his competitor, Godwin Peak
embarrassed, he also, with wealth of spoils; but about this young
man was no concourse of admiring kinsfolk. No lady offered him her
hand or shaped compliments for him with gracious lips. Half-a-dozen
fellow-students, among them John Earwaker, talked in his vicinity
of the day's results. Peak's part in the gossip was small, and when
he smiled it was in a forced, anxious way, with brief raising of
his eyes. For a moment only was the notice of a wider circle
directed upon him when Dr Nares, moving past with a train of
colloquial attendants, turned aside to repeat his praise of the
young man's achievements in Philosophy: he bestowed a kindly shake
of the hand, and moved on.

The Warricombe group descended, in purposeless fashion, towards
the spot where Chilvers held his court. Their personal acquaintance
with Bruno and his family was slight, and though Mrs. Warricombe
would gladly have pushed forward to claim recognition, natural
diffidence restrained her. Sidwell kept in the rear, risking now
and then a glance of vivid curiosity on either hand. Buckland,
striving not to look petulant or sullen, allowed himself to be led
on; but when he became aware of the tendency Bruno-wards, a protest
broke from him.

'There's no need to swell that fellow's conceit. Here, father,
come and have a word with Peak; he looks rather down in the mouth
among his second prizes.'

Mr. Warricombe having beckoned his companions, they reluctantly
followed to the more open part of the hall.

'It's very generous of Buckland,' fell from the lady's lips, and
she at length resolved to show an equal magnanimity. Peak and
Earwaker were conversing together when Buckland broke in upon them
with genial outburst.

'Confound it, Peak! what do you mean by getting me stuck into a
bracket?'

'I had the same question to as
you
,' returned the other,
with a grim smile.

Mr. Warricombe came up with extended hand.

'A species of bracket,' he remarked, smiling benevolently,
'which no algebraic process will remove. Let us hope it signifies
that you and Buckland will work through life shoulder to shoulder
in the field of geology. What did Professor Gale give you?'

Before he could reply, Peak had to exchange greetings with Mrs
Warricombe and her daughter. Only once hitherto had he met them.
Six months ago he had gone out with Buckland to the country-house
and passed an afternoon there, making at the time no very
favourable impression on his hostess. He was not of the young men
who easily insinuate themselves into ladies' affections: his
exterior was against him, and he seemed too conscious of his
disadvantages in that particular. Mrs. Warricombe found it
difficult to shape a few civil phrases for the acceptance of the
saturnine student. Sidwell, repelled and in a measure alarmed by
his bilious countenance, could do no more than grant him her
delicately gloved fingers. Peak, for his part, had nothing to say.
He did not even affect an interest in these persons, and turned his
eyes to follow the withdrawing Earwaker. Mr. Warricombe, however,
had found topic for discourse in the prize volume; he began to
comment on the excellence of certain sections of the book.

'Do you go home?' interrupted Buckland, addressing the question
to his rival. 'Or do you stay in Kingsmill until the First
B.A.?'

'I shall go home,' replied Peak, moving uneasily.

'Perhaps we may have the pleasure of seeing you at Thornhaw when
you are up again for the examination?' said Mrs. Warricombe, with
faltering tongue.

'I'm afraid I shan't be able to come, thank you,' was the
awkward response.

Buckland's voice came to the relief.

'I daresay I may look in upon you at your torture. Good luck,
old fellow! If we don't see each other again, write to me at
Trinity before the end of the year.'

As soon as she was sufficiently remote, Mrs. Warricombe
ejaculated in a subdued voice of irritation:

'Such a very unprepossessing young man I never met! He seems to
have no breeding whatever.'

'Overweighted with brains,' replied her husband; adding to
himself, 'and by no means so with money, I fear.'

Opportunity at length offering, Mrs. Warricombe stepped into the
circle irradiated by Bruno Chilvers; her husband and Sidwell
pressed after. Buckland, with an exclamation of disgust, went off
to criticise the hero among a group of his particular friends.

Godwin Peak stood alone. On the bench where he had sat were
heaped the prize volumes (eleven in all, some of them massive), and
his wish was to make arrangements for their removal. Gazing about
him, he became aware of the College librarian, with whom he was on
friendly terms.

'Mr. Poppleton, who would pack and send these books away for
me?'

'An
embarras de richesse
!' laughed the librarian. 'If you
like to tell the porter to take care of them for the present, I
shall be glad to see that they are sent wherever you like.'

Peak answered with a warmth of acknowledgment which seemed to
imply that he did not often receive kindnesses. Before long he was
free to leave the College, and at the exit he overtook Earwaker,
who carried a brown paper parcel.

'Come and have some tea with me across the way, will you?' said
the literary prizeman. 'I have a couple of hours to wait for my
train.'

'All right. I envy you that five-volume Spenser.'

'I wish they had given me five authors I don't possess instead.
I think I shall sell this.'

Earwaker laughed as he said it—a strange chuckle from deep down
in his throat. A comparison of the young men, as they walked side
by side, showed that Peak was of better physical type than his
comrade. Earwaker had a slight, unshapely body and an ill-fitting
head; he walked with excessive strides and swung his thin arm
nervously. Probably he was the elder of the two, and he looked
twenty. For Peak's disadvantages of person, his studious
bashfulness and poverty of attire were mainly responsible. With
improvement in general health even his features might have a
tolerable comeliness, or at all events would not be disagreeable.
Earwaker's visage was homely, and seemed the more so for his
sprouting moustache and beard.

'Have you heard any talk about Walsh?' the latter inquired, as
they walked on.

Peak shrugged his shoulders, with a laugh.

'No. Have you?'

'Some women in front of me just now were-evidently discussing
him. I heard "How shocking!" and "Disgraceful!"'

Peak's eyes flashed, and he exclaimed in a voice of wrath:

'Besotted idiots! How I wish I were in Walsh's position! How I
should enjoy standing up before the crowd of fools and seeing their
fear of me! But I couldn't keep it to myself; I should give in to
the temptation to call them blockheads and jackasses.'

Earwaker was amused at his friend's vehemence. He sympathised
with it, but had an unyouthful sobriety in the expression of his
feelings.

'Most likely he despises them far too much to be disturbed by
what they think of him. But, I say, isn't it desperately comical
that one human being can hate and revile another because they think
differently about the origin of the universe? Couldn't you roar
with laughter when you've thought over it for a moment? "You be
damned for your theory of irregular verbs!" is nothing to it.' And
he uttered his croak of mirth, whilst Peak, with distorted
features, laughed in rage and scorn.

They had crossed the open space in front of the College
buildings, and were issuing into the highway, when a voice very
unlike those that were wont to sound within the academic precincts
(or indeed in the streets of Kingsmill) made sudden demand upon
Peak's attention.

'Thet you, Godwin? Thoughts I, it must be 'im! 'Ow goes it, my
bo-oy? You 'ardly reckonise me, I dessay, and I couldn't be sure as
it was you till I'd 'ed a good squint at yer. I've jest called
round at your lodgin's, and they towld me as you was at the
Collige.'

He who thus accosted the student, with the most offensive purity
of Cockney accent, was a man of five-and-forty, dressed in a new
suit of ready-made tweeds, the folding crease strongly marked down
the front of the trousers and the coat sleeves rather too long. His
face bore a strong impress of vulgarity, but at the same time had a
certain ingenuousness, a self-absorbed energy and simplicity, which
saved it from being wholly repellent; the brow was narrow, the eyes
small and bright, and the coarse lips half hid themselves under a
struggling reddish growth. In these lineaments lurked a family
resemblance to Godwin Peak, sufficient to support a claim of
kindred which at this moment might have seemed improbable. At the
summons of recognition Godwin stood transfixed; his arms fell
straight, and his head drew back as if to avoid a blow. For an
instant he was clay colour, then a hot flush broke upon his
cheeks.

'I shan't be able to go with you,' he said, in a thick, abrupt
voice, addressing Earwaker but not regarding him. 'Good-bye!'

The other offered his hand and, without speaking, walked
away.

'Prize-dye at the Collige, they tell me,' pursued Godwin's
relative, looking at a cluster of people that passed. 'What 'ave
you took?'

'One or two class-prizes,' replied the student, his eyes on the
ground. 'Shall we walk to my lodgings?'

'I thought you might like to walk me over the show. But pr'aps
you're in a 'urry?'

'No, no. But there's nothing particular to see. I think the
lecture-rooms are closed by now.'

'Oo's the gent as stands there?—the figger, I mean.'

'Sir Job Whitelaw, founder of the College.'

'Job, eh? And was you a-goin' 'ome to yer tea, Godwin?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then, look 'ere, 'spose we go to the little shop
opposyte—nice little plyce it looks. I could do a cup o' tea
myself, and we can 'ev a quite confab. It's a long time since we'ed
a talk together. I come over from Twybridge this mornin'; slep'
there last night, and saw yer mother an' Oliver. They couldn't give
me a bed, but that didn't mike no matter; I put up at the Norfolk
Harms—five-an-six for bed an' breakfast. Come along, my bo-oy; I
stand treat.'

Godwin glanced about him. From the College was approaching what
seemed to be a formal procession; it consisted of Bruno Chilvers,
supported on either hand by ladies and followed by an admiring
train.

'You had better come to my lodgings with me, uncle,' said the
young man hurriedly, moving forward.

'No, no; I won't be no expense to you, Godwin, bo-oy. And I 'ave
a reason for wantin' to go to the little shop opposyte.'

Already several collegians had passed, giving Peak a nod and
scanning his companion; a moment's delay and Chilvers would be upon
him. Without another word, Godwin moved across the broad street to
the place of refreshment which his uncle had indicated, and whither
Earwaker had preceded them. It was a pastry-cook's, occasionally
visited by the alumni of Whitelaw. In the rear of the shop a little
room offered seats and tables, and here, Godwin knew, Earwaker
would be found.

'Let us go up-stairs,' he said, leading to a side entrance.
'There's a quieter room.'

'Right you are!'

The uncle—his name was Andrew Peak—paused to make a survey of
the premises. When he entered, his scrutiny of the establishment
was close, and he seemed to reflect with interest upon all he saw.
The upper room was empty; a long table exhibited knives and forks,
but there were no signs of active business. Andrew pulled a
bell-rope; the summons was answered by an asthmatic woman, who
received an order for tea, toast, 'watercreases', and sundry other
constituents of a modest meal.

'Come 'ere often, Godwin?' inquired Andrew, as he stood by the
window and mused.

'Now and then, for a bun.'

'Much custom from your show over the wye?'

'Not so much as a better place would have.'

'Young gents don't live at the Collige, they tell me?'

'No, there's no residence.'

'So naturally they want a plyce where they can 'ev a nibble,
somewheres 'andy?'

'Yes. We have to go further into the town for a decent
dinner.'

'Jest what I thought!' exclaimed Andrew, slapping his leg. 'With
a establishment like that opposyte, there'd ought to be a
medium-sized Spiers & Pond at this 'ere street corner for any
man as knows 'is wye about. That's
my
idea, Godwin—see?'

Peak had as yet given but half an ear to his relative's
discourse; he had answered mechanically, and only now was
constrained to serious attention by a note of meaning in the last
interrogative. He looked at the speaker; and Andrew, in the manner
of one accustomed to regard life as a game of cunning, first winked
with each eye, then extended one cheek with the pressure of his
tongue. Sickened with disgust, Godwin turned suddenly away,—a
movement entirely lost upon his uncle, who imagined the young man
to be pondering a fruitful suggestion.