Born In Exile(3)
Part I Chapter III
With the growth of his militant egoism， there had developed in Godwin Peak an excess of nervous sensibility which threatened to deprive his character of the initiative rightly belonging to it. Self-assertion is the practical complement of self-esteem. To be largely endowed with the latter quality， yet constrained by a coward delicacy to repress it， is to suffer martyrdom at the pleasure of every robust assailant， and in the end be driven to the refuge of a moody solitude. That encounter with his objectionable uncle after the prize distribution at Whitelaw showed how much Godwin had lost of the natural vigour which declared itself at Andrew Peak's second visit to Twybridge， when the boy certainly would not have endured his uncle's presence but for hospitable considerations and the respect due to his mother. The decision with which he then unbosomed himself to Oliver， still characterised his thoughts， but he had not courage to elude the dialogue forced upon him， still less to make known his resentment of the man's offensive vulgarity. He endured in silence， his heart afire with scornful wrath.
The affliction could not have befallen him at a time when he was less capable of supporting it resignedly. Notwithstanding his noteworthy success in two classes， it seemed to him that he had lost everything――that the day was one of signal and disgraceful defeat. In any case that sequence of second prizes must have filled him with chagrin， but to be beaten thus repeatedly by such a fellow as Bruno Chilvers was humiliation intolerable. A fopling， a mincer of effeminate English， a rote-repeater of academic catchwords――bah！ The by-examinations of the year had whispered presage， but Peak always felt that he was not putting forth his strength； when the serious trial came he would show what was really in him. Too late he recognised his error， though he tried not to admit it. The extra subjects had exacted too much of him； there was a limit to his powers. Within the College this would be well enough understood， but to explain a disagreeable fact is not to change it； his name was written in pitiful subordination. And as for the public assembly―― he would have sacrificed some years of his life to have stepped forward in facile supremacy， beneath the eyes of those clustered ladies. Instead of that， they had looked upon his shame； they had interchanged glances of amusement at each repetition of his defeat； had murmured comments in their melodious speech； had ended by losing all interest in him――as intuition apprised him was the wont of women.
As soon as he had escaped from his uncle， he relapsed into musing upon the position to which he was condemned when the new session came round. Again Chilvers would be in the same classes with him， and， as likely as not， with the same result. In the meantime， they were both 'going in' for the First B.A.； he had no fear of failure， but it might easily happen that Chilvers would achieve higher distinction. With an eye to awards that might be won――substantial cash-annuities――he was reading for Honours； but it seemed doubtful whether he could present himself， as the second examination was held only in London. Chilvers would of course be an Honours candidate. He would smile――confound him！――at an objection on the score of the necessary journey to London. Better to refrain altogether than again to see Chilvers come out ahead. General surprise would naturally be excited， questions asked on all hands. How would it sound： 'I simply couldn't afford to go up'――？
At this point of the meditation he had reached his lodgings； he admitted himself with a latch-key， turned into his murky sitting-room， and sat down.
The table was laid for tea， as usual. Though he might have gone to Twybridge this evening， he had preferred to stay overnight， for an odd reason. At a theatre in Kingsmill a London company， headed by an actress of some distinction， was to perform Romeo and Juliet， and he purposed granting himself this indulgence before leaving the town. The plan was made when his eye fell upon the advertisement， a few days ago. He then believed it probable that an evening at the theatre would appropriately follow upon a day of victory. His interest in the performance had collapsed， but he did not care to alter his arrangements.
The landlady came in bearing the tea-pot. He wanted nothing， yet could not exert himself to say so.
But he was losing sight of a menace more formidable than defeat by Chilvers. What was it his blackguard uncle had said？ Had the fellow really threatened to start an eating-house opposite the College， and flare his name upon a placard？ 'Peak's Dining and Refreshment Rooms' ――merciful heavens！
Again the mood of laughter came upon him. Why， here was a solution of all difficulties， as simple as unanticipated. If indeed that awful thing came to pass， farewell to Whitelaw！ What possibility of pursuing his studies when every class-companion， every Professor，―― nay， the very porters，――had become aware that he was nephew to the man who supplied meals over the way？ Moral philosophy had no prophylactic against an ordeal such as this. Could the most insignificant lad attending lectures afford to disregard such an occasion of ridicule and contempt？
But the scheme would not be realised； it sounded too unlikely. Andrew Peak was merely a loose-minded vagabond， who might talk of this and that project for making money， but would certainly never quit his dirty haunts in London. Godwin asked himself angrily why he had submitted to the fellow's companionship. This absurd delicacy must be corrected before it became his tyrant. The idea of scrupling to hurt the sensibilities of Andrew Peak！ The man was coarse-hided enough to undergo kicking， and then take sixpence in compensation， ――not a doubt of it. This detestable tie of kindred must no longer be recognised. He would speak gravely to his mother about it. If Andrew again presented himself at the house he should be given plainly to understand that his visits were something less than welcome，――if necessary， a downright blunt word must effect their liberation. Godwin felt strong enough for that， musing here alone. And， student-like， he passed on to debate the theory of the problem. Andrew was his father's brother， but what is a mere tie of blood if nature has alienated two persons by a subtler distinction？ By the dead man， Andrew had never been loved or esteemed； memory supplied proof of this. The widow shrank from him. No obligation of any kind lay upon them to tolerate the London ruffian.――Enough； he should be got rid of！
Alternating his causes of misery， which――he could not quite forget ――might blend for the sudden transformation of his life， Godwin let the tea grow cold upon the table， until it was time， if he still meant to visit the theatre， for setting forth. He had no mind to go， but as little to sit here and indulge harassing reflection. With an effort， he made ready and left the house.
The cost of his seat at the theatre was two shillings. So nicely had he adjusted the expenses of these last days that， after paying the landlady's bill to-morrow morning， there would remain to him but a few pence more than the money needed for his journey home. Walking into the town， he debated with himself whether it were not better to save this florin. But as he approached the pit door， the spirit of pleasure revived in him； he had seen but one of Shakespeare's plays， and he believed （naturally at his age） that to see a drama acted was necessary for its full appreciation. Sidling with affected indifference， he added himself to the crowd.
To stand thus， expectant of the opening doors， troubled him with a sense of shame. To be sure， he was in the spiritual company of Charles Lamb， and of many another man of brains who has waited under the lamp. But contact with the pittites of Kingsmill offended his instincts； he resented this appearance of inferiority to people who came at their leisure， and took seats in the better parts of the house. When a neighbour addressed him with a meaningless joke which defied grammar， he tried to grin a friendly answer， but inwardly shrank. The events of the day had increased his sensibility to such impressions. Had he triumphed over Bruno Chilvers， he could have behaved this evening with a larger humanity.
The fight for entrance――honest British stupidity， crushing ribs and rending garments in preference to seemly order of progress―― enlivened him somewhat， and sent him laughing to his conquered place； but before the curtain rose he was again depressed by the sight of a familiar figure in the stalls， a fellow-student who sat there with mother and sister， black-uniformed， looking very much a gentleman. 'I， of course， am not a gentleman，' he said to himself， gloomily. Was there any chance that he might some day take his ease in that orthodox fashion？ Inasmuch as it was conventionality， he scorned it； but the privileges which it represented had strong control of his imagination. That lady and her daughter would follow the play with intelligence. To exchange comments with them would be a keen delight. As for him――he had a shop-boy on one hand and a grocer's wife on the other.
By the end he had fallen into fatigue. Amid clamour of easily-won applause he made his way into the street， to find himself in a heavy downpour of rain. Having no umbrella， he looked about for a sheltered station， and the glare of a neighbouring public-house caught his eye； he was thirsty， and might as well refresh body and spirit with a glass of beer， an unwonted indulgence which had the pleasant semblance of dissipation. Arrived at the bar he came upon two acquaintances， who， to judge by their flushed cheeks and excited voices， had been celebrating jovially the close of their academic labours. They hailed him.
'Hollo， Peak！ Come and help us to get sober before bedtime！'
They were not exactly studious youths， but neither did they belong to the class that Godwin despised， and he had a comrade-like feeling for them. In a few minutes his demeanour was wholly changed. A glass of hot whisky acted promptly upon his nervous system， enabled him to forget vexations， and attuned him to kindred sprightliness. He entered merrily into the talk of a time of life which is independent of morality――talk distinct from that of the blackguard， but equally so from that of the reflective man. His first glass had several successors. The trio rambled arm in arm from one place of refreshment to another， and presently sat down in hearty fellowship to a supper of such viands as recommend themselves at bibulous midnight. Peak was drawing recklessly upon the few coins that remained to him； he must leave his landlady's claim undischarged， and send the money from home. Prudence be hanged！ If one cannot taste amusement once in a twelvemonth， why live at all？
He reached his lodgings， at something after one o'clock， drenched with rain， gloriously indifferent to that and all other chances of life. Pooh！ his system had been radically wrong. He should have allowed himself recreation once a week or so； he would have been all the better for it， body and mind. Books and that kind of thing are all very well in their way， but one must live； he had wasted too much of his youth in solitude. O mihi proeteritos referat si Jupiter annos！ Next session he would arrange things better. Success in examinations――what trivial fuss when one looked at it from the right point of view！ And he had fretted himself into misery， because Chilvers had got more 'marks'，――ha， ha， ha！
The morrow's waking was lugubrious enough. Headache and nausea weighed upon him. Worse still， a scrutiny of his pockets showed that he had only the shamefaced change of half-a-crown wherewith to transport himself and his belongings to Twybridge. Now， the railway fare alone was three shillings； the needful cab demanded eighteenpence. 0 idiot！
And he hated the thought of leaving his bill unpaid； the more so because it was a trifling sum， a week's settlement. To put himself under however brief an obligation to a woman such as the landlady gnawed at his pride. Not that only. He had no business to make a demand upon his mother for this additional sum. But there was no way of raising the money； no one of whom he could borrow it； nothing he could afford to sell――even if courage had supported him through such a transaction. Triple idiot！
Bread turned to bran upon his hot palate； he could only swallow cups of coffee. With trembling hands he finished the packing of his box and portmanteau， then braced himself to the dreaded interview. Of course， it involved no difficulty， the words once uttered； but， when he was left alone again， he paced the room for a few minutes in flush of mortification. It had made his headache worse.
The mode of his homeward journey he had easily arranged. His baggage having been labelled for Twybridge， he himself would book as far as his money allowed， then proceed on foot for the remaining distance. With the elevenpence now in his pocket he could purchase a ticket to a little town called Dent， and by a calculation from the railway tariff he concluded that from Dent to Twybridge was some five-and-twenty miles. Well and good. At the rate of four miles an hour it would take him from half-past eleven to about six o'clock. He could certainly reach home in time for supper.
At Dent station， ashamed to ask （like a tramp） the way to so remote a place as Twybridge， he jotted down a list of intervening railway stoppages， and thus was enabled to support the semblance of one who strolls on for his pleasure. A small handbag he was obliged to carry， and the clouded sky made his umbrella a requisite. On he trudged steadily， for the most part by muddy ways， now through a pleasant village， now in rural solitude. He had had the precaution， at breakfast time， to store some pieces of bread in his pocket， and after two or three hours this resource was welcome. Happily the air and exercise helped him to get rid of his headache. A burst of sunshine in the afternoon would have made him reasonably cheerful， but for the wretched meditations surviving from yesterday.
He pondered frequently on his spasmodic debauch， repeating， as well as memory permitted， all his absurdities of speech and action. Defiant self-justification was now far to seek. On the other hand， he perceived very clearly how easy it would be for him to lapse by degrees of weakened will into a ruinous dissoluteness. Anything of that kind would mean， of course， the abandonment of his ambitions. All he had to fight the world with was his brain； and only by incessant strenuousness in its exercise had he achieved the moderate prominence declared in yesterday's ceremony. By birth， by station， he was of no account； if he chose to sink， no influential voice would deplore his falling off or remind him of what he owed to himself. Chilvers， now――what a wide-spreading outcry， what calling upon gods and men， would be excited by any defection of that brilliant youth！ Godwin Peak must make his own career， and that he would hardly do save by efforts greater than the ordinary man can put forth. The ordinary man？――Was he in any respect extraordinary？ were his powers noteworthy？ It was the first time that he had deliberately posed this question to himself， and for answer came a rush of confident blood， pulsing through all the mechanism of his being.
The train of thought which occupied him during this long trudge was to remain fixed in his memory； in any survey of the years of pupilage this recollection would stand prominently forth， associated， moreover， with one slight incident which at the time seemed a mere interruption of his musing. From a point on the high-road he observed a small quarry， so excavated as to present an interesting section； though weary， he could not but turn aside to examine these strata. He knew enough of the geology of the county to recognise the rocks and reflect with understanding upon their position； a fragment in his hand， he sat down to rest for a moment. Then a strange fit of brooding came over him. Escaping from the influences of personality， his imagination wrought back through eras of geologic time， held him in a vision of the infinitely remote， shrivelled into insignificance all but the one fact of inconceivable duration. Often as he had lost himself in such reveries， never yet had he passed so wholly under the dominion of that awe which attends a sudden triumph of the pure intellect. When at length he rose， it was with wide， blank eyes， and limbs partly numbed. These needed half-an-hour's walking before he could recover his mood of practical self-search.
Until the last moment he could not decide whether to let his mother know how he had reached Twybridge. His arrival corresponded pretty well with that of a train by which he might have come. But when the door opened to him， and the familiar faces smiled their welcome， he felt that he must have nothing to do with paltry deceit； he told of his walk， explaining it by the simple fact that this morning he had found himself short of money. How that came to pass， no one inquired. Mrs. Peak， shocked at such martyrdom， tended him with all motherly care； for once， Godwin felt that it was good to have a home， however simple.
This amiable frame of mind was not likely to last beyond the first day. Matter of irritation soon enough offered itself， as was invariably the case at Twybridge. It was pleasant enough to be feted as the hero of the family， to pull out a Kingsmill newspaper and exhibit the full report of prize-day at Whitelaw， with his own name， in very small type， demanding the world's attention， and finally to exhibit the volumes in tree-calf which his friend the librarian had forwarded to him. But domestic circumstances soon made assault upon his nerves， and trial of his brief patience.
First of all， there came an unexpected disclosure. His sister Charlotte had affianced herself to a young man of Twybridge， one Mr Cusse， whose prospects were as slender as his present means. Mrs Peak spoke of the affair in hushed privacy， with shaking of the head and frequent sighs， for to her mind Mr. Cusse had few even personal recommendations. He was a draper's assistant. Charlotte had made his acquaintance on occasions of church festivity， and urged the fact of his zeal in Sunday-school tuition as sufficient reply to all doubts. As he listened， Godwin bit his lips.
'Does he come here， then？' was his inquiry.
'Once or twice a week. I haven't felt able to say anything against it， Godwin. I suppose it will be a very long engagement.'
Charlotte was just twenty-two， and it seemed probable that she knew her own mind； in any case， she was of a character which would only be driven to obstinacy by adverse criticism. Godwin learnt that his aunt Emily （Miss Cadman） regarded this connection with serious disapproval. Herself a shopkeeper， she might have been expected to show indulgence to a draper's assistant， but， so far from this， her view of Mr. Cusse was severely scornful. She had nourished far other hopes for Charlotte， who surely at her age （Miss Cadman looked from the eminence of five-and-forty） should have been less precipitate. No undue harshness had been exhibited by her relatives， but Charlotte took a stand which sufficiently declared her kindred with Godwin. She held her head higher than formerly， spoke with habitual decision which bordered on snappishness， and at times displayed the absentmindedness of one who in silence suffers wrong.
There passed but a day or two before Godwin was brought face to face with Mr. Cusse， who answered too well to the idea Charlotte's brother had formed of him. He had a very smooth and shiny forehead， crowned by sleek chestnut hair； his chin was deferential； the bend of his body signified a modest hope that he did his duty in the station to which Providence had summoned him. Godwin he sought to flatter with looks of admiring interest； also， by entering upon a conversation which was meant to prove that he did not altogether lack worldly knowledge， of however little moment that might be in comparison with spiritual concerns. Examining， volume by volume and with painful minuteness， the prizes Godwin had carried off， he remarked fervently， in each instance， 'I can see how very interesting that is！ So thorough， so thorough！' Even Charlotte was at length annoyed， when Mr. Cusse had exclaimed upon the 'thoroughness' of Ben Jonson's works； she asked an abrupt question about some town affair， and so gave her brother an opportunity of taking the books away. There was no flagrant offence in the man. He spoke with passable accent， and manifested a high degree of amiability； but one could not dissociate him from the counter. At the thought that his sister might become Mrs. Cusse， Godwin ground his teeth. Now that he came to reflect on the subject， he found in himself a sort of unreasoned supposition that Charlotte would always remain single； it seemed so unlikely that she would be sought by a man of liberal standing， and at the same time so impossible for her to accept any one less than a gentleman. Yet he remembered that to outsiders such fastidiousness must show in a ridiculous light. What claim to gentility had they， the Peaks？ Was it not all a figment of his own self-conceit？ Even in education Charlotte could barely assert a superiority to Mr. Cusse， for her formal schooling had ended when she was twelve， and she had never cared to read beyond the strait track clerical inspiration.
There were other circumstances which helped to depress his estimate of the family dignity. His brother Oliver， now seventeen， was developing into a type of young man as objectionable as it is easily recognised. The slow， compliant boy had grown more flesh and muscle than once seemed likely， and his wits had begun to display that kind of vivaciousness which is only compatible with a nature moulded in common clay. He saw much company， and all of low intellectual order； he had purchased a bicycle， and regarded it as a source of distinction， a means of displaying himself before shopkeepers' daughters； he believed himself a modest tenor， and sang verses of sentimental imbecility； he took in several weekly papers of unpromising title， for the chief purpose of deciphering cryptograms， in which pursuit he had singular success. Add to these characteristics a penchant for cheap jewellery， and Oliver Peak stands confessed.
It appeared to Godwin that his brother had leapt in a few months to these heights of vulgar accomplishment； each separate revelation struck unexpectedly upon his nerves and severely tried his temper. When at length Oliver， waiting for supper， began to dance grotesquely to an air which local talent had somehow caught from the London music-halls， Godwin's self-control gave way.
'Is it your ambition，' he asked， with fiery sarcasm， 'to join a troupe of nigger minstrels？'
Oliver was startled into the military posture of attention. He answered， with some embarrassment：
'I can't say it is.'
'Yet anyone would suppose so，' went on Godwin， hotly. 'Though you are employed in a shop， I should have thought you might still aim at behaving like a gentleman.'
Indisposed to quarrel， and possessed of small skill in verbal fence， Oliver drew aside with shadowed brow. As the brothers still had to share one bedroom， they were presently alone together， and their muteness， as they lay down to sleep， showed the estrangement that had at length come between them. When all had been dark and still for half-an-hour， Godwin spoke.
'Are you awake？'
'Yes.'
'There was something about Uncle Andrew. I didn't mention. He talks of opening an eating-house just opposite Whitelaw.'
'Oh.'
The tone of this signified nothing more than curiosity.
'You don't see any reason why he shouldn't？'
Oliver delayed a little before replying.
'I suppose it wouldn't be very nice for you.'
'That's rather a mild way of putting it. It would mean that I should have to leave the College， and give up all my hopes.'
'I see，' returned the other， with slow apprehension.
There followed several minutes of silence. Then Godwin sat up in bed， as had always been his wont when he talked with earnestness at night.
'If you think I lost my temper without cause at suppertime， just remember that I had that blackguard before my mind， and that it isn't very pleasant to see you taking after that branch of our family.'
'Do you mean to say I am like uncle？'
'I mean to say that， if you are not careful， you won't be the kind of man I should like to see you. Do you know what is meant by inherited tendencies？ Scientific men are giving a great deal of attention to such things nowadays. Children don't always take after their parents； very often they show a much stronger likeness to a grandfather， or an uncle， or even more distant relatives. Just think over this， and make up your mind to resist any danger of that sort. I tell you plainly that the habits you are getting into， and the people you make friends of， are detestable. For heaven's sake， spend more of your time in a rational way， and learn to despise the things that shopkeepers admire. Read！ Force yourself to stick hard at solid books for two or three hours every day. If you don't， it's all up with you. I am speaking for your own good. Read， read， read！'
Quietness ensued. Then Oliver began to move uneasily in his bed， and at length his protest became audible.
'I can't see what harm I do.'
'No！' burst from his brother's lips， scornfully. 'And that's just your danger. Do you suppose I could sing nigger songs， and run about the town with shopboys， and waste hours over idiotic puzzles？'
'We're not all alike， and it wouldn't do for us to be.'
'It would do very well for us all to have brains and to use them. The life you lead is a brainless life， brainless and vulgar.'
'Well， if I haven't got brains， I can't help it，' replied Oliver， with sullen resignation.
'You have enough to teach you to live respectably， if only you look to the right kind of example.'
There followed a vehement exhortation， now angry， now in strain of natural kindliness. To this Oliver made only a few brief and muttered replies； when it was all over， he fell asleep. But Godwin was wakeful for hours.
The next morning he attempted to work for his approaching examination， but with small result. It had begun to be very doubtful to him whether he should 'go up' at all， and this uncertainty involved so great a change in all his prospects that he could not command the mental calm necessary for study. After dinner he went out with unsettled purpose. He would gladly have conversed with Mr Gunnery， but the old people were just now on a stay with relatives in Bedfordshire， and their return might be delayed for another week. Perhaps it behoved him to go and see Mr. Moxey， but he was indisposed to visit the works， and if he went to the house this evening he would encounter the five daughters， who， like all women who did not inspire him with admiration， excited his bashful dislike. At length he struck off into the country and indulged restless thoughts in places where no one could observe him.
A result of the family's removal first from London to the farm， and then into Twybridge， was that Godwin had no friends of old standing. At Greenwich， Nicholas Peak formed no intimacies， nor did a single associate remain to him from the years of his growth and struggle； his wife， until the renewal of intercourse with her sister at Twybridge， had no society whatever beyond her home. A boy reaps advantage from the half parental kindness of men and women who have watched his growth from infancy； in general it affects him as a steadying influence， keeping before his mind the social bonds to which his behaviour owes allegiance. The only person whom Godwin regarded with feeling akin to this was Mr. Gunnery， but the geologist found no favour with Mrs. Peak， and thus he involuntarily helped to widen the gap between the young man and his relatives. Nor had the intimacies of school time supplied Godwin with friendships for the years to come； his Twybridge class-fellows no longer interested him， nor did they care to continue his acquaintance. One was articled to a solicitor； one was learning the drug-trade in his father's shop； another had begun to deal in corn； the rest were scattered about England， as students or salary-earners. The dominion of the commonplace had absorbed them， all and sundry； they were the stuff which destiny uses for its every-day purposes， to keep the world a-rolling.
So that Godwin had no ties which bound him strongly to any district. He could not call himself a Londoner； for， though born in Westminster， he had grown to consciousness on the outskirts of Greenwich， and remembered but dimly some of the London streets， and a few places of public interest to which his father had taken him. Yet， as a matter of course， it was to London that his ambition pointed， when he forecast the future. Where else could he hope for opportunity of notable advancement？ At Twybridge？ Impossible to find more than means of subsistence； his soul loathed such a prospect. At Kingsmill？ There was a slender hope that he might establish a connection with Whitelaw College， if he devoted himself to laboratory work； but what could come of that――at all events for many years？ London， then？ The only acceptable plan for supporting himself there was to succeed in a Civil Service competition. That， indeed， seemed the most hopeful direction for his efforts； a government office might afford him scope， and， he had heard， would allow him abundant leisure.
Or to go abroad？ To enter for the Indian clerkships， and possibly cleave a wider way than could be hoped in England？ There was allurement in the suggestion； travel had always tempted his fancy. In that case he would be safely severed from the humble origin which in his native country might long be an annoyance， or even an obstacle； no Uncle Andrew could spring up at inconvenient moments in the middle of his path. Yes； this indeed might be best of all. He must send for papers， and give attention to the matter.
Musing in this way， he had come within sight of the familiar chemical works. It was near the hour at which Mr. Moxey was about to go home for his afternoon dinner； why not interrupt his walk， and have a word with him？ That duty would be over.
He pushed on， and， as he approached the buildings， was aware of Mr Moxey stepping into the road， unaccompanied. Greetings speedily followed. The manufacturer， who was growing stout in his mellow years and looking more leisurely than when Godwin first knew him， beamed with smiles of approbation.
'Glad to see you； glad to see you！ I have heard of your doings at College.'
'Nothing to boast of， Mr. Moxey.'
'Why， what would satisfy you？ A nephew of mine was there last Friday， and tells me you carried off half a hundredweight of prizes. Here he comes， I see.'
There drew near a young man of about four-and-twenty， well-dressed， sauntering with a cane in his hand. His name was Christian Moxey.
'Much pleasure in meeting you， Mr. Peak，' he said， with a winning smile. 'I was at Whitelaw the other day， when you distinguished yourself， and if I had known then that you were an acquaintance of my uncle's I should have been tempted to offer a word of congratulation. Very glad indeed to meet you.'
Godwin， grateful as always for the show of kindness and flattered by such a reception， at once felt a liking for Christian Moxey. Most people would have admitted the young man's attractiveness. He had a thin and sallow face， and seemed to be of weak constitution. In talking he leant upon his cane， and his movements were languid； none the less， his person was distinguished by an air of graceful manhood. His features， separately considered， were ordinary enough； together they made a countenance of peculiar charm， vividly illumined， full of appeal to whosoever could appreciate emotional capabilities. The interest he excited in Peak appeared to be reciprocal， for his eyes dwelt as often and as long as possible on Godwin's features.
'Come along， and have something to eat with us，' said Mr. Moxey， in a tone of genial invitation. 'I daresay you had dinner long enough ago to have picked up a new appetite.'
Godwin had a perturbing vision of the five Miss Moxeys and of a dinner table， such as he was not used to sit at； he wished to decline， yet knew not how to do so with civility.
'Yes， yes； come along！' added his friend， heartily. 'Tell us something about your chemistry paper. Any posers this time？ My nephew won't be out of it； he belongs to the firm of Bates Brothers ――the Rotherhithe people， you know.'
This information was a surprise to Godwin. He had imagined Christian Moxey either a gentleman at large， or at all events connected with some liberal profession. Glancing at the attractive face， he met a singular look， a smile which suggested vague doubts. But Christian made no remark， and Mr. Moxey renewed his inquiries about the examination in chemistry.
The five daughters――all assembled in a homely sitting-room――were nothing less than formidable. Plain， soft-spoken， not ill educated， they seemed to live in perfect harmony， and to derive satisfaction from pursuits independent of external society. In the town they were seldom seen； few families called upon them； and only the most inveterate gossips found matter for small-talk in their retired lives. It had never been heard that any one of them was sought in marriage. Godwin， superfluously troubled about his attire， met them with grim endeavour at politeness； their gravity， a result of shyness， he misinterpreted， supposing them to hold aloof from a young man who had been in their father's employ. But before he could suffer much from the necessity of formal conversation the door opened to admit yet another young lady， a perfect stranger to him. Her age was about seventeen， but she had nothing of the sprightly grace proverbially connected with that time of life in girls； her pale and freckled visage expressed a haughty reserve， intensified as soon as her eye fell upon the visitor. She had a slight but well-proportioned figure， and a mass of auburn hair carelessly arranged.
'My sister，' said Christian， glancing at Godwin. 'Marcella， you recognise Mr. Peak.'
'Oh yes，' the girl replied， as she came forward， and made a sudden offer of her hand.
She too had been present the other day at Whitelaw. Her 'Oh yes' sounded offensive to Godwin， yet in shaking hands with her he felt a warm pressure， and it flattered him when he became aware that Marcella regarded him from time to time with furtive interest. Presently he learnt that Christian and his sister were on a short visit at the house of their relatives； their home was in London. Marcella had seated herself stiffly by a window， and seemed to pay more attention to the view without than to the talk which went on， until dinner was announced.
Speculating on all he saw， Godwin noticed that Christian Moxey showed a marked preference for the youngest of his cousins， a girl of eighteen， whose plain features were frequently brightened with a happy and very pleasant smile. When he addressed her （by the name of Janet） his voice had a playful kindness which must have been significant to everyone who heard it. At dinner， his place was by her side， and he attended to her with more than courtesy. This astonished Peak. He deemed it incredible that any man should conceive a tender feeling for a girl so far from beautiful. Constantly occupied with thought of sexual attachments， he had never imagined anything of the kind apart from loveliness of feature in the chosen object； his instincts were， in fact， revolted by the idea of love for such a person as Janet Moxey. Christian seemed to be degraded by such a suggestion. In his endeavour to solve the mystery， Godwin grew half unconscious of the other people about him.
Such play of the imaginative and speculative faculties accounts for the common awkwardness of intelligent young men in society that is strange to them. Only the cultivation of a double consciousness puts them finally at ease. Impossible to converse with suavity， and to heed the forms of ordinary good-breeding， when the brain is absorbed in all manner of new problems： one must learn to act a part， to control the facial mechanism， to observe and anticipate， even whilst the intellect is spending its sincere energy on subjects unavowed. The perfectly graceful man will always be he who has no strong apprehension either of his own personality or of that of others， who lives on the surface of things， who can be interested without emotion， and surprised without contemplative impulse. Never yet had Godwin Peak uttered a word that was worth listening to， or made a remark that declared his mental powers， save in most familiar colloquy. He was beginning to understand the various reasons of his seeming clownishness， but this very process of self-study opposed an obstacle to improvement.
When he found himself obliged to take part in conversation about Whitelaw College， Godwin was disturbed by an uncertainty which had never left his mind at rest during the past two years；――was it， or was it not， generally known to his Twybridge acquaintances that he studied as the pensioner of Sir Job Whitelaw？ To outward seeming all delicacy had been exercised in the bestowal of Sir Job's benefaction. At the beginning of each academic session Mrs. Peak had privately received a cheque which represented the exact outlay in fees for the course her son was pursuing； payment was then made to the registrar as if from Peak himself. But Lady Whitelaw's sisters were in the secret， and was it likely that they maintained absolute discretion in talking with their Twybridge friends？ There seemed， in the first instance， to be a tacit understanding that the whole affair should remain strictly private， and to Godwin himself， sensible enough of such refinements， it was by no means inconceivable that silence had been strictly preserved. He found no difficulty in imagining that Sir Job's right hand knew nothing of what the left performed， and it might be that the authorities of Whitelaw had no hint of his peculiar position. Still， he was perchance mistaken. The Professors perhaps regarded him as a sort of charity-boy， and Twybridge possibly saw him in the same light. The doubt flashed upon his mind while he was trying to eat and converse with becoming self-possession. He dug his heel into the carpet and silently cursed the burden of his servitude.
When the meal was over， Mr. Moxey led the way out into the garden. Christian walked apart with Janet： Godwin strolled about between his host and the eldest Miss Moxey， talking of he knew not what. In a short half-hour he screwed up his courage to the point of leave-taking. Marcella and three of her cousins had disappeared， so that the awkwardness of departure was reduced. Christian， who seemed to be in a very contented mood， accompanied the guest as far as the garden gate.
'What will be your special line of work when you leave Whitelaw？' he inquired. 'Your tastes seem about equally divided between science and literature.'
'I haven't the least idea what I shall do，' was Peak's reply.
'Very much my own state of mind when I came home from Zurich a year ago. But it had been taken for granted that I was preparing for business， so into business I went.' He laughed good-humouredly. 'Perhaps you will be drawn to London？'
'Yes――I think it likely，' Godwin answered， with an absent glance this way and that.
'In any case，' pursued the other， 'you'll be there presently for First B.A. Honours. Try to look in at my rooms， will you？ I should be delighted to see you. Most of my day is spent in the romantic locality of Rotherhithe， but I get home about five o'clock， as a rule. Let me give you a card.'
'Thank you.'
'I daresay we shall meet somewhere about here before then. Of course you are reading hard， and haven't much leisure. I'm an idle dog， unfortunately. I should like to work， but I don't quite know what at. I suppose this is a transition time with me.'
Godwin tried to discover the implication of this remark. Had it any reference to Miss Janet Moxey？ Whilst he stood in embarrassed silence， Christian looked about with a peculiar smile， and seemed on the point of indulging in further self-revelation； but Godwin of a sudden held out his hand for good-bye， and with friendly smiles they parted.
Peak was older than his years， and he saw in Christian one who might prove a very congenial associate， did but circumstances favour their intercourse. That was not very likely to happen， but the meeting at all events turned his thoughts to London once more.
His attempts to 'read' were still unfruitful. For one thing， the stress and excitement of the Whitelaw examinations had wearied him； it was characteristic of the educational system in which he had become involved that studious effort should be called for immediately after that frenzy of college competition. He ought now to have been 'sweating' at his London subjects. Instead of that， he procured works of general literature from a Twybridge library， and shut himself up with them in the garret bedroom.
A letter from Mr. Gunnery informed him that the writer would be home in a day or two. This return took place late one evening， and on the morrow Godwin set forth to visit his friend. On reaching the house， he learnt that Mr. Gunnery had suffered an accident which threatened serious results. Walking barefoot in his bedroom the night before， he had stepped upon the point of a large nail， and was now prostrate， enduring much pain. Two days elapsed before Godwin could be admitted； he then found the old man a mere shadow of his familiar self――bloodless， hollow-eyed.
'This is the kind of practical joke that Fate likes to play upon us！' the sufferer growled in a harsh， quaking voice， his countenance divided between genial welcome and surly wrath. 'It'll be the end of me. Pooh！ who doesn't know that such a thing is fatal at my age？ Blood-poisoning has fairly begun. I'd a good deal rather have broken my neck among honest lumps of old red sandstone. A nail！ A damned Brummagem nail！――So you collared the first prize in geology， eh？ I take that as a kindness， Godwin. You've got a bit beyond Figuier and his Deluge， eh？ His Deluge， bah！'
And he laughed discordantly. On the other side of the bed sat Mrs Gunnery， grizzled and feeble dame. Shaken into the last stage of senility by this alarm， she wiped tears from her flaccid cheeks， and moaned a few unintelligible words.
The geologist's forecast of doom was speedily justified. Another day bereft him of consciousness， and when， for a short while， he had rambled among memories of his youth， the end came. It was found that he had made a will， bequeathing his collections and scientific instruments to Godwin Peak： his books were to be sold for the benefit of the widow， who would enjoy an annuity purchased out of her husband's savings. The poor old woman， as it proved， had little need of income； on the thirteenth day after Mr. Gunnery's funeral， she too was borne forth from the house， and the faithful couple slept together.
To inherit from the dead was an impressive experience to Godwin. At the present stage of his development， every circumstance affecting him started his mind upon the quest of reasons， symbolisms， principles； the 'natural supernatural' had hold upon him， and ruled his thought whenever it was free from the spur of arrogant instinct. This tendency had been strengthened by the influence of his friend Earwaker， a young man of singularly complex personality， positive and analytic in a far higher degree than Peak， yet with a vein of imaginative vigour which seemed to befit quite a different order of mind. Godwin was not distinguished by originality in thinking， but his strongly featured character converted to uses of his own the intellectual suggestions he so rapidly caught from others. Earwaker's habit of reflection had much to do with the strange feelings awakened in Godwin when he transferred to his mother's house the cabinets which had been Mr. Gunnery's pride for thirty or forty years. Joy of possession was subdued in him by the conflict of metaphysical questionings.
Days went on， and nothing was heard of Uncle Andrew. Godwin tried to assure himself that he had been needlessly terrified； the eating-house project would never be carried out. Practically dismissing that anxiety， he brooded over his defeat by Chilvers， and thought with extreme reluctance of the year still to be spent at Whitelaw， probably a year of humiliation. In the meantime， should he or should he not present himself for his First B.A.？ The five pound fee would be a most serious demand upon his mother's resources， and did the profit warrant it， was it really of importance to him to take a degree？
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.
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