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Born In Exile

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This etext was produced by Charles Aldarondo (Aldarondo@yahoo.com).




George Gissing

Born in Exile



Part I



CHAPTER I


The summer day in 1874 which closed the annual session of Whitelaw
College was marked by a special ceremony, preceding the wonted
distribution of academic rewards. At eleven in the morning (just as
a heavy shower fell from the smoke-canopy above the roaring streets)
the municipal authorities, educational dignitaries, and prominent
burgesses of Kingsmill assembled on an open space before the College
to unveil a statue of Sir Job Whitelaw. The honoured baronet had
been six months dead. Living, he opposed the desire of his
fellow-citizens to exhibit even on canvas his gnarled features and
bald crown; but when his modesty ceased to have a voice in the
matter, no time was lost in raising a memorial of the great
manufacturer, the self-made millionaire, the borough member in three
Parliaments, the enlightened and benevolent founder of an institute
which had conferred humane distinction on the money-making Midland
town. Beneath such a sky, orations were necessarily curtailed; but
Sir Job had always been impatient of much talk. An interval of two
or three hours dispersed the rain-clouds and bestowed such grace of
sunshine as Kingsmill might at this season temperately desire; then,
whilst the marble figure was getting dried,--with soot-stains
which already foretold its negritude of a year hence,--again
streamed towards the College a varied multitude, official, parental,
pupillary. The students had nothing distinctive in their garb, but
here and there flitted the cap and gown of Professor or lecturer,
signal for doffing of beavers along the line of its progress.

Among the more deliberate of the throng was a slender, upright,
ruddy-cheeked gentleman of middle age, accompanied by his wife and a
daughter of sixteen. On alighting from a carriage, they first of all
directed their steps towards the statue, conversing together with
pleasant animation. The father (Martin Warricombe, Esq. of Thornhaw,
a small estate some five miles from Kingsmill,) had a countenance
suggestive of engaging qualities--genial humour, mildness, a turn
for meditation, perhaps for study. His attire was informal, as if he
disliked abandoning the freedom of the country even when summoned to
urban ceremonies. He wore a grey felt hat, and a light jacket which
displayed the straightness of his shoulders. Mrs. Warricombe and her
daughter were more fashionably equipped, with taste which proclaimed
their social standing. Save her fresh yet delicate complexion the
lady had no particular personal charm. Of the young girl it could
only be said that she exhibited a graceful immaturity, with
perchance a little more earnestness than is common at her age; her
voice, even when she spoke gaily, was seldom audible save by the
person addressed.

Coming to a pause before Sir Job, Mr. Warricombe put on a pair of
eyeglasses which had dangled against his waistcoat, and began to
scrutinise carefully the sculptured lineaments. He was addressing
certain critical remarks to his companions when an interruption
appeared in the form of a young man whose first words announced his
relation to the group.

'I say, you're very late! There'll be no getting a decent seat, if
you don't mind. Leave Sir Job till afterwards.'

'The statue somehow disappoints me,' observed his father, placidly.

'Oh, it isn't bad, I think,' returned the youth, in a voice not
unlike his father's, save for a note of excessive self-confidence.
He looked about eighteen; his comely countenance, with its air of
robust health and habitual exhilaration, told of a boyhood passed
amid free and joyous circumstances. It was the face of a young
English plutocrat, with more of intellect than such visages are wont
to betray; the native vigour of his temperament had probably
assimilated something of the modern spirit. 'I'm glad,' he
continued, 'that they haven't stuck him in a toga, or any humbug of
that sort. The old fellow looks baggy, but so he was. They ought to
have kept his chimney-pot, though. Better than giving him those
scraps of hair, when everyone knows he was as bald as a beetle.'

'Sir Job should have been granted Caesar's privilege,' said Mr
Warricombe, with a pleasant twinkle in his eyes.

'What was that?' came from the son, with abrupt indifference.

'For shame, Buckland!'

'What do I care for Caesar's privileges? We can't burden our minds
with that antiquated rubbish nowadays. You would despise it
yourself, father, if it hadn't got packed into your head when you
were young.'

The parent raised his eyebrows in a bantering smile.

'I have lived to hear classical learning called antiquated rubbish.
Well, well!--Ha! there is Professor Gale.'

The Professor of Geology, a tall man, who strode over the pavement
as if he were among granite hills, caught sight of the party and
approached. His greeting was that of a familiar friend; he addressed
young Warricombe and his sister by their Christian names, and
inquired after certain younger members of the household. Mr
Warricombe, regarding him with a look of repressed eagerness, laid a
hand on his arm, and spoke in the subdued voice of one who has
important news to communicate.

'If I am not much mistaken, I have chanced on a new species of
~homalonotus~!'

'Indeed!--not in your kitchen garden, I presume?'

'Hardly. Dr Pollock sent me a box of specimens the other day'--

Buckland saw with annoyance the likelihood of prolonged discussion.

'I don't know whether you care to remain standing all the
afternoon,' he said to his mother. 'At this rate we certainly shan't
get seats.'

'We will walk on, Martin,' said the lady, glancing at her husband.

'We come! we come!' cried the Professor, with a wave of his arm.

The palaeontological talk continued as far as the entrance of the
assembly hall. The zest with which Mr. Warricombe spoke of his
discovery never led him to raise his voice above the suave, mellow
note, touched with humour, which expressed a modest assurance. Mr
Gale was distinguished by a blunter mode of speech; he discoursed
with open-air vigour, making use now and then of a racy
colloquialism which the other would hardly have permitted himself.

As young Warricombe had foreseen, the seats obtainable were none too
advantageous; only on one of the highest rows of the amphitheatre
could they at length establish themselves.

'Buckland will enjoy the more attention when he marches down to take
his prizes,' observed the father. 'He must sit at the end here, that
he mayn't have a struggle to get out.'

'Don't, Martin, don't!' urged his wife, considerately.

'Oh, it doesn't affect me,' said Buckland, with a laugh.

'I feel pretty sure I have got the Logic and the Chemistry, and
those are what I care most about. I dare say Peak has beaten me in
Geology.'

The appearance in the lower part of the hall of a dark-robed
procession, headed by the tall figure of the Principal, imposed a
moment's silence, broken by outbursts of welcoming applause. The
Professors of Whitelaw College were highly popular, not alone with
the members of their classes, but with all the educated inhabitants
of Kingsmill; and deservedly, for several of them bore names of wide
recognition, and as a body they did honour to the institution which
had won their services. With becoming formality they seated
themselves in face of the public. On tables before them were exposed
a considerable number of well-bound books, shortly to be distributed
among the collegians, who gazed in that direction with speculative
eyes.

Among the general concourse might have been discovered two or three
representatives of the wage-earning multitude which Kingsmill
depended upon for its prosperity, but their presence was due to
exceptional circumstances; the College provided for proletarian
education by a system of evening classes, a curriculum necessarily
quite apart from that followed by the regular students. Kingsmill,
to be sure, was no nurse of Toryism; the robust employers of labour
who sent their sons to Whitelaw--either to complete a training
deemed sufficient for an active career, or by way of
transition-stage between school and university--were for the most
part avowed Radicals, in theory scornful of privilege, practically
supporters of that mode of freedom which regards life as a
remorseless conflict. Not a few of the young men (some of these the
hardest and most successful workers) came from poor, middle-class
homes, whence, but for Sir Job's foundation, they must have set
forth into the world with no better equipment of knowledge than was
supplied by some 'academy' of the old type: a glance distinguished
such students from the well-dressed and well-fed offspring of
Kingsmill plutocracy. The note of the assembly was something other
than refinement; rather, its high standard of health, spirits, and
comfort--the characteristic of Capitalism. Decent reverence for
learning, keen appreciation of scientific power, warm liberality of
thought and sentiment within appreciable limits, enthusiasm for
economic, civic, national ideals,--such attributes were abundantly
discoverable in each serried row. From the expanse of countenances
beamed a boundless self-satisfaction. To be connected in any way
with Whitelaw formed a subject of pride, seeing that here was the
sturdy outcome of the most modern educational endeavour, a
noteworthy instance of what Englishmen can do for themselves,
unaided by bureaucratic machinery. Every student who achieved
distinction in to-day's class lists was felt to bestow a share of
his honour upon each spectator who applauded him.

With occasional adjustment of his eye-glasses, and smiling his smile
of modest tolerance, Mr. Warricombe surveyed the crowded hall. His
connection with the town was not intimate, and he could discover few
faces that were familiar to him. A native and, till of late, an
inhabitant of Devon, he had come to reside on his property near
Kingsmill because it seemed to him that the education of his
children would be favoured by a removal thither. Two of his oldest
friends held professorships at Whitelaw; here, accordingly, his
eldest son was making preparation for Cambridge, whilst his daughter
attended classes at the admirable High School, of which Kingsmill
was only less proud than of its College.

Seated between his father and his sister, Buckland drew their
attention to such persons or personages as interested his very
selective mind.

'Admire the elegant languor of Wotherspoon,' he remarked, indicating
the Professor of Greek. 'Watch him for a moment, and you'll see him
glance contemptuously at old Plummer. He can't help it; they hate
each other.'

'But why?' whispered the girl, with timid eagerness.

'Oh, it began, they say, when Plummer once had to take one of
Wotherspoon's classes; some foolery about a second aorist. Thank
goodness, I don't understand the profound dispute.--Oh, do look at
that fatuous idiot Chilvers!'

The young gentleman of whom he spoke, a student of Buckland's own
standing, had just attracted general notice. Rising from his seat in
the lower part of the amphitheatre, at the moment when all were
hushed in anticipation of the Principal's address, Mr. Chilvers was
beckoning to someone whom his eye had descried at great distance,
and for whom, as he indicated by gesture, he had preserved a place.

'See how it delights him to make an exhibition of himself!' pursued
the censorious youth. 'I'd bet a sovereign he's arranged it all.
Look how he brandishes his arm to display his cuffs and gold links.
Now he touches his hair, to point out how light and exquisite it is,
and how beautifully he parts it!'

'What a graceful figure!' murmured Mrs. Warricombe, with genuine
admiration.

'There, that's just what he hopes everyone is saying,' replied her
son, in a tone of laughing disgust.

'But he certainly is graceful, Buckland,' persisted the lady.

'And in the meantime,' remarked Mr. Warricombe, drily, 'we are all
awaiting the young gentleman's pleasure.'

'Of course; he enjoys it. Almost all the people on that row belong
to him--father, mother, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, and
cousins to the fourth degree. Look at their eyes fondly fixed upon
him! Now he pretends to loosen his collar at the throat, just for a
change of attitude--the puppy!'

'My dear!' remonstrated his mother, with apprehensive glance at her
neighbours.

'But he is really clever, isn't he, Buckland?' asked the sister, her
name was Sidwell.

'After a fashion. I shouldn't wonder if he takes a dozen or two
prizes. It's all a knack, you know.'

'Where is your friend Peak?' Mr. Warricombe made inquiry.

But at this moment Mr. Chilvers abandoned his endeavour and became
seated, allowing the Principal to rise, manuscript in hand. Buckland
leaned back with an air of resignation to boredom; his father bent
slightly forward, with lips close pressed and brows wrinkled; Mrs
Warricombe widened her eyes, as if hearing were performed with those
organs, and assumed the smile she would have worn had the speaker
been addressing her in particular. Sidwell's blue eyes imitated the
movement of her mother's, with a look of profound gravity which
showed that she had wholly forgotten herself in reverential
listening; only when five minutes' strict attention induced a sense
of weariness did she allow a glance to stray first along the
professorial rank, then towards the place where the golden head of
young Chilvers was easily distinguishable.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than the annual report summarised
by Principal Nares, whose mellifluous voice and daintily pedantic
utterance fell upon expectant hearing with the impressiveness of
personal compliment. So delivered, statistics partook of the grace
of culture; details of academic organisation acquired something more
than secular significance. In this the ninth year of its existence,
Whitelaw College was flourishing in every possible way. Private
beneficence had endowed it with new scholarships and exhibitions;
the scheme of lectures had been extended; the number of its students
steadily increased, and their successes in the field of examination
had been noteworthy beyond precedent. Truly, the heart of their
founder, to whom honour had this day been rendered, must have
gladdened if he could but have listened to the story of dignified
progress! Applause, loud and long, greeted the close of the address.
Buckland Warricombe was probably the only collegian who disdained to
manifest approval in any way.

'Why don't you clap?' asked his sister, who, girl-like, was excited
to warmth of cheek and brightness of eye by the enthusiasm about
her.

'That kind of thing is out of date,' replied the young man,
thrusting his hands deep into his pockets.

As Professor of Logic and Moral Philosophy, Dr Nares began the
distribution of prizes. Buckland, in spite of his resolve to exhibit
no weakness, waited with unmistakable tremor for the announcement of
the leading name, which might possibly be his own. A few words of
comment prefaced the declaration:--never had it been the
Professor's lot to review more admirable papers than those to which
he had awarded the first prize. The name of the student called upon
to come forward was--Godwin Peak.

'Beaten!' escaped from Buckland's lips.

Mrs. Warricombe glanced at her son with smiling sympathy; Sidwell,
whose cheek had paled as her nerves quivered under the stress of
expectancy, murmured a syllable of disappointment; Mr. Warricombe set
his brows and did not venture to look aside. A moment, and all eyes
were directed upon the successful student, who rose from a seat
half-way down the hall and descended the middle passage towards the
row of Professors. He was a young man of spare figure and unhealthy
complexion, his age not easily conjectured. Embarrassment no doubt
accounted for much of the awkwardness of his demeanour; but, under
any circumstances, he must have appeared ungainly, for his long arms
and legs had outgrown their garments, which were no fashionable
specimens of tailoring. The nervous gravity of his countenance had a
peculiar sternness; one might have imagined that he was fortifying
his self-control with scorn of the elegantly clad people through
whom he passed. Amid plaudits, he received from the hands of the
Principal a couple of solid volumes, probably some standard work of
philosophy, and, thus burdened, returned with hurried step to his
place.

'No one expected that,' remarked Buckland to his father. 'He must
have crammed furiously for the exam. It's outside his work for the
First B.A.'

'What a shame!' Sidwell whispered to her mother; and the reply was a
look which eloquently expressed Mrs. Warricombe's lack of sympathy
with the victor.

But a second prize had been awarded. As soon as silence was
restored, the Principal's gracious voice delivered a summons to
'Buckland Martin Warricombe.' A burst of acclamation, coming
especially from that part of the amphitheatre where Whitelaw's
nurslings had gathered in greatest numbers, seemed to declare the
second prizeman distinctly more popular than the first. Preferences
of this kind are always to be remarked on such occasions.

'Second prize be hanged!' growled the young man, as, with a flush of
shame on his ruddy countenance, he set forth to receive the honour,
leaving Mr. Warricombe convulsed with silent laughter.

'He would far rather have had nothing at all,' murmured Sidwell, who
shared her brother's pique and humiliation.

'Oh, it'll do him good,' was her father's reply. 'Buckland has got
into a way of swaggering.'

Undeniable was the swagger with which the good-looking, breezy lad
went and returned.

'What is the book?' inquired Mr. Warricombe.

'I don't know.--Oh, Mill's ~Logic~. Idiotic choice! They might
have known I had it already.'

'They clap him far more than they did Mr. Peak,' Sidwell whispered to
her mother, with satisfaction.

Buckland kept silence for a few minutes, then muttered:

'There's nothing I care about now till Chemistry and Geology. Here
comes old Wotherspoon. Now we shall know who is strongest in second
aorists. I shouldn't wonder if Peak takes both Senior Greek and
Latin. I heartily hope he'll beat that ass Chilvers.'

But the name so offensive to young Warricombe was the first that
issued from the Professor's lips. Beginning with the competition for
a special classical prize, Professor Wotherspoon announced that the
honours had fallen to 'Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers.'

'That young man is not badly supplied with brains, say what you
will,' remarked Mr. Warricombe.

Upon Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers keen attention was directed; every
pair of female eyes studied his graces, and female hands had a great
part in the applause that greeted his arising. Applause different in
kind from that hitherto bestowed; less noisy, but implying, one
felt, a more delicate spirit of commendation. With perfect
self-command, with singular facial decorum, with a walk which
betokened elegant athleticism and safely skirted the bounds of
foppery, Mr. Chilvers discharged the duty he was conscious of owing
to a multitude of kinsfolk, friends, admirers. You would have
detected something clerical in the young man's air. It became the
son of a popular clergyman, and gave promise of notable aptitude for
the sacred career to which Bruno Leathwaite, as was well understood,
already had designed himself. In matters sartorial he presented a
high ideal to his fellow-students; this seemly attention to
externals, and the delicate glow of health discernible through the
golden down of his cheeks, testified the compatibility of hard study
and social observances. Bruno had been heard to say that the one
thing it behoved Whitelaw to keep carefully in mind was the
preservation of 'tone', a quality far less easy to cultivate than
mere academic excellence.

'How clever he must be!' purred Mrs. Warricombe. 'If he lives, he
will some day be an archbishop.'

Buckland was leaning back with his eyes closed, disgusted at the
spectacle. Nor did he move when Professor Wotherspoon's voice made
the next announcement.

'In Senior Greek, the first prize is taken by--Bruno Leathwaite
Chilvers.'

'Then I suppose Peak comes second,' muttered Buckland.

So it proved. Summoned to receive the inferior prize, Godwin Peak,
his countenance harsher than before, his eyes cast down, moved
ungracefully to the estrade. And during the next half-hour this
twofold exhibition was several times repeated. In Senior Latin, in
Modern and Ancient History, in English Language and Literature, in
French, first sounded the name of Chilvers, whilst to the second
award was invariably attached that of Peak. Mrs. Warricombe's delight
expressed itself in every permissible way: on each occasion she
exclaimed, 'How clever he is!' Sidwell cast frequent glances at her
brother, in whom a shrewder eye could have divined conflict of
feelings--disgust at the glorification of Chilvers and involuntary
pleasure in the successive defeats of his own conqueror in
Philosophy. Buckland's was by no means an ignoble face; venial
malice did not ultimately prevail in him.

'It's Peak's own fault,' he declared at length, with vexation.
'Chilvers stuck to the subjects of his course. Peak has been taking
up half-a-dozen extras, and they've done for him. I shouldn't wonder
if he went in for the Poem and the Essay: I know he was thinking
about both.'

Whether Godwin Peak had or had not endeavoured for these two prizes
remained uncertain. When, presently, the results of the competition
were made known, it was found that in each case the honour had
fallen to a young man hitherto undistinguished. His name was John
Edward Earwaker. Externally he bore a sort of generic resemblance to
Peak, for his face was thin and the fashion of his clothing
indicated narrow means.

'I never heard you mention him,' said Mr. Warricombe, turning to his
son with an air of surprise.

'I scarcely know him at all; he's only in one or two of my classes.
Peak is thick with him.'

The subject of the prize poem was 'Alaric'; that of the essay,
'Trades Unionism'. So it was probable that John Edward Earwaker did
not lack versatility of intellect.

On the rising of the Professor of Chemistry, Buckland had once more
to subdue signs of expectancy. He knew he had done good papers, but
his confidence in the result was now clouded by a dread of the
second prize--which indeed fell to him, the first being taken by a
student of no account save in this very special subject. Keen was
his mortification; he growled, muttered, shrugged his shoulders
nervously.

'If I had foreseen this, you'd never have caught me here,' was his
reply, when Sidwell whispered consolation.

There still remained a chance for him, signalled by the familiar
form of Professor Gale. Geology had been a lifelong study with
Martin Warricombe, and his son pursued it with hereditary aptitude.
Sidwell and her mother exchanged a look of courageous hope; each
felt convinced that the genial Professor could not so far disregard
private feeling as to place Buckland anywhere but at the head of the
class.

'The results of the examination are fairly good; I'm afraid I can't
say more than that,' thus rang out Mr. Gale's hearty voice. 'As for
the first two names on my list, I haven't felt justified in placing
either before the other. I have bracketed them, and there will be
two prizes. The names are--Godwin Peak and Buckland Martin
Warricombe.'

'He might have mentioned Buckland first,' murmured Mrs. Warricombe,
resentfully.

'He of course gave them out in alphabetical order,' answered her
husband.

'Still, it isn't right that Buckland should come second.'

'That's absurd,' was the good-natured reply.

The lady of course remained unconvinced, and for years she nourished
a pique against Professor Gale, not so much owing to his having
bracketed her son as because the letter P has alphabetical
precedence of W.

In what remained of the proceedings the Warricombes had no personal
interest. For a special reason, however, their attention was excited
by the rising of Professor Walsh, who represented the science of
Physics. Early in the present year had been published a speculative
treatise which, owing to its supposed incompatibility with Christian
dogmas, provoked much controversy and was largely discussed in all
educated circles. The work was anonymous, but a rumour which gained
general currency attributed it to Professor Walsh. In the year 1874
an imputation of religious heresy was not lightly to be incurred by
a Professor--even Professor of Physics--at an English college.
There were many people in Kingsmill who considered that Mr. Walsh's
delay in repudiating so grave a charge rendered very doubtful the
propriety of his retaining the chair at Whitelaw. Significant was
the dispersed applause which followed slowly upon his stepping
forward to-day; on the Professor's face was perchance legible
something like a hint of amused defiance. Ladies had ceased to beam;
they glanced meaningly at one another, and then from under their
eyelids at the supposed heretic.

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