Born in Exile (13 page)

'No—but'—

'But me no buts!' he cried, laughing excitedly. 'The thing is
settled. As soon as possible in the morning I post this letter. I
feel it will be successful. See aunt to-morrow, and get her
support. Mind that Charlotte and Oliver don't talk to people. If
you all use discretion, there's no need for any curiosity to be
excited.'

When Godwin had taken a resolve, there was no domestic influence
strong enough to prevent his acting upon it. Mrs. Peak's ignorance
of the world, her mild passivity, and the faith she had in her
son's intellectual resources, made her useless as a counsellor, and
from no one else—now that Mr. Gunnery was dead—would the young man
have dreamt of seeking guidance. Whatever Lady Whitelaw's reply, he
had made up his mind to go to London. Should his subsidy be
refused, then he would live on what his mother could allow him
until—probably with the aid of Christian Moxey—he might obtain a
salaried position. The letter was despatched, and with feverish
impatience he awaited a reply.

Nine days passed, and he heard nothing. Half that delay sufficed
to bring out all the self-tormenting capacities of a nature such as
his. To his mother's conjectural explanations he could lend no ear.
Doubtless Lady Whitelaw (against whom, for subtle reasons, he was
already prejudiced) had taken offence; either she would not reply
at all, or presently there would come a few lines of polite
displeasure, intimating her disinclination to aid his project. He
silently raged against 'the woman'. Her neglect was insolence. Had
she not delicacy enough to divine the anxiety natural to one in his
dependent position? Did she take him for an every-day writer of
mendicant appeals? His pride fed upon the outrage and became
fierce.

Then arrived a small glossy envelope, containing a tiny sheet of
very thick note-paper, whereon it was written that Lady Whitelaw
regretted her tardiness in replying to him (caused by her absence
from home), and hoped he would be able to call upon her, at ten
o'clock next morning, at the house of her sisters, the Misses Lumb,
where she was stopping for a day—she remained his sincerely.

Having duly contorted this note into all manner of painful
meanings, Godwin occupied an hour in making himself presentable
(scornful that he should deem such trouble necessary), and with
furiously beating heart set out to walk through Twybridge. Arrived
at the house, he was led by a servant into the front room on the
ground floor, where Lady Whitelaw, alone, sat reading a newspaper.
Her features were of a very common order, and nothing distinguished
her from middle-aged women of average refinement; she had chubby
hands, rather broad shoulders, and no visible waist. The scrutiny
she bestowed upon her visitor was close. To Godwin's feelings it
too much resembled that with which she would have received an
applicant for the post of footman. Yet her smile was friendly
enough, and no lack of civility appeared in the repetition of her
excuses for having replied so late.

'Let us talk about this,' she began, when Godwin was uneasily
seated. (She spoke with an excess of precision, as though it had at
one time been needful for her to premeditate polished phrases.) 'I
am very sorry you should have to think of quitting the College;
very sorry indeed. You are one of the students who do honour to the
institution.'

This was pleasant, and Godwin felt a regret of the constraint
that was upon him. In his endeavour not to display a purring smile,
he looked grim, as if the compliment were beneath his notice.

'Pray don't think,' she pursued, 'that I wish you to speak more
fully about the private circumstances you refer to in your letter.
But do let me ask you: Is your decision final? Are you sure that
when the vacations are over you will see things just as you do
now?'

'I am quite sure of it,' he replied.

The emphasis was merely natural to him. He could not so govern
his voice as to convey the respectful regret which at this moment
he felt. A younger lady, one who had heightened the charm of her
compliment with subtle harmony of tones and strongly feminine gaze,
would perhaps have elicited from him a free confession. Gratitude
and admiration would have made him capable of such frankness. But
in the face of this newspaper-reading woman (yes, he had
unaccountably felt it jar upon him that a lady should be reading a
newspaper), under her matronly smile, he could do no more than
plump out his 'quite sure'. To Lady Whitelaw it sounded altogether
too curt; she was conscious of her position as patroness, and had
in fact thought it likely that the young man would be disposed to
gratify her curiosity in some measure.

'I can only say that I am sorry to hear it,' fell from her
tightened lips, after a moment's pause.

Instantly Godwin's pride expelled the softer emotion. He pressed
hard with his feet upon the floor, every nerve in his body tense
with that distressing passion peculiar to the shyly arrogant.
Regard him, and you had imagined he was submitting to rebuke for an
offence he could not deny.

Lady Whitelaw waited. A minute, almost, and Peak gave no sign of
opening his mouth.

'It is certainly much to be regretted,' she said at length,
coolly. 'Of course, I don't know what prospects you may have in
London, but, if you had remained at the College, something
advantageous would no doubt have offered before long.'

There went small tact to the wording of this admonition.
Impossible for Lady Whitelaw to understand the complexities of a
character such as Godwin's, even had she enjoyed opportunities of
studying it; but many a woman of the world would have directed
herself more cautiously after reading that letter of his. Peak's
impulse was to thank her for the past, and declare that henceforth
he would dispense with aid; only the choking in his throat
obstructed some such utterance. He resented profoundly her
supposition (natural enough) that his chief aim was to establish
himself in a self-supporting career. What? Am I to be grateful for
a mere chance of earning my living? Have I not shown that I am
capable of something more than the ordinary lot in life? From the
heights of her assured independence, does she look down upon me as
a young man seeking a 'place'? He was filled with wrath, and all
because a good, commonplace woman could not divine that he dreamt
of European fame.

'I am very sorry that I can't take that into account,' he
managed to say. 'I wish to give this next year exclusively to
scientific study, and after that I shall see what course is open to
me.'

He was not of the men who can benefit by patronage, and be
simply grateful for it. His position was a false one: to be begging
with awkward show of thankfulness for a benefaction which in his
heart he detested. He knew himself for an undesigning hypocrite,
and felt that he might as well have been a rascal complete.
Gratitude! No man capable of it in fuller measure than he; but not
to such persons as Lady Whitelaw. Before old Sir Job he could more
easily have bowed himself. But this woman represented the
superiority of mere brute wealth, against which his soul
rebelled.

There was another disagreeable silence, during which Lady
Whitelaw commented on her protege very much as Mrs. Warricombe had
done.

'Will you allow me to ask,' she said at length, with cold
politeness, 'whether you have acquaintances in London?'

'Yes. I know some one who studied at the School of Mines.'

'Well, Mr. Peak, I see that your mind is made up. And no doubt
you are the best judge of your private circumstances. I must ask
you to let me think over the matter for a day or two. I will write
to you.'

'And I to you,' thought Godwin; a resolve which enabled him to
rise with something like a conventional smile, and thus put an end
to a very brief and quite unsatisfactory interview.

He strode homewards in a state of feverish excitement. His own
behaviour had been wretchedly clownish; he was only too well aware
of that. He ought to have put aside all the grosser aspects of his
case, and have exhibited the purely intellectual motives which made
such a change as he purposed seem desirable to him. That would have
been to act with dignity; that would have been the very best form
of gratitude for the kindness he had received. But no, his accursed
lack of self-possession had ruined all. 'The woman was now offended
in good earnest; he saw it in her face at parting. The fault was
admittedly on his side, but what right had she to talk about
'something advantageous'? She would write to him, to be sure; that
meant, she could not yet make up her mind whether to grant the
money or not. Pluto take the money! Long before sitting down to her
glossy note-paper she should have received a letter from
him
.

Composed already. Now he was up in the garret bedroom,
scribbling as fast as pen could fly over paper. He had been guilty
of a mistake—so ran the epistle; having decided to leave Whitelaw,
he ought never to have requested a continuance of the pension. He
begged Lady Whitelaw would forgive this thoughtless impropriety;
she had made him understand the full extent of his error. Of course
he could not accept anything more from her. As for the past, it
would be idle for him to attempt an expression of his indebtedness.
But for Sir Job's munificence, he must now have been struggling to
complete a radically imperfect education,—'instead of going into
the world to make a place for myself among the scientific
investigators of our time'.

One's claims to respectful treatment must be put forward
unmistakably, especially in dealing with such people as Lady
Whitelaw. Now, perhaps, she would understand what his reserve
concealed. The satisfaction of declining further assistance was
enormous. He read his letter several times aloud. This was the
great style; he could imagine this incident forming a landmark in
the biography of a notable man. Now for a fair copy, and in a hand,
mind you, that gave no hint of his care for caligraphic seemliness:
bold, forthright.

The letter in his pocket, he went downstairs. His mother had
been out all the morning; now she was just returned, and Godwin saw
trouble on her forehead. Anxiously she inquired concerning the
result of his interview.

Now that it was necessary to make an intelligible report of what
had happened, Godwin found his tongue falter. How could he convey
to another the intangible sense of wounded dignity which had
impelled his pen? Instead of producing the letter with a flourish,
he answered with affected carelessness:

'I am to hear in a day or two.'

'Did she seem to take it—in the right way?'

'She evidently thinks of me too much as a schoolboy.'

And he began to pace the room. Mrs. Peak sat still, with an air
of anxious brooding.

'You don't think she will refuse, Godwin?' fell from her
presently.

His hand closed on the letter.

'Why? Well, in that case I should go to London and find some
occupation as soon as possible. You could still let me have the
same money as before?'

'Yes.'

It was said absently, and did not satisfy Godwin. In the course
of the conversation it appeared that Mrs. Peak had that morning
been to see the legal friend who looked after her small concerns,
and though she would not admit that she had any special cause for
uneasiness, her son recalled similar occasions when an interview
with Mr. Dutch had been followed by several days' gloom. The truth
was that Mrs Peak could not live strictly within the income at her
disposal, and on being from time to time reminded of this, she was
oppressed by passing worry. If Godwin and Oliver 'got on well,'
things would come all right in the end, but in the meantime she
could not face additional expenditure. Godwin did not like to be
reminded of the razor's edge on which the affairs of the household
were balanced. At present it brought about a very sudden change in
his state of mind; he went upstairs again, and sat with the letter
before him, sunk in misery. The reaction had given him a
headache.

A fortnight, and no word from Lady Whitelaw. But neither was
Godwin's letter posted.

Was he at liberty to indulge the self-respect which urged him to
write? In a moment of heated confidence it was all very well to
talk of 'getting some occupation' in London, but he knew that this
might prove no easy matter. A year's work at the School of Mines
would decidedly facilitate his endeavour; and, seeing that his
mother's peace depended upon his being speedily self-supporting,
was it not a form of selfishness to reject help from one who could
well afford it? From a distance, he regarded Lady Whitelaw with
more charity; a longer talk with her might have led to better
mutual apprehension. And, after all, it was not she but her husband
to whom he would stand indebted. Sir Job was a very kind-hearted
old fellow; he had meant thoroughly well. Why, clearly, the
bestower of this third year's allowance would not be Lady Whitelaw
at all.

If it were granted. Godwin began to suffer a troublesome
misgiving; perchance he had gone too far, and was now, in fact,
abandoned to his own resources.

Three weeks. Then came the expected letter, and, as he opened
it, his heart leaped at the sight of a cheque—talisman of
unrivalled power over the emotions of the moneyless! Lady Whitelaw
wrote briefly and formally. Having considered Godwin's request, she
had no reason for doubting that he would make a good use of the
proposed year at the School of Mines, and accordingly she sent him
the sum which Sir Job had intended for his final session at
Whitelaw College. She wished him all benefit from his studies, and
prosperity henceforth.

Rejoicing, though shame-smitten, Godwin exhibited this
remittance to his mother, from whom it drew a deep sigh of relief.
And forthwith he sat down to write quite a different letter from
that which still lay in his private drawer,—a letter which he
strove to make the justification (to his own mind) of this descent
to humility. At considerable length he dwelt upon the change of
tastes of which he had been conscious lately, and did not fail to
make obvious the superiority of his ambition to all thought of
material advancement. He offered his thanks, and promised to give
an account of himself (as in duty bound) at the close of the
twelvemonths' study he was about to undertake: a letter in which
the discerning would have read much sincerity, and some pathos;
after all, not a letter to be ashamed of. Lady Whitelaw would not
understand it; but then, how many people are capable of even
faintly apprehending the phenomena of mental growth?