Born in Exile (2 page)

'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.

'A fine fellow, Walsh!' exclaimed Buckland, clapping
vigorously.

His father smiled, but with some uneasiness. Mrs. Warricombe
whispered to Sidwell:

'What a very disagreeable face! The only one of the Professors
who doesn't seem a gentleman.'

The girl was aware of dark reports affecting Mr. Walsh's
reputation. She hazarded only a brief examination of his features,
and looked at the applauding Buckland with alarm.

'His lectures are splendid,' said her brother, emphatically. 'If
I were going to be here next session, I should take them.'

For some minutes after the Professor's return to his seat a
susurration was audible throughout the hall; bonnets bent together,
and beards exchanged curt comments.