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
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
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