Born in Exile Read Free

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