Free Born in Exile by George Gissing

such an occasion of ridicule and contempt?
    But the scheme would not be realised; it sounded too unlikely.
Andrew Peak was merely a loose-minded vagabond, who might talk of
this and that project for making money, but would certainly never
quit his dirty haunts in London. Godwin asked himself angrily why
he had submitted to the fellow's companionship. This absurd
delicacy must be corrected before it became his tyrant. The idea of
scrupling to hurt the sensibilities of Andrew Peak! The man was
coarse-hided enough to undergo kicking, and then take sixpence in
compensation,—not a doubt of it. This detestable tie of kindred
must no longer be recognised. He would speak gravely to his mother
about it. If Andrew again presented himself at the house he should
be given plainly to understand that his visits were something less
than welcome,—if necessary, a downright blunt word must effect
their liberation. Godwin felt strong enough for that, musing here
alone. And, student-like, he passed on to debate the theory of the
problem. Andrew was his father's brother, but what is a mere tie of
blood if nature has alienated two persons by a subtler distinction?
By the dead man, Andrew had never been loved or esteemed; memory
supplied proof of this. The widow shrank from him. No obligation of
any kind lay upon them to tolerate the London ruffian.—Enough; he
should be got rid of!
    Alternating his causes of misery, which—he could not quite
forget—might blend for the sudden transformation of his life,
Godwin let the tea grow cold upon the table, until it was time, if
he still meant to visit the theatre, for setting forth. He had no
mind to go, but as little to sit here and indulge harassing
reflection. With an effort, he made ready and left the house.
    The cost of his seat at the theatre was two shillings. So nicely
had he adjusted the expenses of these last days that, after paying
the landlady's bill to-morrow morning, there would remain to him
but a few pence more than the money needed for his journey home.
Walking into the town, he debated with himself whether it were not
better to save this florin. But as he approached the pit door, the
spirit of pleasure revived in him; he had seen but one of
Shakespeare's plays, and he believed (naturally at his age) that to
see a drama acted was necessary for its full appreciation. Sidling
with affected indifference, he added himself to the crowd.
    To stand thus, expectant of the opening doors, troubled him with
a sense of shame. To be sure, he was in the spiritual company of
Charles Lamb, and of many another man of brains who has waited
under the lamp. But contact with the pittites of Kingsmill offended
his instincts; he resented this appearance of inferiority to people
who came at their leisure, and took seats in the better parts of
the house. When a neighbour addressed him with a meaningless joke
which defied grammar, he tried to grin a friendly answer, but
inwardly shrank. The events of the day had increased his
sensibility to such impressions. Had he triumphed over Bruno
Chilvers, he could have behaved this evening with a larger
humanity.
    The fight for entrance—honest British stupidity, crushing ribs
and rending garments in preference to seemly order of
progress—enlivened him somewhat, and sent him laughing to his
conquered place; but before the curtain rose he was again depressed
by the sight of a familiar figure in the stalls, a fellow-student
who sat there with mother and sister, black-uniformed, looking very
much a gentleman. 'I, of course, am not a gentleman,' he said to
himself, gloomily. Was there any chance that he might some day take
his ease in that orthodox fashion? Inasmuch as it was
conventionality, he scorned it; but the privileges which it
represented had strong control of his imagination. That lady and
her daughter would follow the play with intelligence. To exchange
comments with them would be a keen delight. As for him—he had a
shop-boy on one hand and a grocer's wife on