Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Julian Home, by Dean Frederick Farrar.

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In this book Farrar, who for the first part of his career was a British
Public School master and headmaster, writes of the lives of a group of
clever young men during their three years studies at Camford University,
(transparently Cambridge).  Some of them work hard and do well, gaining
College scholarships and fellowships, while others do little work and
become enmeshed in gambling, drinking, and other still worse vices.

Some miserable tricks are played by the bad and idle men in attempts to
bring down the good and hard working ones, most of which nearly end in
disaster, but by various tricks of fortune a balance is in the end
restored, and the book comes to a satisfactory conclusion.

You will enjoy this book if you do not let yourself be put off by
Farrar's habit of inserting Greek, Latin, French and German tags just to
show how very sap he is.

________________________________________________________________________
JULIAN HOME, BY DEAN FREDERICK FARRAR.



CHAPTER ONE.

SPEECH-DAY AT HARTON.

  "A little bench of heedless bishops there,
  And here a chancellor in embryo."
  _Shenstone_.

It was Speech-day at Harton.  From an early hour handsome equipages had
been dashing down the street, and depositing their occupants at the
masters' houses.  The perpetual rolling of wheels distracted the
attention every moment, and curiosity was keenly on the alert to catch a
glimpse of the various magnates whose arrival was expected.  At the
Queen's Head stood a large array of carriages, and the streets were
thronged with gay groups of pedestrians, and full of bustle and
liveliness.

The visitors--chiefly parents and relatives of the Harton boys--occupied
the morning in seeing the school and village, and it was a pretty sight
to observe mothers and sisters as they wandered with delighted interest
through the scenes so proudly pointed out to them by their young escort.
Some of them were strolling over the cricket-field, or through the
pleasant path down to the bathing-place.  Many lingered in the beautiful
chapel, on whose painted windows the sunlight streamed, making them
flame like jewellery, and flinging their fair shadows of blue, and
scarlet, and crimson, on the delicate carving of the pillars on either
side.  But, on the whole, the boys were most proud of showing their
friends the old school-room, on whose rude panels many a name may be
deciphered, carved there by the boyish hand of poets, orators, and
statesmen, who in the zenith of their fame still looked back with fond
remembrance on the home of their earlier days, and some of whom were
then testifying by their presence the undying interest which they took
in their old school.

The pleasant morning wore away, and the time for the Speeches drew on.
The room was thronged with a distinguished company, and presented a
brilliant and animated appearance.  In the centre was a table loaded
with prize-books, and all round it sat the secular and episcopal
dignitaries for whom seats had been reserved, while the chair was
occupied by a young Prince of the royal house.  On the other side was a
slightly elevated platform, on which were seated the monitors who were
to take part in the day's proceedings, and behind it, under the gallery
set apart for old Hartonians, crowded a number of gentlemen and boys who
could find no room elsewhere.

"Now, papa," said a young lady sitting opposite the monitors, "I've been
asking Walter here which is the cleverest of those boys."

"Ahem! _young men_ you mean," interrupted her elder sister.

"No, no," said Walter positively, "call them boys; to call them young
men is all bosh; we shall have `young gentlemen' next, which is awful
twaddle."

"Well, which of those boys on the platform is the cleverest--the
greatest swell _he_ calls it?  Now you profess to be a physiognomist,
papa, so just see if you can guess."

"I'm to look out for some future Byron or Peel among them; eh, Walter?"

"Yes."

The old gentleman put on his spectacles, and deliberately looked round
the row of monitors, who were awaiting the Headmaster's signal to begin
the speeches.

"Well, haven't you done yet, papa?  What an age you are.  Walter says
you ought to tell at a glance."

"Patience, my dear, patience.  I'll tell you in a minute."

"There," he said, after a moment's pause, "that boy seated last but one
on the bench nearest us has more genius than any of them, I should say."
He pointed to one of the youngest-looking of the monitors, who would
also have been the most striking in personal appearance had not the
almost hectic rose-colour of his cheeks, and the quiet shining of his
blue eyes, under the soft hair that hung over his forehead, given a look
of greater delicacy than was desirable in a boyish face.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," chuckled Walter and his sister.  "Try again."

"I'm very rarely wrong, you little rogue, in spite of you; but I'll look
again.  No, there can be no doubt about it.  Several of those faces show
talent, but one only has a look of genius, and that is the face of the
boy I pointed out before.  What is his name?"

"Oh, that's Home.  He's clever enough in his way, but the fellow you
ought to have picked out is the monitor I fag for--Bruce, the head of
the school."

"Well, show me your hero."

"There he sits, right in the middle of them, opposite us.  There, that's
he just going to speak now."

He pointed to a tall, handsome fellow, with a look of infinite
self-confidence, who at that moment made a low bow to the assembly, and
then began to recite with much force a splendid burst of oratory from
one of Burke's great speeches; which he did with the air of one who had
no doubt that Burke himself might have studied with benefit the scorn
which he flung into his invective and the Olympian grace with which he
waved his arm.  A burst of applause followed the conclusion of his
recitation, during which Bruce took his seat with a look of unconcealed
delight and triumph.

"There, papa--what do you think of that?  Wasn't I right now?" said the
young Hartonian, whose name was Walter Thornley.

But the old gentleman's only answer was a quiet smile, and he had not
joined in the general clapping.  "Is Home to take any part in the
speeches?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes!  He's got some part or other in one of the Shakespeare scenes;
but he won't do it half as well as Bruce."

"I observe he's got several of the prizes."

"Yes, that's true.  He's a fellow that grinds, you know, and so he can't
help getting some.  But Bruce, now, never opens a book, and yet he's
swept off no end of a lot, as you'll see."

"Humph!  Walter, I don't much believe in your boys that `never open a
book,' and, as far as I can observe, the phrase must be taken with very
considerable latitude; I still believe that the boy who `grinds,' as you
call it, is the abler boy of the two."

"Yes, Walter," said his brother, an old Hartonian, "whenever a fellow,
who has got a prize, tells you he won it without opening a book, set him
down as a shallow puppy, and don't believe him."

By this time four of the monitors were standing up to recite a scene
from the Merchant of Venice, and Home among them; his part was a very
slight one, and although there was nothing remarkable in his way of
acting, yet he had evidently studied with intelligence his author's
meaning, and his modest self-possession attracted favourable regards.
But, a few minutes after, he had to recite alone a passage of Tennyson's
Morte d'Arthur, and then he appeared to greater advantage.  Standing in
a perfectly natural attitude, he began in low clear tones, enunciating
every line with a distinctness that instantly won attention, and at last
warming with his theme he modulated his voice with the requirements of
the verse, and used gestures so graceful, yet so unaffected, that when
with musical emphasis he spoke the last lines,--

  "Long stood Sir Bedivere
  Resolving many memories, till the hull
  Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
  And on the mere the wailing died away,--"

he seemed entirely absorbed in the subject, and for half a minute stood
as if unconscious, until the deep murmur of applause startled his
meditations, and he sat down as naturally as he had risen.

"Well done, old Home," said Walter; while Mr Thornley nodded rapidly
two or three times, and murmured after him,--

  "And on the mere the wailing died away."

"Really, I think Julian did that admirably, did he not?" said a young
and lovely girl to her mother, as Home sat down.

"By jingo," whispered Walter, "I believe these people just by us are
Home's people."

"People!" said his sister; "what do you mean by his people?"

"Oh, _you_ know, Mary; you girls are always shamming you don't
understand plain English.  I mean his _people_."

Mary smiled, and looked at the strangers.  "Yes, no doubt of it," she
said, "that young lady has just the same features as Mr Home, only
softened a little; more refined they could not be.  And they've been
hearing all your rude remarks, Walter, no doubt."

The boy was right, for when the speeches were over, they saw Home offer
his arm to the two ladies and lead them out into the courtyard, where
everybody was waiting, under the large awning, to hear the lions of the
day cheered as they came down the school steps.  Bruce was leading the
cheers; he seemed to know everybody and everybody to know him, and as
group after group passed him, he was bowing and smiling repeatedly while
he listened to the congratulations which were lavished upon him from all
sides.  Among the last his own family came out, and when he gave his arm
to his mother and descended the school steps, one of the other monitors
suddenly cried--

"Three cheers for the Head of the school."

The boys cordially echoed the cheers, and taking off his hat, Bruce
stood still with a flush of exultation on his handsome face, in an
attitude peculiar to him whenever he was undergoing an ovation.

"Pose plastique; King Bruce snuffing up the incense of flattery!"
muttered a school Thersites, standing by.

"Green-minded scoundrel," was the reply; "that's because he beat you to
fits in the Latin verse."

"How very popular he seems to be, Julian," said Miss Home to her
brother, as they stood rather apart from the fashionable crowd.

"Very popular, and, on the whole, he deserves his popularity; how
capitally he recited to-day," and Julian looked at him and sighed.

"And now, mother, will you come to lunch?" he said; "you're invited to
my tutor's, you know."

They went and took a hasty lunch, heartily enjoying the simple and
general good-humour which was the order of the day; and finding that
there was still an hour before the train started which was to convey
them home, Julian took them up to the old churchyard, and while they
enjoyed the only breath of air which made the tall elms murmur in the
burning day, he showed them the beautiful scene spread out at their
feet, and the distant towers of Elton and Saint George.  Field after
field, filled with yellowing harvests or grazing herds, stretched away
to the horizon, and nothing on earth could be fairer than that soft
sleep of the golden sunshine on the green and flowery meadowland, while
overhead only a few silvery cloudlets variegated with their fleecy
lustre the expanse of blue, rippling down to the horizon like curves of
white foam at the edges of a summer sea.

"No wonder a poet loved this view," said Mrs Home.  "By the bye,
Julian, which is the tomb he used to lie upon?"

"There, just behind us; that one with the fragments broken off by stupid
picturesque tourists, with the name of Peachey on it."

"And so Byron really used, as a boy, to rest under these elms, and look
at this lovely view!" said his sister.

"Yes, Violet.  I wonder how much he'd have given, in after-life, to be a
boy again," said Julian thoughtfully; "and have a fresh start--a
rejuvenescence, beginning after a summer hour spent on Peachey's tomb;"
and Julian sighed again.

"My dear Julian," said Violet, gaily rallying him, "what a boy you are!
What business have you to sigh here of all places, and now of all times?
That's the second time in the course of an hour that I've heard you.
Imagine a Harton monitor sighing twice on Speech-day!  You must be tired
of us."

"Did I sigh?  Abominably rude of me.  I really didn't mean it," said
Julian; and shaking off the influences which had slightly depressed him
for the moment, he began to laugh and joke with the utmost mirth until
it became time to meet the train.  He accompanied his mother and sister
to the station, bade them an affectionate farewell, and then walked
slowly back, for the beauty of the summer evening made him loiter on the
way.

"Poor Julian!" said Violet to her mother when the train started; "he
lets the sense of responsibility weigh on him too much, I'm afraid."

But Julian was thinking that the next time he came to the station would
probably be at the end of term, when his schoolboy days would be over.
He leaned against a gate, and looked long at the green quiet hill, with
its tall spire and embosoming trees, till he fell into a reverie.

A slap on the back awoke him, and turning round, he saw the genial,
good-humoured face of one of his fellow-monitors, Hugh Lillyston.

"Well, Julian, dreaming as usual--castle-building, and all that sort of
thing, eh?"

"No; I was thinking how soon one will have to bid good-bye to dear old
Harton.  How well the chapel looks from here, doesn't it?--and the
church towering above it."

"The chapel being like a fair daughter seated at her mother's feet, as
your poetical tutor remarked the other day.  Well, Julian, I'm glad we
shall leave together, anyhow.  Come and have some tea."

Julian went to his friend's room.  The fag brought the tea and toast,
and they spent a merry evening, chatting over the speeches, and the way
in which the day had gone off.  At lock-up, Julian went to write some
letters, and then feeling the melancholy thought of future days stealing
over him, he plunged into a book of poems till it was bed-time, being
disturbed a good deal, however, by the noisy mirth which resounded long
after forbidden hours from Bruce's study overhead.  Bruce was also to
leave Harton in a month, and they were going up together to Saint
Werner's College, Camford.  But the difference was, that Bruce went up
wealthy and popular; Julian, whose retiring disposition and refined
tastes won him far fewer though truer friends, was going up as a sizar,
with no prospect of remaining at the University unless he won himself
the means of doing so by his own success.  It was this thought that had
made him sigh.



CHAPTER TWO.

JULIAN HOME.

  "O thou goddess,
  Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
  In these two princely boys; they are as gentle
  As zephyrs blowing beneath the violet,
  Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as fierce,
  Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind
  That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
  And makes him bow to the vale."
  _Cymbeline, Act 4, scene 2_.

It was but recently, (as will be explained hereafter), that the
circumstances had arisen which had rendered it necessary for Julian Home
to enter Saint Werner's as a sizar and since that necessity had arisen,
he had been far from happy.  A peculiar sensitiveness had been from
childhood the distinctive feature of his character.  It rendered him
doubly amenable to every emotion of pleasure and pain, and gave birth to
a self-conscious spirit, which made his nature appear weaker, when
a boy, than it really was.  While he was at Harton, this
self-consciousness made him keenly, almost tremblingly, alive to the
opinions of others about himself.  His self-depreciation arose from real
humility, and there was in his heart so deep a fountain of love towards
all his fellows, and so sympathising an admiration of all their good or
brilliant qualities, that he was far too apt to suffer himself to be
tormented by the indifference or dislike of those who were far his
inferiors.

It was strange that such a boy should have had enemies, but he was sadly
aware that in that light some regarded him.  Had it been possible to
conciliate them without any compromise in his line of action, he would
have done so at any cost; but as their enmity arose from that vehement
moral indignation which Julian both felt and expressed against the
iniquities which he despised and disapproved, he knew that all union
with them was out of his power.  As a general rule, the best boys are by
no means the most popular.

It was the great delight of Julian's detractors to compare him
unfavourably with their hero, Bruce.  Bruce, as a fair scholar and a
good cricketer, with no very marked line of his own--as a fine-looking
fellow, anxious to keep on good terms with everybody, and with an
apparently hearty "well met" for all the world--cut against the grain of
no one's predilections, and had the voice of popular favour always on
his side.  While ambition made him work tolerably hard, as far as he
could do so without attracting observation, the line he took was to
disparage industry, and ally himself with the merely cricketing set,
with some of whom he might be seen strolling arm-in-arm, in loud
conversation, at every possible opportunity.  Julian, on the other hand,
though a fair cricketer, soon grew weary of the "shop" about that game,
which for three months formed the main staple of conversation among the
boys; and while his countenance was too expressive to conceal this fact,
he in his turn found himself unable to enlist more than a few in any
interest for those intellectual pursuits which were the chief joy of his
own life.

"Home, I've been watching you for the last half-hour," said Bruce, one
day at dinner, "and you haven't opened your lips."

"I've had nothing to say."

"Why not?"

"Because, since we came in, not one word has been said about any human
subject but cricket, cricket, cricket; it's been the same for the last
two months; and as I haven't been playing this morning--"

"Well, no one wants you to talk," interrupted Brogten, one of the
eleven, Julian's especial foe.  "I say, Bruce, did you see--"

"I was only going to add," said Julian, with perfect good-humour,
heedless of the interruption, "that I couldn't discuss a game I didn't
see."

"Nobody asked you, sir, she said," retorted Brogten rudely; "if it had
been some sentimental humbug, I dare say you'd have mooned about it long
enough."

"Better, at any rate, than some of your low stories, Brogten," said
Lillyston, firing up on his friend's behalf.

"I don't know.  I like something manly."

"Vice and manliness being identical, then, according to your notions?"
said Lillyston.

Brogten muttered an angry reply, in which the only audible words were
"confound" and "milksops."

  "Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame;
  Known by thy _bleating_, Ignorance thy name,"

thought Julian; but he did not condescend to make any further answer.

"I hate that kind of fellow," said Brogten, loud enough for the friends
to hear, as they rose from the table; "fellows who think themselves
everybody's superiors, and walk with their noses in the air."

"I wonder that you will still be talking, Brogten; nobody marks you,"
said Lillyston, treating with the profoundest indifference a stupid
calumny.  But poisoned arrows like these quivered long and rankled
painfully in Julian's heart.

Yet no sensible boy would have given Julian's reputation in exchange for
that of Bruce; for in all except the mean and coarse minority, Julian
excited either affection or esteem, and he had the rare inestimable
treasure of some real and noble-hearted friends; while Bruce was too
vain, too shallow, and too fickle to inspire any higher feeling than a
mere transient admiration.

Latterly it had become known to the boys that Julian was going up to
Saint Werner's as a sizar, and being ignorant of the reasons which
decided him, they had been much surprised.  But the little clique of his
enemies made this an additional subject of annoyance, and there were not
wanting those who had the amazing bad taste to repeat to him some of
their speeches.  There are some who seem to think that a man must rather
enjoy hearing all the low tittle-tattle of envious backbiters.

"I knew he must be some tailor's son or other," remarked Brogten.

"I say, Bruce, we shall have to cut him at Saint Werner's," observed an
exquisite young exclusive.

Such things--the mere lispings of malicious folly--Julian could not help
hearing; and they galled him so much that he determined to have a talk
on the subject with his tutor, who was a Saint Werner's man.  It was his
tutor's custom to devote the hour before lock-up on every half-holiday
to seeing any of his pupils who cared to come and visit him; but as on
the rich summer evenings few were to be tempted from the joyous sounds
of the cricket-field, Julian found him sitting alone in his study,
reading.

"Ha, Julian!" he exclaimed, rising at once, with a frank and cordial
greeting.  "Here's a triumph!  A boy actually enticed from bats and
balls to pay me a visit!"

Julian smiled.  "The fact is, sir," he said, "I've come to ask you about
something.  But am I disturbing you?  If so, I'll go and `pursue vagrant
pieces of leather again,' as Mr Stokes says when he wants to dismiss us
to cricket."

"Not in the least.  I rather enjoy being disturbed during this hour.
But what do you say to a turn in the open air?  One can talk so much
better walking than sitting down on opposite sides of a fireplace with
no fire in it."

Julian readily assented, and Mr Carden took his arm as they bent their
way down to the cricket-field.  There they stopped involuntarily for a
time, to gaze at the house match which was going on, and the master
entered with the utmost vivacity into the keen yet harmless "chaff"
which was being interchanged between the partisans of the rival houses.

"What a charming place this field is," he said, "on a summer evening,
while the sunset lets fall upon it the last innocuous arrows of its
golden sheaf.  When I am wearied to death with work or vexation--which,
alas! is too often--I always run down here, and it gives me a fresh
lease of life."

Julian smiled at his tutor's metaphorical style of speech, which he knew
was in him the natural expressions of a glowing and poetic heart, that
saw no reason to be ashamed of its own warm feelings and changeful
fancies; and Mr Carden, wrapped in the scene before him, and the
sensations it excited, murmured to himself some of his favourite lines--

  "Alas that one
  Should use the days of summer but to live,
  And breathe but as the needful element
  The strange superfluous glory of the air
  Nor rather stand in awe apart, beside
  The untouched time, and murmuring o'er and o'er
  In awe and wonder, `These are summer days!'"

"Shall we stroll across the fields, sir, before lock-up?" said Julian,
as a triumphant shout proclaimed that the game was over, and the
Parkites had defeated the Grovians.

"Yes, do.  By the bye, what was it that you had to ask me about?"

"Oh, sir, I don't think I've told you before; but I'm going up to Saint
Werner's as a sub-sizar."

Mr Carden looked surprised.  "Indeed!  Is that necessary?"

"Yes, sir; it's a choice between that and not going at all.  And what I
wanted to ask you was, whether it will subject me to much annoyance or
contempt; because, if so--"

"_Contempt_, my dear fellow!" said Mr Carden quickly.  "Yes," he added,
after a pause, "the contempt of the contemptible--certainly of no one
else."

"But do you think that any Harton fellows will cut me?"

"Unquestionably not; at least, if any of them do, it will be such a
proof of their own absolute worthlessness, that you will be well rid of
such acquaintances."

Julian seemed but little reassured by this summary way of viewing the
matter.

"But I hope," he said, "that no one, (even if they don't cut me), will
regard my society as a matter of mere tolerance, or try an air of
condescension."

"Look here, Julian," said the master; "a sub-sizar means merely a poor
scholar, for whom the college has set apart certain means of assistance.
From this body have come some of the most distinguished men whom Saint
Werner's has ever produced; and many of the Fellows, (indeed quite a
disproportionate number), began their college career in this manner.
Now tell me--should you care the snap of a finger for the opinion or the
acquaintance of a man who could be such an ineffable fool as to drop
intercourse with you because you are merely less rich than he?  Don't
you remember those grand old words, Julian--

  "Lives there for honest poverty,
  Who hangs his head and a' that?
  The coward slave we pass him by,
  And dare be poor for a' that."

"And yet, sir, half the distinctions of modern society rest upon
accidents of this kind."

"True, true! quite true; but what is the use of education if it does not
teach us to look on man as man, and judge by a nobler and more real
standard than the superficial distinctions of society?  But answer my
question."

"Well, sir, I confess that I should think very lightly of the man who
treated me in that way; still I should be _annoyed_ very much by his
conduct."

"I really think, Julian," replied Mr Carden, "that the necessity which
compels you to go up as a sizar will be good for you in _many_ ways.
Poverty, self-denial, the bearing of the yoke in youth, are the highest
forms of discipline for a brave and godly manhood.  The hero and the
prophet are rarely found in soft clothing or kingly houses; they are
never chosen from the palaces of Mammon or the gardens of Belial."

They talked a little longer on the subject, and Mr Carden pointed out
how, at the universities more than anywhere, the aristocracy of
intellect and character are almost solely recognised, and those patents
of nobility honoured which come direct from God.  "After a single term,
Julian, depend upon it you will smile at the sensitiveness which now
makes you shrink from entering on this position.  At least, I assume
that even by that time your name will be honourably known, as it will be
if you work hard.  You must never forget that `Virtus vera nobilitas' is
the noble motto of your own college."

"Well, I _will_ work at any rate," said Julian; "indeed I _must_."

"But may I ask why you have determined on going up as sizar?"

"Oh yes, sir.  I am far too grateful for all your many kindnesses to me,
not to tell you freely of my circumstances."

And so, as they walked on that beautiful summer evening over the green
fields, Julian, happy in the quiet sympathising attention of one who was
not only a master, but a true, earnest, and affectionate friend, told
him some of the facts to which we shall allude in the retrospect of the
next chapter.



CHAPTER THREE.

A RETROSPECT.

  "Give me the man that is not Passion's slave,
  And I will wear him in my own heart's core,
  Yea, in my heart of hearts."
  _Shakespeare_.

Julian's father was Rector of Ildown, a beautiful village on the
Devonshire coast.  As younger son, his private means were very small,
and the more so as his family had lost in various unfortunate
speculations a large portion of the wealth which had once been the
inheritance of his ancient and honourable house.  Mr Home regretted
this but little; contentment of mind and simplicity of tastes were to
him a far deeper source of happiness than the advantages of fortune.
Immediately after his university career he had taken holy orders, and
devoted to the genial duties of his profession all the energies of a
vigorous intellect and a generous heart.

During his first curacy he was happy enough to be placed in the diocese
of a bishop, whose least merit was the rare conscientiousness with which
he distributed the patronage at his disposal.  Whenever a living was
vacant, the Bishop of Elford used deliberately to pass in mental review
all the clergy under his jurisdiction, and single out from amongst them
the ablest and the best.  He was never influenced by the spirit of
nepotism; he was never deceived by shallow declaimers, or ignorant
bigots, who had thrust themselves into the notoriety of a noisy and
orthodox reputation.  The ordinary Honourable and Reverend, whose only
distinction was his title or his wealth, had to look for preferment
elsewhere; but often would some curate, haply sighing at the thought
that obscurity and poverty were his lot for this life, and meekly
bearing both for the honour of his Master's work, be made deservedly
happy by at last attaining the rewards he had never sought.  Few,
indeed, were the dioceses in which the clergy worked in a more hopeful
spirit, in the certainty that the good bishop never suffered merit to
pass unrecognised; and for talent and industry, no body of rectors could
be compared to those whom Bishop Morris had chosen from the most
deserving of the curates who were under his pastoral care.

Mr Home, after five years' hard work, had been promoted by the bishop
to a small living, where he soon succeeded in winning the warmest
affection of all his parishioners, and among others, of his squire and
church-warden, the Earl of Raynes, who, from a feeling of sincere
gratitude, procured for him, on the first opportunity, the rectory of
Ildown.

Here, at the age of thirty, he settled down, with every intention of
making it his home for life; and here he shortly after wooed and won the
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, whose only dower was the beauty of
a countenance which but dimly reflected the inner beauty of her heart.

Very tranquil was their wedded life; very perfect was the peacefulness
of their home.  Under her hands the rectory garden became a
many-coloured Eden, and the eye could rest delightedly on its lawns and
flower-beds, even amid that glorious environment of woods and cliffs,
free moors and open sea, which gave to the vicinity of Ildown such a
nameless charm.  But the beauty without was surpassed by the rarer
sunshine of the life within and when children were born to them--when
little steps began to patter along the hall, and young faces to shine
beside the fire, and little strains of silvery laughter to ring through
every room--there was a happiness in that bright family, for the sake of
which an emperor might have been content to abdicate his throne.  Oh
that the river of human life could flow on for ever with such sparkling
waters, and its margin be embroidered for ever with flowers like these.

Julian was their eldest son, and it added to the intensity of each
parent's love for him to find that he seemed to have inherited the best
qualities of them both.  Their next child was Violet, and then, after
two years' interval, came Cyril and Frank.  The four children were
educated at home, without even the assistance of tutor or governess,
until Julian was thirteen years old; and during all that time scarcely
one domestic sorrow occurred to chequer the unclouded serenity of their
peace.  Even without the esteem and respect of all their neighbours,
rich and poor, the love of parents and children, brothers and sister,
was enough for each heart there.

But the day of separation must come at last, however long we may delay
it, and after Julian's thirteenth birthday it was decided that he must
go to school.  In making this determination, his father knew what he was
about.  He knew that in sending his son among a multitude of boys he was
exposing him to a world of temptation, and placing him amid many
dangers.  Yet he never hesitated about it, and when his wife spoke with
trembling anxiety of the things which she had heard and read about
school-life, he calmly replied that without danger there can be no
courage, and without temptation no real virtue or tried strength.

"Poor Julian," said Mrs Home, "but won't he be bullied dreadfully?"

"No, dear; the days of those atrocities about which you read in books
are gone by for ever.  At no respectable school, except under very rare
and peculiar circumstances, are boys exposed to any worse difficulties
in the way of cruelty than they can very easily prevent or overcome."

"But then those dreadful moral temptations," pleaded the mother.

"They are very serious, love.  But is it not better that our boy should
learn, by their means, (as thousands do), to substitute the manliness of
self-restraint for the innocence of ignorance--even on the very false
supposition that such an innocence can be preserved?  And remember that
he does not escape these temptations by avoiding them; from the little I
have seen, it is my sincere conviction that for after-life, (even in
this aspect alone, without alluding to the innumerable other arguments
which _must_ be considered), the education of a public school is a far
sounder preparation than the shelter of home.  I cannot persuade our
neighbour Mrs Hazlet of this, but I should tremble to bring up Julian
with no wider experience than she allows to her boy."

So Julian went to Harton, and, after a time, thoroughly enjoyed his life
there, and was unharmed by the trials which must come to every
schoolboy; so that when he came back for his first holidays, the mother
saw with joy and pride that her jewel was not flawed, and remained
undimmed in lustre.  Who knows how much had been contributed to that
glad result by the daily and nightly prayer which ever ascended for him
from his parents' lips, "Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him
from evil."

For when he first went to school, Julian was all the more dangerously
circumstanced, from the fact that he was an attractive and engaging boy.
With his bright eyes, beaming with innocence and trustfulness, the
healthy glow of his clear and ingenuous countenance, and the noble look
and manners which were the fruit of a noble mind, he could never be one
of those who pass unknown and unnoticed in the common throng.  And since
to these advantages of personal appearance he superadded a quick
intelligence, and no little activity and liveliness, he was sure to meet
with flattery and observation.  But there was something in Julian's
nature which, by God's grace, seemed to secure him from evil, as though
he were surrounded by an atmosphere impermeable to base and wicked
hearts.  He passed through school-life not only unscathed by, but almost
ignorant of, the sins into which others fell; and the account which his
contemporaries might have given of their schoolboy days was widely
different from his own.  He was one of those of whom the grace of God
took early hold, and in whom "reason and religion ran together like warp
and woof," to form the web of a wise and holy life.  Such happy
natures--such excellent hearts there are; though they are few and far
between.

To Hugh Lillyston Julian owed no little of his happiness.  They had been
in the same forms together since Julian came, and the friendship between
them was never broken.  When Lillyston first saw the new boy, he longed
to speak to him at once, but respected him too much to thrust himself
rudely into his acquaintance.  During the first day or two they
exchanged only a few shy words; for Julian, too, was pleased and taken
with Lillyston's manly, honest look.  But both had wisely determined to
let their knowledge of each other grow up naturally and gradually,
without any first-sight vows of eternal friendship, generally destined
to be broken in the following week.

Lillyston had observed, not without disgust, that two thoroughly bad
fellows were beginning to notice the newcomer, and determined at all
hazards to tell Julian his opinion of them.  So one day as they left the
school-room together, he said--

"Do you know Brant and Jeffrey?"

"Yes; a little," answered Julian.

"Did you know them before you came, or anything?"

"No; but they _will_ wait for me every now and then at the door of the
fourth-form room when I'm coming out and I'm sure I don't want them, but
one doesn't wish to seem uncivil, and I don't know how to get rid of
them."

"H'm! well, I wouldn't see too much of them if I were you."

"No? but why?"

"Well, never mind--only I thought I'd tell you;" and Lillyston,
half-ashamed at having taken this step, and half-afraid that Julian
might misconstrue it, ran away.  Julian, who was little pleased with the
coarse adulation of Brant and Jeffrey, took his friend's advice, and
from that time he and Lillyston became more and more closely united.
They were constantly together, and never tired of each other's society;
and at last, when their tutor, observing and thoroughly approving of the
friendship, put them both in the same room, the school began in fun to
call them Achilles and Patroclus, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and
Pylades, David and Jonathan, Theseus and Pirithous, and as many other
names of _paria amicorum_ as they could remember.

Yet there was many a Harton boy who would have said, "Utinam in tali
amicitia tertius ascriberer!" for each friend communicated to the other
something at least of his own excellences.  Lillyston instructed Julian
in the mysteries of fives, racquets, football, and cricket, until he
became an adept at them all; and Julian, in return, gave Lillyston very
efficient help in work, and inspired him with intellectual tastes for
which he felt no little gratitude in after days.  The desire of getting
his remove with Julian worked so much with him that he began to rise
many places in the examinations; and while Julian was generally among
the first few, Lillyston managed to be placed, at any rate, far above
the ranks of the undistinguished herd.

So, form by form, Lillyston and Julian Home mounted up the school side
by side, and illustrated the noblest and holiest uses of friendship by
adding to each other's happiness and advantage in every way.  I am glad
to dwell on such a picture, knowing, O holy Friendship, how awfully a
schoolboy can sometimes _desecrate_ thy name!

Three years had passed, and they were now no longer little boys, but in
the upper fifth form together, and Julian was in his sixteenth year.  It
was one March morning, when, shortly after they entered the school-room,
the school "Custos" came in and handed to the master a letter--

"It's for Mister Home, sir, by telegraph."

The master called Julian, (whose heart beat quick when he heard his
name), and said to him--

"Perhaps you had better take it out of the room, Home, before you read
it, as it may contain something important."

With a grateful look for this considerate kindness, Julian took the
hint, and leaving the room, tore open the message, which was from his
mother--

"Dear Julian--Come home _instantly_; your father is most dangerously
ill.  I cannot add more."

The boys heard a cry, and the master made a sign to Lillyston, who had
already started to his feet.  Springing out of the unclosed door, he
found Julian half-fainting; for his home affections were the very
mainsprings of his life.  He read the message, helped Julian
down-stairs, flung a little cold water over his face, and then led him
to their own study, where he immediately began, without a word, to pack
up for him such things as he thought he would require.

Lillyston made all the necessary arrangements, and did not leave his
friend until he had seen him into the railway carriage, and pressed his
hand with a silent farewell.  He watched the train till it was out of
sight.

Then first did Julian's anguish find vent in tears.  Passionately he
longed at least to _know_ the worst, and would have given anything to
speed the progress of the train, far too slow for his impatient misery.
He was tormented by remembering the unusually solemn look and tone with
which his father had parted from him a month before, and by the
presentiment which at that moment had flashed across him with
uncontrollable vividness, that they should never meet again.  At last,
at last they reached Ildown late in the evening, just as the flushed
glare of crimson told the death-struggle of an angry sunset with the
dull and heavy clouds.  The station was a mile from the town, and it was
a raw, gusty, foggy evening.  There was no conveyance at the station,
but leaving with the porter a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian
flew along the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and at
length stood before the rectory door.  He was wet, hungry, and
exhausted, for since morning he had tasted nothing, and his run had
spattered him with mud from head to heel.  It was too dark to judge what
had happened from the appearance of the house, and half-frantic as he
was with fear and eagerness, he had yet not dared to give a loud summons
at the door, lest he should disturb his father's slumber or excite his
nerves.

Ah!  Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous dread from that cause
now--

The door opened very quietly, and in reply to Julian's incoherent
question, the good old servant only shook her head, and turned away to
brush off with her apron the tears which she vainly struggled to
repress.  But the boy burst into the study where he knew that the rest
would be, and in another moment his arm was round his mother's neck,
while Cyril and Violet and little Frank drew close and wept silently
beside them both.  But still Julian knew not or would not know the full
truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask the question which had been
so long trembling on his lips--

"Is there no hope, mother, no hope?"

"Don't you know then, my boy?  Your father is--"

"Not _dead_," said Julian, in a hollow voice.  "Oh, mother, mother,
mother."

His head drooped on her shoulder the news fell on him like a horrible
blow, and, stunned as he was with weariness and anxiety, all sense and
life flowed from him for a time.

The necessity for action and the consolation of others are God's blessed
remedies to lull, during the first intolerable moments, the poignancy of
bereavement.  Mrs Home had to soothe her children, and to see that they
took needful food and rest; and she watched by the bedside of her
younger boys till the silken swathe of a soft boyish sleep fell on their
eyes, red and swollen with many tears.  Then she saw Violet to bed, and
at last sat down alone with her eldest son, who by a great prayerful
effort aroused himself at last to a sense of his position.

He took her hand in his, and said in a low whisper, "Mother, let me see
him?"

"Not now, dearest Julian; wait till to-morrow, for our sakes."

"What was the cause of death, mother?"

"Disease of the heart;" and once more the widow's strength seemed likely
to give way.  But this time it was Julian's turn to whisper, "God's will
be done."

Next morning Mrs Home, with Julian and Violet, entered the room of
death.  Flowers were scattered on the bed, and on that face, calm as
marble yet soft as life, the happy wondering smile had not yet even died
away.  And there Julian received from his mother a slip of paper, on
which his father's dying hand had traced the last messages of undying
love and when they had left him there alone, he opened and read these
words, written with weak and wavering pen--

  "My own dearest boy, in this world we shall never meet again.  But I
  die happy, Julian, for my trust is in God, who cares for the widow and
  the fatherless.  And you, Julian, will take my place with Violet,
  Cyril, and dear Frankie--I need say nothing of a mother to such a son.
  God bless you, my own boy.  Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God
  will be with you.  Your dying father,

  "Henry Home."

The last part was almost illegible, but Julian bent reverently over his
father's corpse, and it seemed that the smile brightened on those dead
lips as he bowed his young head in prayer.

Reader, for many reasons we must not linger there.  But I had to tell
you of that death and of those dying words which Julian knew by heart
through life, and which he kept always with him as the amulet against
temptation.  He never forgot them; and oh! how often in the hours of
trial did it seem as if that dying message was whispered in his ear, "Be
brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you."

The concluding arrangements were soon made.  The family left the
rectory, but continued to reside at Ildown, a spot which they loved, and
where they were known and loved.  Mr Home had insured his life for a
sum, not large indeed, but sufficient to save them from absolute penury,
and had besides laid by sufficient to continue Julian's education.  It
was determined that he should return to Harton, and there try for the
Newry scholarship in time.  If he should be successful in getting this,
there would be no further difficulty in his going to college, for it was
expected that a wealthy aunt of his would assist him.  His guardians,
however, were kind enough to determine that, even in case of his failing
to obtain the Newry, they would provide for his university expenses,
although they did not conceal from him the great importance of his
earnestly studying with a view to gain this pecuniary aid.  Cyril was
sent to Marlby, and Frank, who was but ten years old, remained for the
present at Ildown grammar school.

After the funeral Julian returned to Harton with a sadder and wiser
heart.  Though never an idle boy, he had not as yet realised the
necessity of throwing himself fully into the studies of the place, but
had rather given the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated in the gorgeous
day-dreams of poetry and romance.  Henceforward, he became a most
earnest and diligent student, and day by day felt that his intellectual
powers grew stronger and more developed by this healthier nourishment.
At the end of that quarter he gained his first head-remove, and Mr
Carden rejoiced heartily in the success of his favourite pupil.

"Why, Julian, you will beat us all if you go on at this rate," said he,
after reading over the trial verses which Julian asked him to criticise
after the examination.  "You always showed taste, but here we have
vigour too; and for a wonder, you haven't made any mistakes."

"I'm afraid I shall be `stumped' in the Greek `Iambi,' sir, as Mr
Clarke calls them."

"Ah! well, you must take pains.  You've improved, though, since you had
to translate Milton's--

  "Smoothing the raven down
  Of darkness, till it smiled;

"when, you remember, I gave you a literal version of your `Iambi,' which
meant `pounding a pea-green fog.'  Eh?"

"Oh, yes," said Julian, "I remember too that I rendered `the moon-beams'
by `the moon's rafters.'"

"Never mind," said Mr Carden, laughing, "improve in them as much as you
have in Latin verse, and we shall see you Newry scholar yet."

A thrill of joy went through the boy's heart as he heard these words.



CHAPTER FOUR.

HOW JULIAN LOST A FORTUNE.

  "Most like a step-dame or a dowager
  Long withering out a young man's revenue."
  _Shakespeare_.

I must not chronicle Julian's school-life, much as I should have to tell
about him, and strong as the temptation is, but another event happened
during his stay at Harton which affected so materially his future years
that I must proceed to narrate it now.

Julian's father had a sister much older than himself, who many years
before had married a baronet-farmer, Sir Thomas Vinsear of Lonstead
Abbey.  It was certainly not a love match on the lady's side, for the
baronet was twenty years her senior, and his tastes in no respect
resembled hers.  But she was already of "a certain age," and despairing
of a lover, accepted the good old country squire, and was located for
the rest of her life as mistress of Lonstead Abbey.

As long as he lived all was well; Lady Vinsear, like a sensible wife,
conformed herself to all his wishes and peculiarities, and won in no
slight degree his gratitude and affection.  But he did not long survive
his marriage, and after a few years the lady found herself alone and
childless in the solitary grandeur of her husband's home.

Her brother Henry, the Rector of Ildown, had always been her special
favourite, and she looked to his frequent visits to enliven her
loneliness.  But she was piqued by his having married without consulting
her, and behaved so uncourteously to Mrs Home, that for a long time the
intercourse between them was broken.

One day, however, shortly before his death, she had written to announce
an intended visit, and in due time her carriage stood before the rectory
door.  It so happened that it was Julian's holiday-time, and he was at
home.  Changed as the old lady had become by years and disappointment,
and the ennui of an aimless widowhood, little relieved by the unceasing
attendance of a confidante, yet Lady Vinsear's childless and withered
heart seemed to be touched to life again when she gazed on her brother's
beautiful and modest boy.  Courteous without subservience, and attentive
without servility, Julian, by his graceful and unselfish demeanour, won
her complete affection, and she dropped to the family no ambiguous
hints, that, for Julian's sake, she should renew her intercourse with
them, and make him her heir.  Circumstanced as he was, Mr Home could
not but rejoice in this determination, and the more so from his proud
consciousness that not even the vilest detractor could charge him with
having courted his rich sister's favour by open or secret arts.  From
Julian he would have concealed Lady Vinsear's intention, but she had
herself made him tolerably aware of it, after a fit of violent spleen
against Miss Sprong, her confidante, who, seeing how the wind lay, had
tried to drop little malicious hints against the favourite nephew, until
the old lady had cut them short, by a peremptory order that Miss Sprong
should leave the room.  That little rebuff the lady never forgot and
never forgave, and, under the guise of admiration, she nursed her enmity
against the unconscious Julian until due opportunity should have
occurred to give it vent.

Every now and then, Julian, when wearied with study, would be tempted to
think in his secret heart, "What does it matter my working so hard, when
I shall be master of Lonstead Abbey some day?"  And then perhaps would
follow a rather inconsistent fit of idleness, till Mr Carden, or some
other master, applied the spur again.

"I can't make you out, Julian," said Lillyston; "sometimes you grind
away for a month like--like beans, and then you're as idle again for a
week as the dog that laid his head against a wall to bark."

"Well, shall I tell you, Hugh?" answered Julian, who had often felt that
it would be a relief to put his friend in possession of the secret.  And
he told Lillyston that he was the acknowledged heir of his aunt's
property.

"Oh, well then," said Lillyston, "I don't see why I should work either,
seeing as how Lillyston Court will probably come to me some day.  I say,
Julian, I vote we both try for lag next trials.  It'd save lots of
grind."

All this was brought out very archly, and instantly recalled to Julian's
mind the many arguments which he had used to his friend, especially
since his father's death, to prove that, under any circumstances,
diligence was a duty which secured its own reward; indeed, he used to
maintain that, even on selfish grounds it was best, for in the long run
the idlest boys, with their punishments and extras, got far the most
work to do--to say nothing of the lassitude that usurps the realm of
neglected duty, and that disgraceful ignorance which is the nemesis of
wasted time.

He burst out laughing.  "You have me on the hip, Hugh, and I give in.
In proof whereof, here goes the novel I'm reading; and I'll at once set
to work on my next set of verses;" whereon Julian pitched his green
novel to the top of an inaccessible cupboard, got down his Elegiacs for
the next day, and had no immediate recurrence of what Lillyston
christened the "pudding theory of work."

It was during his last year at Harton that Lady Vinsear, in consequence
of one of her sudden whims, wrote to invite him to Lonstead, with both
his brothers; for she never took any notice of either Violet or Mrs
Home.  The time she mentioned was ten days before the Harton holidays
began.  So that Frank and Cyril, (who came back from Marlby just in
time), had to go alone, rather to their disgust; Julian, however,
promising to join them directly after he returned from school.  The
wilful old lady, urged on by the confidante, took considerable umbrage
at this, and wrote that "she was quite sure the Doctor would not have
put any obstacles in the way of Julian's coming had he been informed of
_her_ wishes.  And as for trials, (the Harton word for examination),
which Julian had pleaded in excuse, he had better take care that, in
attending to the imaginary trials of Harton, he didn't increase his own
real trials."

This sentence made Julian laugh immoderately, both from his aunt's
notion of the universal autocracy of _her_ will, and from her obvious
bewilderment at the technical word "Trials," which had betrayed her
unconsciously into a pun, which, of all things, she abhorred.  However,
he wrote back politely--explained what he meant by "Trials"--begged to
be excused for a neglect of her wishes, which was inevitable--and
reiterated his promise of joining his brothers, as early as was
feasible, under her hospitable roof.

It was not without inward misgiving that Cyril and Frank found
themselves deposited in the hall of their glum old aunt's large and
lonely house, the very size and emptiness of which had tended not a
little to increase the poor lady's vapours.  However, they were
naturally graceful and well-bred, so that, in spite of the patronising
empire assumed over them by the vulgar and half-educated Miss Sprong--
which Cyril especially was very much inclined to resent--the first day
or two passed by with tolerable equanimity.

But this dull routine soon proved unendurable to the two lively boys.
They found it impossible to sit still the whole evening, looking over
sacred prints; and this was the only amusement which Miss Sprong
suggested to Lady Vinsear for them.  Of late the dowager had taken what
she considered to be a religious turn; but unhappily the supposed
religion was as different from real piety as light from darkness, and
consisted mainly in making herself and all around her miserable by a
semi-ascetic puritanism of observances, and a style of conversation fit
to drive her little nephews into a lunatic asylum.

Though they both felt a species of terror at their ungracious aunt, and
the ever-detonating Miss Sprong, the long-pent spirit of fun at times
grew too strong in them, and they would call down sharp rebukes by
romping in the drawing-room, so as to disturb the two ladies while they
read to each other, for hours together, the charming treatises of their
favourite moderate divine.

The boys were seated on two stools, in the silence of despair, and at
last Cyril, who had been twirling his thumbs for half an hour, and
listening to a dissertation on Armageddon, gave a yawn so portentous and
prolonged that Frank suddenly exploded in a little burst of laughter,
which was at once checked, when Miss Sprong observed--

"I think it would be profitable if your ladyship,"--Miss Sprong never
omitted the title--"would set your nephews some of Watts' hymns to
learn."

The nephews protested with one voice and much rebellion, but at last
their irate aunt quenched the unseemly levity, and they were fairly set
to work at Dr Watts--Frank getting for his share "The little busy bee."
But instead of learning it, they got together, and Cyril began drawing
pictures of cruet-stands and other impieties, whereby Frank was kept in
fits of laughter, and when called up to say his hymn, knew nothing at
all about it.  Cyril sat by him, and when Frank had exhausted his stock
of acquirements by saying, in a tone of disgust--

  "How doth the little busy bee--"

Cyril suggested--

  "Delight to bark and bite."

"Oh, yes--

  "How doth the little busy bee
  Delight to bark and bite--

"How _does_ it go on, Cyril?" said Frank.

  "To gather honey all the day,
  And eat it all the night,"

whispered the audacious brother, conjuring into memory the schoolboy
version of that celebrated poem.

Frank, who was far too much engrossed in his own difficulties to think
of what he was saying, artlessly repeated the words, and opened his
large eyes in amazement, when he was greeted by a shout of laughter from
Cyril, and a little shriek of indignation from Miss Sprong, which
combined sounds started Lady Vinsear from the doze into which she had
fallen, and ended in the summary ejectment of the young offenders.

The next day, to their own great relief and delight, they were sent home
in disgrace; and knowing that their mother would not be angry with them
for a piece of childish gaiety under such trying circumstances, they
were surprised and pained to see how grave she and Violet looked when
they told their story.  But Mrs Home's thoughts had reverted to Julian,
and she knew Miss Sprong too well not to be aware that she had designs
on Lady Vinsear's property, and would excite against Julian any ill-will
she could.

That her fears were not unfounded was proved by the fact that, in the
middle of trial-week, Julian received an altogether intolerable epistle
from Miss Sprong, written, she said, "at the express request and
dictation of his esteemed aunt," calling him to account for this little
incident in a way that, (to use Lillyston's expression), instantly "put
him on his hind legs."  He read a part of this letter to Lillyston, and,
with his own comments, it ran thus:--

  "Lady Vinsear desires me to say," (Hem!  I doubt that very much),
  "that the rudeness of those two little boys, to say nothing of their
  great immorality and impiety," (I say, that's coming it too strong, or
  rather too _Sprong_), "is such as to reflect great discredit on the
  influences to which they have been _lately_--"

"By Jove! this is too bad," said Julian, passionately; "when she adds
innuendoes against my mother to her other malice--I won't stand it,"
and, without reading farther, he tossed the letter into the fire,
watching with vindictive eyes its complete consumption--

  "There goes the squire--revered, illustrious spark!
  And there--no less illustrious--goes the clerk!"

he said, as he watched the little red streams flickering out of the
black paper ashes.  "And now for the answer!  Bother the woman for
plaguing me, (for I know it's none of my aunt's handiwork), in the
middle of trial-week."

"I say, Julian, don't be too fiery in your answer, you know, for you
really ought to appease the poor old lady.  Only think of that impudent
little brother of yours!  I must make the young rogue's acquaintance
some day."

But Julian had seized a sheet of note-paper, and wrote to his aunt, not
condescending to notice even by a message her obnoxious amanuensis:--

  "My Dear Aunt--I cannot believe that the letter I received to-day
  really emanated from you, at least not in the language in which it was
  couched.

  "I have neither time nor inclination," (`Hoity, toity, how grand we
  are!') "to attend to the foolish trifle to which your amanuensis,"
  (`Meaning me!' screamed the irrepressible Sprong), "alludes; but I am
  quite sure that, on reflection, you will not be inclined to judge too
  hardly a mere piece of fun and thoughtless liveliness; for that
  Frankie meant to be rude, I don't for a moment believe.  I shall only
  add, that if I were not convinced that _you_ can never have sanctioned
  the expressions which the lady," (Julian had first written `person,'
  but altered it afterwards), "who wrote for you presumed to apply to my
  brothers, and above all, to my mother, I should have good reason to be
  offended; but feeling sure that they are not attributable to you, I
  pass them over with indifference.  I am obliged to write in great
  haste, so here I must conclude.

  "Believe me, my dear Aunt, your affectionate nephew,

  "Julian Home."

Lady Vinsear was secretly pleased with the spirit which this letter
showed, and was not sorry for the snubbing which it gave to her
lady-companion; but she determined to exercise a little tyranny, and
fancied that Julian would be too much frightened to resent it.
Accustomed to the legacy-hunting spirit of many parasites, the old lady
thought that Julian would be like the rest, and hoped to enjoy the sight
of him reduced to submission and obedience, in the hopes of future
advantage; not that she would exult in his humiliation, but she was glad
of any pretext to bring the noble boy before her as a suppliant for her
favour.  Accordingly, setting aside her first and better impulses, she
wrote back a sharp reply, abusing Cyril and Frank in round and severe
terms, and adding some bitter innuendoes about the poverty of the
family, and their supposed expectations at her decease.  Miss Sprong
lent all the venom of her malicious ingenuity to this precious
performance, which fortunately did not reach Julian until trials were
nearly over.  Tired with excitement and hard work, the boy could ill
endure these galling allusions, and wrote back a short and fiery
reply:--

  "My Dear Aunt--If any one has persuaded you that I am eager to
  purchase your good-will at any sacrifice, and that in consideration of
  `supposed advantages' hereafter to be derived from you--I shall be
  willing to endure unkindly language or groundless insinuations about
  my other relatives--then they have very seriously misled you as to my
  real character.  This is really the only reply of which your letter
  admits.  I shall always be ready, as in duty bound, to bestow on you
  such respect and affection as our relationship demands and your own
  kindness may elicit, but I would scorn to win your favour at the
  expense of a subservience at once ungenerous and unjust.

  "Believe me to remain, your affectionate nephew,

  "Julian Home."

This letter decided the matter.  Lady Vinsear wrote back, that as he
obviously cared nothing about her, and did not even treat her with
ordinary deference, she had that day altered her will.  Poor old lady!
Julian's angry letter cost her many a pang; and that night, as she sat
in her bedroom by her lonely hearth, and thought over her dead brother
and this gallant high-souled boy of his, the tears coursed each other
down her furrowed cheeks, and she could get no rest.  At last she had
taken her desk, and, with trembling hands, written:--

  "Dearest Julian--Forgive an old woman's whim, and come to me and
  comfort my old age.  All I have is yours, Julian; and I love you,
  though I wrote to you so bitterly.--Your loving aunt,

  "Caroline Vinsear."

But when morning came, Sprong resumed her ascendency, and by raking up
and blowing the cooled embers of her patroness' wrath, succeeded once
more in fanning them to the old red heat, after which she poured vinegar
upon them, and they exploded in the pungent fumes of the note which told
our hero that he was not to hope, for the future, to be one day owner of
a handsome fortune.

Of course, at first he was a little downcast; and in talking to
Lillyston, compared himself to Gautier sans avoir, and "Wilfred the
disinherited."

"Never mind, Julian; it matters very little to _you_," said Lillyston
proudly.

"Anyhow I must have no more fits of idleness," answered Julian.

And indeed the only pain it caused him arose from the now necessary
decision that he must go to Saint Werner's College _as a sizar_, or not
at all.  But for all that he went home with a light heart, and had once
more gained the proud distinction of head-remove--one for which, at that
time, I very much doubt whether he would have exchanged the prospect of
a rich inheritance.

And the misfortune proved an advantage to Cyril too, as we shall see.

"So here's the little rogue who has lost me a thousand a year," said
Julian laughingly, when he got home, and took Cyril on his knee by the
fireside after dinner.  The next moment he was very sorry he had said
it, for Cyril hung his head, and seemed quite disconcerted; but his
brother laughed away his sorrow, as he thought, and no further allusion
to the subject was made.

But that night, as Julian looked into his brother's bedroom before he
went to bed, he found Cyril crying, and his pillow wet with tears.

"Cyril, what's the matter, my boy?--you're not ill, are you?"

Cyril sat up, his eyes still swimming, and threw his arms round his
brother's neck.  "I've ruined you, Julian," he said.

"My dear child, what nonsense!  Nay, my foolish little fellow," answered
Julian, "this is really a mistake of yours.  Aunt Vinsear was angry with
me for my letters,--not with you.  Don't cry so, Cyril, for I really
don't care a rush about it; but I shall care if it vexes you.  But shall
I tell you why you ought to know of it, Cyril?"

"Why?"

"Because, my boy, it affects you too.  You know, Cyril, that we are very
poor now.  Well, you see we shall have to support ourselves hereafter,
and mother and Violet depend on us so you must work hard, Cyril, will
you? and don't be idle at Marlby, as I'm afraid you have been.  Eh, my
boy?"

The boy promised faithfully, and performed the promise well in after
days; but that night Julian did not leave him until he was fast asleep.

We shall tell only one more scene of Julian's Harton life, and that very
briefly.

It is a glorious summer afternoon; four o'clock bell is just over, and
it is expected that in a few minutes the examiner, (an old Hartonian and
senior classic), will read out the list which shall give the result of
many weeks' hard work.  The Newry scholarship is to be announced at the
same time: Bruce and Home are the favourite names.

A crowd of boys throng round the steps, but Julian is not among them; he
is leaning over the rails of the churchyard, under the elm-trees by
Peachey's tomb, filled with a trembling and almost sickening anxiety.
Bruce, confident of victory, is playing racquets, just below the
schoolyard.

The Examiner suddenly appears from the speech-room door.  There is a
breathless silence while he reads the list, and then announces, in an
emphatic voice--

"The Newry scholarship is adjudged to Julian Home!"

Off darts Lillyston, bounds up the hill into the churchyard, and has
informed the happy Julian of his good fortune long before the "three
cheers for Mr Burton," and "three cheers for Home," have died away.



CHAPTER FIVE.

SAINT WERNER'S.

  "So soon the boy a youth, the youth a man,
  Eager to run the race his fathers ran."
  Rogers' _Human Life_.

The last day at Harton came; the last chapel-service in that fair school
fabric; the last sermon, "Arise, let us go hence;" the last look at the
churchyard and the fourth-form room; the last "Speecher," and delivering
up of the monitor's keys; the last farewells to Mr Carden and the other
masters, and the Doctor, and their schoolfellows and fags; and then with
swelling hearts Julian and Lillyston got into the special train,
thronged with its laughing and noisy passengers, and during the twenty
minutes which were occupied by their transit to London, were filled with
the melancholy thought that the days of boyhood were over for ever.

"Good-bye, Frank," said Julian--"To-morrow, to fresh fields and pastures
new."

"Good-bye, Julian.  We must meet next at Saint Werner's."

"Mind you write meanwhile."

"All right.  You shall hear in a week.  Good-bye."  And Lillyston nodded
from the cab window his last farewell to Julian Home, the Harton boy.

But if there were partings, what glorious meetings there were too,
during those twenty-four hours.  Ah! they must be felt, not written of:
but I am sure that no family felt a keener joy that day, than Julian's
mother, and sister, and brothers, when they saw him again, and learnt
with pride that he had won a scholarship of 100 pounds a year; even Will
and Mary, the faithful servants, seemed, when they heard it, to look up
to their young master with even more honour than before.

Bruce spent the first part of his holidays in shooting, and the latter
weeks in all the gaieties of a wealthy London family.  He was naturally
self-indulgent, and as no one urged him to make good use of his time, he
devoted it to every possible amusement which riches could procure.  Both
he and his parents had a boundless belief in his natural abilities, and
these, he thought, would be quite sufficient to gain him such honours as
should be a graceful addition to the public reputation which he intended
to win.  A week or two before the Camford term commenced, he engaged
some splendid lodgings, the most expensive which he heard of, and,
turning out the furniture which was usually let with them, gave an
almost unlimited order to a fashionable upholsterer to see them fitted
out with due luxury and taste.  When he came up as a freshman, which he
deferred doing until the last possible moment, he was himself amazed to
see how literally his orders had been obeyed.  The rooms were refulgent
with splendour: glossy tables, velvet-cushioned chairs, Turkey carpets,
rich curtains, and an abundance of mirrors, made them, as the tradesman
remarked "fit for a lord;" and Bruce took possession, with no little
pride and self-satisfaction at finding himself his own master in so
brilliant an abode.

Meanwhile, the holidays had passed by with Julian very differently, but
very happily.  Without tiring himself, or harassing his attention by
study, he made a rule of devoting to work some portion, at least, of
every day.  Long strolls with his mother and sister in the bright summer
evenings, bathes and boating excursions with Cyril and Frank, and happy,
lonely rambles on the beach, kept him in health and spirits, and he
looked forward with eager ambition to the arena which he was so soon to
enter.

"The Harton boys have gone back by this time, haven't they?" asked
Violet, as she sat with her mother and brother on the lawn one
afternoon.  "Don't you wish you were there again with them, Julian?"

"No," said Julian, "I wouldn't exchange Saint Werner's man even for
Harton boy."

"How soon shall you have to go up to Saint Werner's?" said Mrs Home.

"On October 15th; in about a fortnight's time.  I mean to go up a day or
two beforehand to get settled.  You and Violet must come with me,
mother."

"But is that usual?  Won't you get laughed at as though you were coming
up under female escort?" asked Violet.

"Pooh! you don't suppose I care for that," said Julian, "even supposing
it were likely to be true; besides--" He said no more, but his proud
look at his sister's face seemed to imply that he expected rather to be
envied than laughed at.

Accordingly, they went up together, and, as the train drew nearer and
nearer to Camford, all three grew silent and thoughtful.  They were
rightly conscious that on the years to be spent in college life depended
no small part of Julian's future happiness and prosperity.  Three years
at least would be spent there; years wealthy with all blessing, or
prolific of evil and regret.

It was night when they arrived, and in the dimly-lighted streets there
was not enough visible to gratify Julian's eager curiosity.  The omnibus
was crowded with undergraduates, who were chiefly freshmen, but
apparently anxious to seem very much at home.  At the station, the piles
of luggage seemed interminable, and Mrs Home and Violet were not sorry
to escape from the unusual confusion to the quiet of their hotel.

Next morning, directly after an impatient breakfast, Julian started to
call on his tutor.

"Which is the way to Saint Werner's College?" he asked of the waiter.

"Straight along, sir," was the reply, and off he started down King's
Parade.  In his hurry to make the first acquaintance with his new
college, Julian hardly stopped to admire the smooth green quadrangle and
lofty turrets of King Henry's College, or Saint Mary's, or the Senate
House and Library, but strode on to the gate of Saint Werner's.
Entering, he gazed eagerly at the famous great court, with its chapel,
hall, fountain, and Master's lodge; and then made his way through the
cloisters of Warwick's Court to his tutor's rooms.

On entering, he found himself in a room, luxuriously furnished, and full
of books.  In a large armchair before the fire sat a clergyman, whom
Julian at once conjectured to be Mr Grayson, the tutor on whose "side"
he was entered.  He was a tall, grave-looking man, of about forty, and
rose to greet his pupil with a formal bow.

"How do you do, Mr --?  I did not quite catch the name."

"Home, sir," said Julian, advancing to shake hands in a cordial and
confiding manner; but the tutor contented himself with a very cold
shake, and seemed at a loss how to proceed.

Julian was burning with curiosity and eagerness.  He longed to ask a
hundred questions; at such a moment--a moment when he first felt how
completely he had passed over the boundary which divides boyhood from
manhood, he yearned for a word of advice, of encouragement, of sympathy.
He expected, at least, something which should resemble a welcome, or a
direction what to do.  Nothing of the kind, however, came.  While Julian
was awaiting some remark, the tutor shuffled, hemmed, and looked ill at
ease, as though at a loss how to begin the conversation.

At last Julian, in despair, asked, "Whereabouts are my rooms, sir?"

"Oh, the porter will show you; you'll find no difficulty about them,"
said the tutor.

"Have you anything further to ask me, Mr Home?" he inquired, after
another little pause.

"Nothing whatever, sir," said Julian, a little indignantly, for he began
to feel much like what a volcano may be supposed to do when its crater
is filled with snow.  "Have you anything to tell me, sir?"

"No, Mr Home.  I hope you'll--that is--I hope--good morning," he said,
as Julian, to relieve him from an unprofitable commonplace, backed
towards the door, and made a formal bow.

"Humph," thought Julian.  "What an icicle; not much good to be got out
of that quarter.  An intolerably cold reception.  It's odd, too, for the
man must have heard all about me from Mr Carden."

As we shall have very little to do with Mr Grayson, we may here allow
him a cordial word of apology.  What was to Julian the commencement of
an epoch, was, be it remembered, to the tutor a commonplace and almost
everyday event.  The whole of that week he had been occupied in
receiving visits from "the early fathers," who came up in charge of
their sons, and all of whom seemed to expect that he would show the
liveliest and tenderest interest in their respective prodigies.  Other
freshmen had visited him unaccompanied, and some of them seemed rather
inclined to patronise him than otherwise.  He was a shy man, and always
had a painful suspicion at heart that people were laughing at him.
Having lived the life of a student, he had never acquired the polished
ease of a man of the world, and had a nervous dread of strangers.  His
manners were but an icy shield of self-defence against ridicule, and
they suited his somewhat sensitive dignity.  He persuaded himself, too,
that the "men" on his side were "men" in years and discretion as well as
name, and that they must stand or fall unaided, since the years of
boyish discipline and school constraint were gone by.  It never occurred
to him that a word spoken in due season might be of incalculable benefit
to many of his charge.  Being a man of slow sensibilities, he could not
sympathise with the enthusiastic temperament of youths like Julian, nor
did he ever single out one of his pupils either for partiality or
dislike.  Yet he was thoroughly kind-hearted, and many remembered his
good deeds with generous gratitude.  Nor was he wholly wrong in his
theory that a tutor often does as much harm by meddling interference as
he does by distance and neglect.

When a boy goes to college, eager, quick, impetuous, rejoicing as a
giant to run his course, he is generally filled with noble resolutions
and elevating thoughts.  There is a touch of flame and of romance in his
disposition; he feels himself to be the member of a brotherhood, and
longs to be a distinguished and worthy one; he is anxious for all that
is grand and right, and yearns for a little sympathy to support his
determination and enliven his hopes.  Some there may be so dull and
sensual, so swallowed up in selfishness and conceit, so chill to every
generous sentiment, and callous to every stirring impulse, that they
experience none of this; their sole aim is, on the one hand to succeed,
or on the other, to amuse and gratify themselves, to cultivate all their
animal propensities, and drown in the mud-honey of premature
independence the last relics of their childish aspirations.  With men
like this, to dress showily, to drive tandem and give champagne
breakfasts, comes as a matter of course; while their supremest delight
is to wander back to their old school, in fawn-coloured dittos, and with
a cigar in their mouths, to show their superiority to all sense of
decency and good taste.  But these are the rare exceptions.  However
much they may conceal their own emotions, however dead and cynical, and
contemptible they may grow in after days, there are few men of ordinary
uprightness who do not feel a thrill of genuine enthusiasm when they
first enter the walls of their college, and who will not own it without
a blush.

Now Julian was an enthusiast by nature and temperament; all the
sentiments which we have been describing he felt with more than ordinary
intensity.  It gave a grandeur to his hopes, and a distinct sense of
ennobling pleasure to remember that he was treading the courts which
generations of the good and wise had trodden before him, and holding in
his hand the torch which they had handed down to him.  _Their_ memory
still lingered there, and he trusted that _his_ name too might in after
days be not wholly unremembered.  At least he would strive, with a
godlike energy, to fail in no duty, and to leave no effort unfulfilled.
If he viewed his coming life too much in its poetical aspect, at least
his glowing aspirations and golden dreams were tempered with a deep
humility and a childlike faith.

After fuming a little at the icy reception which his tutor had given
him, he walked up and down the court, thinking of his position, and his
intentions--of the past, the present, and the future--until proud tears
glistened in his eyes.  It was clear to him that now he would have to
stand alone amid life's trials, and alone face life's temptations.  And
he was ready for the struggle.  With God's help he would not miss the
meaning of his life, but take the tide of opportunity while it was at
the flood.

Before rejoining his mother, he determined to call on one of the junior
fellows, the only one with whom he had any acquaintance, the Reverend N
Admer.  He only knew him from a casual introduction; but Mr Admer had
asked him to call, on his arrival at Saint Werner's, and Julian hoped
both to get some information from him to dissipate the painful feeling
of strangeness and novelty, and also partially to do away with the
effect of Mr Grayson's coldness.

Although it was now past ten in the morning, he found Mr Admer only
just beginning breakfast, and looking tired and lazy.  He was received
with a patronising and supercilious tone, and the Fellow not only went
on with his breakfast, but occasionally glanced at a newspaper while he
talked.  Not that Mr Admer at all meant to be unkind or rude, but he
hated enthusiasm in every shape; he did not believe in it, and it
wearied him--hence freshmen during their first few days were his
profound abhorrence.

After a few commonplace remarks, Julian ventured on a question or two as
to the purchases which he would immediately require, the hours of
lecture and hall, and the thousand-and-one trifles of which a newcomer
is necessarily ignorant.  Mr Admer seemed to think this a great bore,
and answered languidly enough, advising Julian not to be "more fresh"
than he could help.  It requires very small self-denial to make a person
at home by supplying him with a little information; but small as the
effort would have been, it was greater than the Reverend N Admer could
afford to make, and his answers were so little encouraging that Julian,
making ample allowance for the ennuye condition of the young Fellow,
relapsed into silence.

"And what do you think of Saint Werner's?" asked Mr Admer, taking the
initiative, with a yawn.

Julian's face lighted up.  "Think of it!  I feel uncommonly proud
already of being a Saint Werner's man."

"Genius loci, and all that sort of thing, eh?"

The sneering way in which this was said left room for no reply, so Mr
Admer continued.

"Ah you'll soon find all that sort of twaddle wear off."

"I hope not," said Julian.

"Of course you intend to be senior classic, or senior wrangler, or
something of that sort?"

"I expect simply nothing; but if I were inclined to soar, one might have
a still higher ambition than that."

"Oh, I see; an embryo Newton,--all that sort of thing."

"I didn't mean quite `all that sort of thing,' since you seem fond of
the phrase," said Julian, "but really I think my aspirations, whatever
they are, would only tire you.  Good morning."

"Good morning," said Mr Admer, nodding.  "We don't shake hands up here.
I shall come and call on you soon."

"The later the better," thought Julian, as he descended the narrow
stairs.  "Good heavens! is that a fair specimen of a don, I wonder.  If
so, I shall certainly confine my acquaintance to the undergraduates."

No, Julian, not a fair specimen of a don altogether, but in some of his
aspects a fair specimen of a certain class of university men, who
profess to admire nothing, hope for nothing, love nothing; who think
warmth of heart a folly, and sentiment a crime; who would not display an
interest in any thing more important than a boat-race or a game of
bowls, to save their lives; who are very fond of the phrase, "all that
sort of nonsense," to express everything that rises above the dead level
of their own dead mediocrity in intelligence and life.  If you would not
grovel in spirit; if you would not lose every tear that sparkles, and
every sigh that burns; if you would not ossify the very power of
passion; if you would not turn your soul into a mass of shapeless lead,
avoid those despicable cynics, who never leave their discussion of the
merits of beer, or the powers of stroke oars, unless it be to carp at
acknowledged eminence, and jeer at genuine emotion.  How often in such
company have I seen men relapse into stupid silence, because, if they
ventured on any expression of lively interest, one of the throng, amid
the scornful indifference of the rest, would give the only
acknowledgment of his remark, by taking the pipe out of his mouth, to
give vent to a low guttural laugh.

After this it was lucky for Julian that he had brought his mother and
sister with him, and that a moment after leaving Mr Admer he caught
sight of Hugh Lillyston.  With a joyful expression of surprise, they
grasped each other's hands, and interchanged so friendly a greeting that
Julian in an instant had scattered to the winds the gloomy impression
which was beginning to creep over him.

"How long have you been here, Hugh?"

"I came yesterday."

"Have you seen your rooms yet?"

"No; I am just going to look for them."

"Well, come along; I know where they are."

"But stop," said Julian, "I must go to the Eagle first for my people.
They'll be expecting me."

"Really.  So Mrs Home's here?" asked Lillyston.

"Yes, and my sister.  If you've nothing to do, come and be introduced."

"How immensely jolly.  I wish _my_ mother and sister had taken the
trouble to come with me, I know."

They went to the hotel, and Lillyston was able to gratify the curiosity
he had long felt to see his friend's relations.

"Whom do you think I've brought back with me, mother? guess," said
Julian, as he entered the room beaming with pleasure.  "Here, Hugh, come
along.  My mother--my sister--Mr Lillyston."

"What! is this the Mr Lillyston of whom we've heard so much?" asked
Mrs Home, with a cordial shake of the hand, while Violet looked up with
a quick glance of curiosity and pleasure.

"No other," said Hugh, laughing; "and really I feel as if I were an old
friend already."

"You are so, I assure you," said Mrs Home, "and I hope we shall often
meet now."  Lillyston hoped the same, as he looked at Violet.

It was arranged that they should all four go at once to Julian's rooms,
and help in the grand operation of unpacking.  The rooms were very
pleasant attics in the great court, looking out on the Fellows'
bowling-green, and the Iscam flowing beyond it.  The furniture, most of
which Julian was going to take from the previous possessor, was neat and
comfortable, and when the book shelves began to glitter with his Harton
prizes and gift-books, Julian was delighted beyond measure with the
appearance of his new home.

For some hours the unpacking continued vigorously, only interrupted by
an excursion for lunch to the hotel, since Julian had as yet purchased
no plates and received no commons.

On their return they found an old lady in the room--

  "A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood;"

who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed Julian that
she was to be his bedmaker, and asked him whether he intended "to tea"
in his rooms that evening.  (The verb "to tea" is the property of
bedmakers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect
tense--as "have you tea'd?")

"By all means," said Julian; "lay the table for four this evening at
eight o'clock, and get me some bread and butter.  You'll stay, Hugh,
won't you?"

"I should like to, very much.  But won't it be your last evening with
your mother and Miss Home?"

"Yes; but never mind that."

Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a warm good-bye, left
them to enjoy with Julian his first quiet evening in Saint Werner's,
Camford.

"I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet.  I shall want your
advice."

"Well, let me see," said Violet.  "The water-colour likenesses of Cyril
and Frankie ought to go here, one on each side of Mr Vere; at least, I
suppose, you mean to put Mr Vere in the place of honour?"

"Oh, certainly," said Julian; "every time I look on that noble face, so
full of strength and love, and so marked with those `divine
hieroglyphics of sorrow,' I shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and
wisdom."

"People will certainly call you a heretic, if you do," laughed Violet.

"People!" said Julian scornfully.

  "Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise.

"Let them yelp."

Mr Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been an intimate friend of
Mr Home before his death.  Julian had only heard him preach, and met
him occasionally; but he had read some of his works, and had received
from him so much sympathising kindness and intellectual aid, that he
regarded him with a love and reverence little short of devotion--as a
man distinguished above all others for his gentleness, his eloquence,
his honesty, his learning, and his love.  This likeness had belonged to
Mr Home, and Julian had asked leave to carry it with him whenever he
should go to the University.

"Yes, the place of honour for Mr Vere."

"And where shall we hang this?" said Julian, taking up a photograph of
Van Dyck's great painting of Jacob's Dream: the Hebrew boy is sleeping
on the ground, and his long, dark curls, falling off his forehead,
mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding plants, fanned by the
waving of mysterious wings; a cherub is lightly raising the embroidered
cap that partially shades his face, and at his feet, blessing him with
uplifted hand, stands a majestic angel, on whose flowing robes of white
gleams a celestial radiance from the vista, alight with heavenly faces,
that opens over his head.  A happy and holy slumber seems to breathe
from the lad's countenance, and yet you can tell that the light of
dreams has dawned under his "closed eyelids," and that the inward eye
has caught full sight of that Beatific Epiphany.

"We must hang this in your bedroom, Julian," said Mrs Home.  "I shall
love to think of you lying under the outstretched hand of this heavenly
watcher."

So they hung it there, and the task was over, and they spent a happy
happy evening together.  Next morning Julian accompanied them to the
train, and walked back to the matriculation examination.



CHAPTER SIX.

RENCONTRES.

  "A boy--no better--with his rosy cheeks
  Angelical, keen eye, courageous look,
  And conscious step of purity and pride."
  Wordsworth's _Prelude_.

A public school man is by no means lonely when he first enters the
university.  He finds many of his old school-fellows accompanying him,
and many who have gone up before him, and he feels united to them all by
a bond of fellowship, which at once creates for him a circle of friends.
Had Julian merely kept up his Harton acquaintances, he would have known
as many Camford men as were at all necessary for the purposes of
society.

But although with most or all of the Hartonians Julian remained on
pleasant and friendly terms, there were others whom he saw quite as
much, and whose society he enjoyed all the more thoroughly because their
previous associations and experiences were different from his own.  And
on looking back in aftertimes, what a delight it was to remember the
noble hearts which, during those years of college life, had always
beaten in unison with his own.  Few enjoyments were more keen than that
social equality and unconventional intercourse common among all
undergraduates, which might at any time ripen into an earnest and
invaluable friendship, or merely stop at the stage of an agreeable
acquaintanceship.  A great, and not the least useful portion of
University education consisted in the intimate knowledge of character
and the many-sided sympathies which were thus insensibly acquired.

During the first few weeks of college life, of course, a good deal of
time was spent in receiving and returning the visits of acquaintances,
old and new.  Of the latter, there was one with whom Julian and
Lillyston were equally charmed, and who soon became their constant
companion.  His name was Kennedy, and Julian first got to know him by
sitting next him in lecture-room.  His lively remarks, his keen and
vivid sense of the ludicrous, the quick yet kindly notice he took of
men's peculiarities, his ardent appreciation of the books which occupied
their time, and the pleasant, rapid way in which he would dash off a
caricature, soon attracted notice, and he rapidly became popular, both
among undergraduates and dons.  He was known, too, by the warm eulogy of
his fellow-Marlbeians, who were never tired of singing his praises among
themselves.

"Splendid!" whispered he to Julian warmly, after Julian had just
finished construing a difficult clause in the Agamemnon, which he had
done with a spirit and fire which even kindled a spark of admiration in
the cold breast of Mr Grayson.  "Splendidly done, Home!  I say, how
very reserved you are.  Here have I been longing to know you for the
last ten days, and we have hardly got beyond a nod to each other yet.
Do come in to tea at my rooms to-night at eight.  I want to introduce
you to a friend of mine--Owen of Roslyn school."

"With pleasure," said Julian.  "That dark-haired fellow is Owen, is it
not?  I hear he's going to do great things!"

"Oh yes! booked for a Fellow and a double-first; so you ought to know
him, you know."

"Silence, gentlemen," said Mr Grayson, turning his stony gaze on
Kennedy, whose bright face instantly assumed a demure expression of deep
attention, while the light of laughter which still danced in his eyes
might have betrayed to a careful observer the fact that the notes on
which he appeared to be so assiduously occupied mainly consisted of
replications of Mr Grayson's placid physiognomy and Roman nose.

"I've brought an umbra with me, Kennedy, in the person of Mr Lillyston,
who sits next to me at lectures, and wanted to be introduced to you,"
said Owen, as he came in to Kennedy's room that evening.

"I'm delighted," said Kennedy.  "Mr Lillyston, let me introduce you to
Mr Home."

"We hardly need an introduction, Hugh, at this time of day; do we?" said
Julian, laughing; and the four were soon as much at home as it was
possible for men to be.  There was no lack of conversation.  I think the
rooms of a Camford undergraduate are about the last place where
conversation ever flags; and when men like Kennedy, Owen, Julian, and
Lillyston meet, it is perhaps more genuinely earnest and interesting
than in any other time or place.

The next day, as Kennedy was sitting in Julian's rooms, glancing over
the Aeschylus with him, in strutted Hazlet, whom we have incidentally
mentioned as having been the son of a widow lady living at Ildown.  He
had come up to Camford straight from home, and as he had only received a
home-education everything was strangely bewildering to him, and Julian
was almost the only friend he knew.  Nor was he likely to attract many
friends; his manner was strangely self-confident, and his language
dictatorial and dogmatic.  In his mother's house he had long been the
centre of religious tea-parties, before which he was often called upon
to read and even to expound the Scriptures.  "At the tip of his subduing
tongue" were a number of fantastic phrases, originally misapplied, and
long since worn bare of meaning, and the test of his orthodoxy was the
universality with which he could reiterate proofs of heresy against
every man of genius, honesty, and depth--who loved truth better than he
loved the oracles of the prevalent idols.  Hazlet practised the duty of
Christian charity by dealing indiscriminate condemnation against all
except those who belonged to his own exclusive and somewhat ignorant
school of religious intolerance.  His face was the reflex of his mind;
his lank black hair stuck down in stiff dry straightness over a
contracted forehead and an ill-shaped head; his spectacles gave
additional glassiness to a lack-lustre eye, and the manner in which he
carried his chin in the air seemed like an acted representation of "I am
holier than thou."

Far be it from me to hold up to ridicule any body of earnest and honest
men, to whatever party they may belong.  I am writing of Hazlet, not of
those who hold the same opinions as he did.  That man must have been
unfortunate in life who has not many friends, and friends whom he holds
in deep affection, among the adherents of opinions most entirely
antagonistic to his own.  Hazlet's repulsiveness was due to a very
mistaken education, developing a very foolish idiosyncrasy, and
especially to the pernicious system of encouraging sentiments and
expressions which in a boy's mind _could_ not be other than sickly
exotics.  He had to be taught his own hypocrisy by the painful progress
of events, and, above all, he had to learn that religious shibboleths
may be no proof of sanctification, and that religious intolerance is
usually the hybrid offspring of ignorance and conceit.  In many
essential matters he held the truth,--but he held it in unrighteousness.

It may be imagined that Hazlet was no favourite companion of Julian
Home.  But Julian loved and honoured to the utmost of his power the good
points of all; he had a deep and real veneration for humanity, and
rarely allowed himself an unkind expression, or a look which indicated
ennui, even to those associates by whose presence he was most
unspeakably bored.  Hazlet mistook his courteous manner for a
deferential agreement, and was, too often, in Julian's presence more
than usually insufferable in his Pharisaical tendencies.

"Good heavens!" said Kennedy, who saw Hazlet coming across the court.
"Who's this, Home?  He looks as if he had been just presiding at three
conventicles and a meeting at Philadelphus Hall.  Surely he can't be
coming here."

"Oh, yes," said Julian, "that's a compatriot of mine named Hazlet; a
very good fellow, I believe, though rather obtrusive perhaps."

"Good morning, Home," said Hazlet, in a measured and sanctified tone, as
he entered the room and sat down.

Kennedy glanced impatiently at the Aeschylus.

"Ah!  I see you're engaged on that heathen poet.  It often strikes me,
Home, that we may be wrong after all in spending so much time on these
works of men, who, as Saint Paul tells us, were `wholly given to
idolatry.'  I have just come from a most refreshing meeting at--"

"I say, Home," cut in Kennedy hastily, "shall I go?  I suppose you won't
do over any more of the Agamemnon this morning."

"I don't know," said Julian; "perhaps Hazlet will join us in our
construe."

"No, I think not," said Hazlet, with a compassionate sigh.  "I have
looked at it; but some of it appeared to me so pagan in its sentiments
that I contented myself with praying that I might not be put on.  But
you haven't told me what you think about what I was saying."

"Botheration," said Kennedy; "so your theory is that Christianity was
intended to put an extinguisher over the light of heaven-born genius,
and that the power and passion and wisdom of Aeschylus came from himself
or the devil, and not from God?  Surely, without any further argument on
such an absurd proposition, it ought to be sufficient for you that this
kind of learning forms a part of your immediate duty."

"I find other duties more paramount--now prayer, for instance, and talk
with sound friends."

"Phew!!!" whistled Kennedy, thoroughly disgusted at language which was
as new to him as it was distasteful; and, to relieve his feelings, he
abandoned the conversation to Julian, and began to turn over the books
on the table.  Julian, however, seemed quite disinclined to enter into
the question, and after a pause, Hazlet, gracefully waiving his little
triumph, asked him with a peculiar unction--

"And how goes it, my dear Home, with your immortal soul?"

"My soul!" said Julian carelessly.  "Oh! it's all right."

Hazlet then began to look at Julian's pictures.

"Ah," he observed with a deep sigh, "I'm sorry to see that you have the
portrait of so unsound, so dangerous a man as Mr Vere."

"We'll drop that topic, please, Hazlet," said Julian, "as we're not
likely to agree upon it."

"Have you ever read one word that Mr Vere ever wrote?" asked Kennedy.

"Well, yes; at least no, not exactly: but still one may judge, you know;
besides, I've seen extracts of his works."

"Extracts!" answered Kennedy scornfully; "extracts which often attribute
to him the very sentiments which he is opposing.  But it isn't worth
arguing with one of your school, who have the dishonesty to condemn
writers whom you are incapable of understanding, on the faith of
extracts which they haven't even read."

The wrathful purpling of Hazlet's sallow countenance portended an
explosion of orthodox spleen, but Julian gently interposed in time to
save the devoted Kennedy from a few unmeasured anathemas.

"Hush!" he said, "none of the odium theologicum, please, lest the mighty
shade of Aeschylus smile at you in scorn.  Do drop the subject, Hazlet."

"Very well, if you like, Home; but I must deliver my conscience, you
know.  But really, Julian, you are not very Christian in your other
pictures."

This was too much even for Julian's politeness, and he joined in the
shout of laughter with which Kennedy greeted this appeal.

"Fools make a mock at sin," said Hazlet austerely.  "I trust that you
will both be brought to a better state of mind.  Good morning!"

Kennedy flung himself into an armchair, and after finishing his laugh,
exclaimed, "My dear Home, where did you pick up that intolerable
hypocrite?"

"Hush, Kennedy, hush!  Don't call him a hypocrite.  His mode of religion
may be very offensive to us, and yet it may be sincere."

"Faugh! the idea of asking you, `How's your soul?'  It reminds me of a
friend of mine who was suddenly asked by a minister in a train `if he
didn't feel an aching void?'  `An aching void?  Where?' said Jones, in a
tone of alarm, for he was an unimaginative person.  `Within, sir,
within!' said the stranger.  Jones felt anxiously to find whether one of
his ribs was accidentally protruding, but finding them all safe, set
down the minister for a lunatic, and moved to the further end of the
carriage."

Julian smiled; he was more accustomed to this kind of phraseology than
his friend, and knew that outrageous as it was to good taste under the
circumstances, it yet might spring from a sincere and honourable motive,
or at best must be regarded as the natural result of innate vulgarity
and mistaken training.

"Surely at best," continued Kennedy, "it's a most unwarrantable
impertinence for a fellow like that to want to dabble his ignorant and
coarse hand in the hallowed secrets of the microcosm.  Not to one's
nearest and dearest friend, not to one's mother or brother would one
babble promiscuously on such awful themes; and to have the soul's
sublime and eternal emotions, its sacred and unspoken communings, lugged
out into farcical prominence by such conversational cant as that, is to
dry up the very fountain of true religion, and put a premium on the
successful grin of an offensive hypocrisy."

Kennedy seemed quite agitated, and as usual found relief in striding up
and down the room.  His religious feelings were deep and real--none the
less so for being hidden--and Hazlet's language and manner had given him
a rude shock.

"Another hour in that fellow's company would make me an infidel," he
exclaimed with quivering lip.  "Pray for me, indeed, with some of his
`sound and congenial friends.'  Faugh! `sound!' how does he dare to
judge whether his superiors are `sound' or not? and why must he borrow a
metaphor from Stilton cheeses when he's talking of religious
convictions."

"Why really, Kennedy," said Julian, "to see the contempt written in your
face, one would think you were an archangel looking at a black beetle,
as a learned judge once observed.  If you won't regard Hazlet as a man
and a brother, at least remember that he's a vertebrate animal."

But Kennedy was not to be joked out of his indignation, so Julian
continued.  "I wish you knew more of Lillyston.  At one time, I should
have been nearly as much bothered by Hazlet as you, but Lillyston's
kind, genial good-humour with every one, and the genuine respectful
sympathy which he shows even for things he can least understand, have
made me much happier than I should have been.  Now, _he_ might have done
Hazlet some good, whereas your opposition, my dear fellow, will only
make him more rampant than ever.  Ah, here Lillyston comes."

"What an honest open face," said Kennedy.

"Like the soul which looks through it, _sans peur et sans reproche_,"
said Julian warmly.

"Rather a contrast to the last comer," murmured Kennedy, as he picked up
his cap and gown to walk to the lecture-room.

"There, don't think of Hazlet any more," said Julian.

  "`He prayeth best who loveth best
  All things both great and small,
  For the dear God who loveth us,
  He made and loveth all.'

"A capital good motto that; isn't it, Hugh?"

"I must love Hazlet as one of the very small things, then," said the
incorrigible Kennedy as he left the room with the other two.

Hazlet was put on to construe during the lecture, and if anything could
have shaken the brazen tower of his self-confidence, it would have been
the egregious display of incapacity which followed; but Hazlet rather
piqued himself on his indifference to the poor blind heathen poets, on
whose names he usually dealt reprobation broadcast.  "Like lions that
die of an ass's kick," those wronged great souls lay prostrate before
Hazlet's wrathful heels.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE SCORN OF SCORN.

  "And not a man, for being simply man,
  Hath any honour, but honour for those honours
  That are without him--as place, riches, favour,
  Prizes of accident as oft as merit."
  _Shakespeare_.

Very different in all respects were Julian's rencontres with others of
his old schoolfellows.  There were some, indeed, among them who had left
Harton while they were still in low forms, and some whose tastes and
pursuits were so entirely different from his own, that it was hardly
likely that he should maintain any other intercourse with them than such
as was demanded by a slight acquaintance.  But of Bruce, at any rate, it
might have been expected that he would see rather more than proved to be
the case.  Bruce, as having been head of the school during the period
when Julian was a monitor, had been thrown daily into his company, and,
as inmates of the same house, they had acted together in the thousand
little scenes which diversify the bright and free monotony of a
schoolboy's life.

But the first fortnight passed by, and Bruce had not called on Julian,
and as they were on different "sides," they had not chanced to meet,
either in lecture-room or elsewhere.  Julian, not knowing whether his
position as sizar would make any difference in Bruce's estimation of
him, had naturally left him to take the initiative in calling; while
Bruce, on the other hand, always a little jealous of his brilliant
contemporary, and not too anxious to be familiar with a sizar, pretended
to himself that it was as much Julian's place as his to be first in
calling.  Hence it was that, for the first fortnight, the two did not
happen to come across each other.

Meanwhile Bruce also had made many fresh acquaintances.  His reputation
for immense wealth and considerable talent--his dashing easy manner--his
handsome person and elaborate style of dress, attracted notice, and very
soon threw him into the circle of all the young fashionables of Saint
Werner's.  His style of life cannot be better described than by saying
that he affected the fine gentleman.  Hardly a day had passed during
which he had not been at some large breakfast or wine-party, or formed
one of a select little body of supping aristocrats.  He did very little
work, and pretended to do none, (for Bruce was a first-rate specimen of
the never-open-a-book genus), although at unexpected hours he took care
to get up the lecture-room subjects sufficiently well to make a display
when he was put on.  Even in this he was unsuccessful, for scholarship
cannot be acquired _per saltum_, and Mr Serjeant, the lecturer on his
side, looked on him with profound contempt as a puppy who was all the
more offensive from pretending to some knowledge.  He told him that he
might distinguish himself by hard steady work, but would never do so
without infinitely more pains than he took the trouble to apply.  His
quiet and caustic strictures, and the easy sarcasm with which he would
allow Bruce to flourish his way through a passage, and then go through
it himself, pointing out how utterly Bruce had "hopped with airy and
fastidious levity" above all the nicer shades of meaning, and slurred
over his ignorance of a difficulty by some piece of sonorous nonsense,
made him peculiarly the object of the young man's disgust.  But though
Mr Serjeant wounded his vanity, the irony of "a musty old don," as
Bruce contemptuously called him, was amply atoned for by the compliments
of the fast young admirers whom Bruce soon gathered round him, and some
of whom were always to be found after hall-time sipping his claret or
lounging in his gorgeous rooms.  To them Bruce's genius was
incontestably proved by the faultless evenness with which he parted his
hair behind, the dapperness of his boots, and the merit of his spotless
shirts.

Sir Rollo Bruce, Vyvyan's father, was a man of no particular family, who
had been knighted on a deputation, and contrived to glitter in the most
splendid circles of London society.  His magnificent entertainments, his
exquisite appointments, his apparently fabulous resources, were a
sufficient passport into the saloons of dukes; and, although ostensibly
Sir Rollo had nothing to live on but his salary as the chairman of a
bank, nobody who had the entree of his house cared particularly to
inquire into the sources of his wealth.  Vyvyan imitated his father in
his expensive tastes, and cultivated, with vulgar assiduity, the society
of the noblemen at his college.  In a short time he knew them all, and
all of them had been at his rooms except a young Lord De Vayne, of whom
we shall hear more hereafter, and whose retiring manners made him shrink
with dislike from Bruce's fawning familiarity.

The sizars at Saint Werner's do not dine at the same hour as the rest of
the undergraduates, but the hour after, and their dinner consists of the
dishes which have previously figured on the Fellows' table.  It seems to
me that the time may come when the authorities of that royal foundation
will see reason to regret so unnecessary an arrangement, the relic of a
long, obsolete, and always undesirable system.  Many of Saint Werner's
most distinguished alumni have themselves sat at the sizars' table, and
if any of them were blessed or cursed with sensitive dispositions, they
will not be dead to the justice of these remarks.  The sizars are, by
birth and education, invariably, so far as I know, the sons of
gentlemen, and perhaps most often of clergymen whose means prevent them
from bearing unassisted the heavy burden of University expenses.  After
a short time many of these sizars become scholars, and eventually a
large number of them win for themselves the honours of a fellowship.
Why put on these young students a gratuitous indignity?  Why subject
them to the unpleasant remarks which some are quite coarse enough to
make on the subject?  The authorities of Saint Werner's are full of real
courtesy and kindness, and that the arrangement is not intended as an
indignity I am well aware; it is, as I have said, the accidental
fragment of an obsolete period--a period when scholars dined on "a penny
piece of beef," and slept two or three in a room at the foot of the
Fellows' beds.  All honour to Saint Werner's; all honour to the great,
and the wise, and the learned, and the noble whom she has sent forth
into all lands; all honour to the bravery and the truthfulness of her
sons; all honour to the profound scholars, and able teachers, and
eloquent orators who preside at her councils; she is a Queen of
colleges, and may wield her sceptre with a strong hand and a proud.  But
are there not some among her subjects who are deaf to the sounds of calm
advice?--some who are so blind as to love her faults and prop up her
abuses?--some who daub her walls with the untempered mortar of their
blind prejudice, and treat every one as an enemy who would aid in
removing here and there a bent pillar, and here and there a crumbling
stone?  (These words were written some time ago.  I trust that since
then all causes of offence, if they ever existed, have long been
forgiven and forgotten.)

And now let all defenders of present institutions, however bad they may
be--let all violent supporters of their old mumpsimus against any new
sumpsimus whatever, listen to a conversation among some undergraduates.
It may convince them, or it may not--I cannot tell; but I know that it
had a powerful influence on me.

Bruce was standing in the Butteries, where he had just been joined by
Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D'Acres, who by virtue of their titles--
certainly not by any other virtue--sat among reverend Professors and
learned Doctors at the high table, far removed from the herd of common
undergraduates.  With the three were _Mr_.  Boodle and _Mr_.  Tulk, (the
"Mister" is given them in the college-lists out of respect for the long
purses which have purchased them, the privilege of fellow-commoners or
ballantiogennaioi), who enjoyed the same enviable distinction and happy
privilege.  By the screens were four or five sizars; a few more were
scattered about in the passage waiting, whilst the servants hurriedly
placed the dishes on the table set apart for them; and Julian was
chatting to Lillyston, who chanced at the moment to have been passing
by.

"Who is that table for?" asked D'Acres, pointing through the open door
of the hall.

"Oh, that's for the sizars," tittered the feeble-minded Boodle, who
tittered at everything.

"S-s-sizars!" stammered Lord Fitzurse.  "What's that mean?  Are they
v-v-very big f-f-fellows?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" said Bruce.  "No; they're sons of gyps and that kind of
thing, who feed on the semese fragments of the high table."

"They must be g-g-ghouls!" said his lordship, shudderingly.

"Hush," said D'Acres, who was a thorough gentleman, "some of the sizars
may be here;" and he dropped Bruce's arm.

"Pooh! they'll feel flattered," said Bruce carelessly, as D'Acres walked
off.

"Indeed!" said Julian, striding indignantly forward, for the
conversation was so loud that he had heard every word of it.  "Flattered
to be the butt for the insolence of puppyism and every fool who is
coarse enough to insult them publicly."

"Who the d-d-d-deuce are you?" said Lord Fitzurse, "for you're coming it
r-r-rather strong."

"Who is he?" said Lillyston, breaking in, "your equal, sir, in birth, as
he is your superior in intellect, and in every moral quality.
Gentlemen," he continued, "let me warn you not to have the impertinence
to talk in this way again."

"Warn us!" said Bruce, trying to hide under bravado his crestfallen
temper; "why, what'll you do if we choose to continue?"

"Make a few counter-remarks to begin with, Bruce, on parasites and
parvenus, tuft-hunting freshmen, and the tenth transmitters of a foolish
face," retorted Lillyston, glowing with honest indignation.

"And turn you out of the butteries by the shoulders," said a strong
undergraduate, who had chanced to be a witness of the scene.  "A
somewhat boyish proceeding, perhaps, but exactly suited to some
capacities."

Bruce and his friends, seeing that they were beginning to have the worst
of it, thought it about time to swagger off, and for the future learnt
to confine their remarks to a more exclusive circle.

There had been another silent spectator of the scene in the person of
Lord De Vayne.  He was a young viscount whose estate bordered on the
grounds of Lonstead Abbey, and he had known Julian since both of them
were little boys.  He had been entirely educated at home with an
excellent tutor, who had filled his mind with all wise and generous
sentiments; but his widowed mother lived in such complete seclusion that
he had rarely entered the society of any of his own age, and was
consequently timid and bashful.  Meeting sometimes with Julian, he had
conceived a warm admiration for his genius and character, and at one
time had earnestly wished to join him at Harton.  But his mother was so
distressed at the proposition that he at once abandoned it, while he
eagerly looked forward to the time when he should meet his friend at
Saint Werner's, on the books of which college he had entered his name
partly for this very reason.  He had not been an undergraduate many days
before he called on Julian, who had received him indeed very kindly, but
who seemed rather shy of being much in his company for fear of the
remarks which he had not yet learnt entirely to disregard.  This was a
great source of vexation to De Vayne, though the reason of it was partly
explained after the remarks which he had just overheard.

"Home," he whispered, "I wish you'd come into my rooms after hall, I
should so much like to have a talk.  Do," he said, as he saw that Julian
hesitated, "I assure you I have felt quite lonely here."

Accordingly, after hall, Julian strolled into Warwick's Court, and found
his way to Lord De Vayne's rooms.

"I am so glad to see you, Julian, at last.  As I have told you," he
said, with a glistening eye, "I have been very lonely.  I have never
left home before, and have made no friend here as yet;" and he heaved a
deep sigh.

Julian felt his heart full of friendliness for the gentle boy whose
total inexperience made him seem younger than he really was.  He glanced
round the rooms; they were richly furnished, but full of memorials of
home, that gave them a melancholy aspect.  Over the fireplace was a
water-colour likeness of his lady-mother in her widow's weeds, and on
the opposite side of the room another picture of a beautiful young
child--De Vayne's only brother, who had died in infancy.  The
handsomely-bound books on the shelves had been transferred from their
well-known places in the library of Uther Hall, and the regal antlers
which were fastened over the door had once graced the dining-room.
Thousands would have envied Lord De Vayne's position; but he had caught
the shadow of his mother's sadness, his relations were few, at Saint
Werner's as yet he had found none to lean upon, and he felt unhappy and
alone.

"I was so ashamed, Julian," he said, "so utterly and unspeakably ashamed
to hear the rudeness of these men as we came out of hall.  I'm afraid
you must have felt deeply hurt."

"Yes, for the moment; but I'm sorry that I took even a moment's notice
of it.  Why should one be ruffled because others are unfeeling and
impertinent; it is their misfortune, not ours."

"But why did you come up as a sizar, Julian?  Surely with Lonstead Abbey
as your inheritance--"

"No," said Julian with a smile; "I am lord of my leisure, and no land
beside."

"Really!  I had always looked on you as a future neighbour and helper."

He was too delicate to make any inquiries on the subject, but while a
bright airy vision rose for an instant before Julian's fancy, and then
died away, his friend said, with ingenuous embarrassment:

"You know, Home, I am very rich.  In truth, I have far more money than I
know what to do with.  It only troubles me.  I wish--"

"Oh, dear no!" said Julian hastily; "I got the Newry scholarship, you
know, at Harton, and I really need no assistance whatever."

"I hope I haven't offended you; how unlucky I am," said De Vayne
blushing.

"Not a whit, De Vayne; I know your kind heart."

"Well, do let me see something of you.  Won't you come a walk sometimes,
or let me come in of an evening when you're taking tea, and not at
work?"

"Do," said Julian, and they agreed to meet at his rooms on the following
Sunday evening.

Sunday at Camford was a happy day for Julian Home.  It was a day of
perfect leisure and rest; the time not spent at church or in the society
of others, he generally occupied in taking a longer walk than usual, or
in the luxuries of solemn and quiet thought.  But the greatest enjoyment
was to revel freely in books, and devote himself unrestrained to the
gorgeous scenes of poetry, or the passionate pages of eloquent men; on
that day he drank deeply of pure streams that refreshed him for his
weekly work; nor did he forget some hour of commune, in the secrecy of
his chamber and the silence of his heart, with that God and Father in
whom alone he trusted, and to whom alone he looked for deliverance from
difficulty, and guidance under temptation.  Of all hours his happiest
and strongest were those in which he was alone--alone except for a
heavenly presence, sitting at the feet of a Friend, and looking face to
face upon himself.

He had been reading Wordsworth since hall-time, when the ringing of the
chapel-bell summoned him to put on his surplice, and walk quietly down
to chapel.  As there was plenty of time, he took a stroll or two across
the court before going in.  While doing so, he met De Vayne, and in his
company suddenly found himself vis-a-vis with his old enemy Brogten.

"Hm!" whispered Brogten to his companion; "the sizars are getting on.  A
sizar and a viscount arm-in-arm!"

Julian only heard enough of this sentence to be aware that it was highly
insolent; and the flush on De Vayne's cheek showed that he too had
caught something of its meaning.

"Never mind that boor's rudeness," he said.  "I feel more than honoured
to be in the sizar's company.  How admirably quiet you are, Julian,
under such conduct!"

"I try to be; not always with success, though," he answered, as his
breast swelled, and his lip quivered with indignation

  "Scorn!--to be scorned by one that I scorn:
  Is that a matter to make me fret?
  Is that a matter to cause regret?
  Stop! let's come into chapel."

They went into chapel together.  De Vayne walked into the noblemen's
seats, and Julian, hot and angry, and with the words, "Scorn!--to be
scorned by one that I scorn," still ringing in his ears, strode up the
whole length of the chapel to the obscure corner set apart--is it not
very needlessly set apart?--for the sizars' use.

Saint Werner's chapel on a Sunday evening is a moving sight.  Five
hundred men in surplices thronging the chapel from end to end--the very
flower of English youth, in manly beauty, in strength, in race, in
courage, in mind--all kneeling side by side, bound together in a common
bond of union by the grand historic associations of that noble place--
all mingling their voices together with the trebles of the choir and the
thunder-music of the organ.  This is a spectacle not often equalled; and
to take a share in it, as one for whose sake in part it has been
established, is a privilege not to be forgotten.  The music, the
devotion, the spirit of the place, smoothed the swelling thoughts of
Julian's troubled heart.  "Are we not all brethren?  Hath not one Father
begotten us?"  Such began to be the burden of his thoughts, rather than
the old "Scorn!--to be scorned by one that I scorn."  And when the
glorious tones of the anthem ceased, and the calm steady voice of the
chaplain was heard alone, uttering in the sudden hush the grand overture
to the noble prayer--

"_O Lord, our heavenly Father, high and mighty, King of Kings, Lord of
Lords, the only Ruler of princes, who dost from thy throne behold all
the dwellers upon earth_."

Then the last demon of wrath was exorcised, and Julian thought to
himself--

"No; from henceforth I scorn no one, and am indifferent alike to the
proud man's scorn and the base man's sneer."

The two incidents that we have narrated made Julian fear that his
position as a sizar would be one of continual annoyance.  He afterwards
gratefully acknowledged that in such a supposition he was quite
mistaken.  Never again while he remained a sizar did he hear the
slightest unkind allusions to the circumstance, and but for the external
regulations imposed by the college, he might even have forgotten the
fact.  Those regulations, especially the hall arrangements, were indeed
sufficiently disagreeable at times.  It could not be pleasant to dine in
a hall which had just been left by hundreds of men, and to make the meal
amid the prospect of slovenly servants employed in the emptying of
wine-glasses and the ligurrition of dishes, sometimes even in passages
of coquetry or noisy civilities, on the interchange of which the
presence of these undergraduates seemed to impose but little check.
These things may be better now, and in spite of them Julian felt hearty
reason to be grateful for the real kindness of the Saint Werner's
authorities.  In other respects he found that the fact of his being a
sizar made no sort of difference in his position; he found that the
majority of men either knew or cared nothing about it, and sought his
society on terms of the most unquestioned equality, for the sake of the
pleasure which his company afforded them, and the thoughts which it
enabled them to ventilate or interchange.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

STUDY AND IDLENESS.

  "Then what golden hours were for us,
  While we sate together there!
  How the white vests of the chorus
  Seemed to wave up a live air.
  How the cothurns trod majestic,
  Down the deep iambic lines,
  And the rolling anapaestic
  Curled like vapour over shrines!"
  _E Barrett Browning_.

The incentives which lead young men to work are as various as the
influences which tend to make them idle.  One toils on, however
hopelessly, from a sense of duty, from a desire to please his parents,
and satisfy the requirements of the place; another because he has been
well trained into habits of work, and has a notion of educating the
mind; a third because he has set his heart on a fellowship; a fourth,
because he is intensely ambitious, and looks on a good degree as the
stepping-stone to literary or political honours.  The fewest perhaps
pursue learning for her own sake, and study out of a simple eagerness to
know what _may_ be known, as the best means of cultivating their
intellectual powers for the attainment of at least a personal solution
of those great problems, the existence of which they have already begun
to realise.  But of this rare class was Julian Home.  He studied with an
ardour and a passion, before which difficulties vanished, and in
consequence of which, he seemed to progress not the less surely, because
it was with great strides.  For the first time in his life, Julian found
himself entirely alone in the great wide realm of literature--alone, to
wander at his own will, almost without a guide.  And joyously did that
brave young spirit pursue its way--now resting in some fragrant glen,
and by some fountain mirror, where the boughs which bent over him were
bright with blossom, and rich with fruit--now plunging into some deep
thicket, where at every step he had to push aside the heavy branches and
tangled weeds--and now climbing with toilful progress some steep and
rocky hill, on whose summit, hardly attained, he could rest at last, and
gaze back over perils surmounted, and precipices passed, and mark the
thunder rolling over the valleys, or gaze on kingdoms full of peace and
beauty, slumbering in the broad sunshine beneath his feet.

Julian read for the sake of knowledge, and because he intensely enjoyed
the great authors, whose thoughts he studied.  He had read parts of
Homer, parts of Thucydides, parts of Tacitus, parts of the tragedians,
at school, but now he had it in his power to study a great author
entire, and as a whole.  Never before did he fully appreciate the
"thunderous lilt" of Greek epic, the touching and voluptuous tenderness
of Latin elegy, the regal pomp of history, the gorgeous and philosophic
mystery of the old dramatic fables.  Never before had he learnt to gaze
on "the bright countenance of truth, in the mild and dewy air of
delightful studies."  Those who decry classical education, do so from
inexperience of its real character and value, and can hardly conceive
the sense of strength and freedom which a young and ingenuous intellect
acquires in all literature, and in all thought, by the laborious and
successful endeavour to enter into that noble heritage which has been
left us by the wisdom of bygone generations.  Those hours were the
happiest of Julian's life; often would he be beguiled by his studies
into the "wee small" hours of night; and in the grand old company of
eloquent men, and profound philosophers, he would forget everything in
the sense of intellectual advance.  Then first he began to understand
Milton's noble exclamation--

  "How charming is divine philosophy!
  Not harsh and rugged as dull fools suppose,
  But musical as is Apollo's lute,
  And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,
  Where no crude surfeit reigns."

He studied accurately, yet with appreciation; sometimes the two ways of
study are not combined, and while one man will be content with a cold
and barren estimate of _ge_'s and _pon_'s derived from wading through
the unutterable tedium of interminable German notes, of which the last
always contradicted all the rest; another will content himself with
eviscerating the general meaning of a passage, without any attempt to
feel the finer pulses of emotion, or discriminate the nicer shades of
thought.  Eschewing commentators as much as he could, Julian would first
carefully go over a long passage, solely with a view to the clear
comprehension of the author's language, and would then re-read the whole
for the purpose of enjoying and appreciating the thoughts which the
words enshrined; and finally, when he had finished a book or a poem,
would run through it again as a whole, with all the glow and enthusiasm
of a perfect comprehension.

Sometimes Kennedy, or Owen, or Lord De Vayne, would read with him.  This
was always in lighter and easier authors, read chiefly for practice, and
for the sake of the poetry or the story, which lent them their
attraction.  It was necessary to pursue in solitude all the severer
paths of study; but he found these evenings, spent at once in society
and yet over books, full both of profit and enjoyment.  Lillyston,
although not a first-rate classic, often formed one of the party; Owen
and Julian contributed the requisite scholarship and the accurate
knowledge, while Lillyston and De Vayne would often throw out some
literary illustration or historical parallel, and Kennedy gave life and
brightness to them all, by the flow and sparkle of his gaiety and wit.
But it must be admitted that Kennedy was the least studious element in
the party, and was too often the cause of digressions, and conversations
which led them to abandon altogether the immediate object of their
evening's work.

Kennedy had a tendency to idleness, which was developed by the freedom
with which he plunged into society of all kinds.  His company was so
agreeable, and his bright young face was so happy an addition to all
parties, that he was in a round of constant engagements--breakfast
parties, wines, supper parties, and dinners--that encroached _far_ too
much on the hours of work.  At school the perpetual examinations kept
alive an emulous spirit, which counteracted his fondness for mental
vagrancy; but at college the examinations--at least those of any
importance--are few and far between; and he always flattered himself
that he meant soon to make up for lost time, for three years looks an
immense period to a young man at the entrance of his university career.
It was nearly as necessary, (even in a pecuniary point of view), for him
as for Julian to make the best use of his time; for although he was an
only son, he was not destined to inherit a fortune sufficient for his
support.

"Just look at these cards," he said to Julian one day; "there is not one
of them which hasn't an invitation scribbled on it.  These engagements
really leave one no time for work.  What a bore it is!  How do you
manage to escape them?"

"Well--first, I haven't such a large acquaintance as you; that makes a
great deal of difference.  But, besides, I make a point of leaving
breakfast parties at ten, and wines at chapel-time--so that I really
don't find them any serious hindrance.  No hindrance, I mean, in
comparison with the delight and profit of the society itself."

"I wish I could make the same resolution," said Kennedy; "but the fact
is, I find company so thoroughly amusing, that I'm always tempted to
stay."

"But why not decline sometimes?"

"I don't know--it looks uncivil.  Here, which of these shall I cut?" he
said, tossing three or four notes and cards to Julian.

"This for one," said Julian, as he read the first:--

  "Dear Kennedy--Come to supper and cards at ten.  Bruce wants to be
  introduced to you.  Yours,

  "`C Brogten.'"

"Yes, I think I shall.  I don't like that fellow Brogten, who is always
thrusting himself in my way," said Kennedy.  "Heigh ho!" and Kennedy
leant his head on his arm, and fell into a reverie, thinking that after
all his three years at college might be over almost before he was aware
of how much time he lost.

"I hope you don't play cards much," said Julian.

"Why?  I hear Hazlet has been denouncing them in hall with unctuous
fervour, and I do think it was that which led me to join in a game which
was instantly proposed by some of the men who sat near."

"I don't say that there's anything diabolical," said Julian, smiling,
"in paint and pasteboard, or that I should have the least objection to
play them myself if I wanted amusement, but I think them--except very
occasionally, and in moderation--a waste of time; and if you play for
money I don't think it does you any good."

"Well, I've never played for money yet.  By the bye, do you know Bruce?
He has the character and manner of a very gentlemanly fellow."

"Yes, I know him," said Julian, who made a point of holding his tongue
about a man when he had nothing favourable to say.

"Oh, ay, I forgot; of course; he's a Hartonian.  But didn't you think
him gentlemanly?"

"He has an easy manner, and is accustomed to good society, which is
usually all that is intended by the word," said Julian.

"I think I must go just this one evening.  I like to see a variety of
men; one learns something from it."

Kennedy went.  The supper took place in Brogten's rooms, and the party
then adjourned to Bruce's, where they immediately began a game at whist
for half-a-crown points, and then "unlimited loo."  Kennedy was induced
to play "just to see what it was like."  As the game proceeded he became
more and more excited; the others were accustomed to the thing, and
concealed their eagerness; but Kennedy, who was younger and more
inexperienced than any of them, threw himself into the game, and drank
heedlessly of the wine that freely circulated.  Surely if guardian
spirits attend the footsteps of youth, one angel must have wept that
evening "tears such as angels weep" to see him with his flushed face and
sparkling eyes, eagerly seizing the sums he won, or, with clenched hand
and contracted brow, anxiously awaiting the result of some adverse turn
in the chances of the game.  I remember once to have accidentally
entered a scene like this in going to borrow something from a
neighbour's room; and I shall never forget the almost tiger-like
eagerness and haggard anxiety depicted on the countenances of the men
who were playing for sums far too extravagant for an undergraduate's
purse.

How Kennedy got home he never knew, but next morning he awoke headachy
and feverish, and the first thing he saw on his table was a slip of
paper on which was written, "Kennedy _admonished_ by the senior Dean for
being out after twelve o'clock."  The notice annoyed and ashamed him.
He lay in bed till late, was absent from lecture, and got up to an
unrelished breakfast, at which he was disturbed by the entrance of
Bruce, to congratulate him on his winnings of the evening before.

While Bruce was talking to him, Lillyston also strolled in on his way
from lecture to ask what had kept Kennedy away.  He was surprised to see
the pale and weary look on his face, and catching sight of Bruce seated
in the armchair by the fire, he merely made some commonplace remarks and
left the room.  But he met Julian in the court, and told him that
Kennedy didn't seem to be well.

"I'm not surprised," said Julian; "he supped with Brogten, and then went
to play cards with Bruce, and I hear that Bruce's card parties are not
very steady proceedings."

"Can't we manage to keep him out of that set, Julian?  It will be the
ruin of his reading."

"Ay, and worse, Hugh.  But what can one say?  It will hardly do to read
homilies to one's fellow undergraduates."

"You might at least give him a hint."

"I will.  I suppose he'll come and do some Euripides to-night."

He did come, and when they had read some three hundred lines, and the
rest were separating, he proposed to Julian a turn in the great court.

The stars were crowding in their bright myriads, and the clear silvery
moonlight bathed the court, except where the hall and chapel flung
fantastic and mysterious shadows across the green smooth-mown lawns of
the quadrangle.  The soft light, the cool exhilarating night air were
provocative of thought, and they walked up and down for a time in
silence.

Many thoughts were evidently working in Kennedy's mind, and they did not
all seem to be bright or beautiful as the thoughts of youth should be.
Julian's brain was busy, too; and as they paced up and down, arm in arm,
the many-coloured images of hope and fancy were flitting thick and fast
across his vision.  He was thinking of his own future and of Kennedy's,
whom he was beginning to love as a brother, and for whose moral weakness
he sometimes feared.

"Julian," said Kennedy, suddenly breaking the silence; "were you ever
seized by an uncontrollable, unaccountable, irresistible presentiment of
coming evil,--a feeling as if a sudden gulf of blackness and horror
yawned before you--a dreadful _something_ haunting you, you knew not
what, but only knew that it was there?"

"I have had presentiments, certainly; though hardly of the kind you
describe."

"Well, Julian, I have such a presentiment now, overshadowing me with the
sense of guilt, of which I was never guilty; as though it were the
shadow of some crime committed in a previous state of existence,
forgotten yet unforgotten, incurred yet unavenged."

"Probably the mere result of a headache this morning, and the night air
now," said Julian, smiling at the energetic description, yet pained by
the intensity of Kennedy's tone of voice.

"Hush, Julian!  I hate all that stupid materialism.  Depend upon it,
some evil thing is over me.  I wonder whether crimes of the future can
throw their crimson shadow back over the past.  My life, thank God, has
been an innocent one, yet now I feel like the guiltiest thing alive."

"One oughtn't to yield to such feelings, or to be the victim of a heated
imagination, Kennedy.  In my own case at least, half the feelings I have
fancied to be presentiments have turned out false in the end--
presentiments, I mean, which have been suggested, as perhaps this has,
by passing circumstances."

"God grant this may be false," said Kennedy, "but something makes me
feel uneasy."

"It will be a lying prophet, if you so determine, Kennedy.  The only
enemy who has real power to hurt us is ourselves.  Why should you be
agitated by an idle forecast of uncertain calamity?  Be brave, and
honest, and pure, and God will be with you."

"Don't be surprised," continued Julian, "if you've heard me say the same
words before; they were my father's dying bequest to his eldest son."

"Be brave, and honest, and pure--" repeated Kennedy; "yes, you _must_ be
right, Julian.  Look what a glorious sky, and what numberless `patines
of bright gold.'"

Julian looked up, and at that moment a meteor shot across the heaven,
plunging as though from the galaxy into the darkness, and after the
white and dazzling lustre of the trail had disappeared, seeming to leave
behind the glory of it a deeper gloom.  It gave too true a type of many
a young man's destiny.

Kennedy said nothing, but although it is not the Camford custom to shake
hands, he shook Julian's hand that night with one of those warm and
loving grasps, which are not soon forgotten.  And each walked slowly
back to his own room.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE BOAT-RACE.

  "And caught once more the distant shout,
  The measured pulse of racing oars
  Between the willows."
  _In Memoriam_.

The banks of "silvery-winding Iscam" were thronged with men; between the
hours of two and four the sculls were to be tried for, and some 800 of
the thousand undergraduates poured out of their colleges by twos and
threes to watch the result from the banks on each side.

The first and second guns had been fired, and the scullers in their
boats, each some ten yards apart from the other, are anxiously waiting
the firing of the third, which is the signal for starting.  That strong
splendid-looking young man, whose arms are bared to the shoulder, and
"the muscles all a-ripple on his back," is almost quivering with anxious
expectation.  The very instant the sound of the gun reaches his ear,
those oar-blades will flash like lightning into the water, and "smite
the sounding furrows" with marvellous regularity and speed.  He is the
favourite, and there are some heavy bets on his success; Bruce and
Brogten and Lord Fitzurse will be richer or poorer by some twenty pounds
each from the result of this quarter of an hour.

The three are standing together on the towing-path opposite that little
inn where the river suddenly makes a wide bend, and where, if the rush
of men were not certain to sweep them forward, they might see a very
considerable piece of the race.  But directly the signal is given, and
the boats start, everybody will run impetuously at full speed along the
banks to keep up with the boats, and cheer on their own men, and it will
be necessary for our trio to make the best possible use of their legs,
before the living cataract pours down upon them.  Indeed, they would not
have been on the towing-path at all, but among the rather questionable
occupants of the grass plot before the inn on the other side of the
river, were it not for their desire to run along with the boats, and
inspirit the rowers on whom they have betted.

But what is this?  A great odious slow-trailing barge looms into sight,
nearly as broad as the river itself, black as the ferrugineous ferryboat
of Charon, and slowly dragged down the stream by two stout cart horses,
beside which a young bargee is plodding along in stolid independence.

"Hi! hi! you clodhopper there, stop that infernal barge," shouted Bruce
at the top of his voice, knowing that if the barge once passed the
winning posts, the race would be utterly spoilt.

"St-t-t-topp there, you cl-l-lown, w-w-will you," stuttered Fitzurse
more incoherent than usual, with indignation.

The young bargee either didn't hear these apostrophes, or didn't choose
to attend to them, when they were urged in that kind of way; and besides
this, as the men were entirely concealed from his view by the curve of
the river, he wasn't aware of the coming race, and therefore saw no
reason to obey such imperious mandates.

"Confound the grimy idiot; doesn't he hear?" said Bruce, turning red and
pale with excitement as he thought of the money he had at stake, and
remembered that the skiff on which all his hopes lay was first in order,
and would therefore be most likely to suffer by any momentary confusion.
"Come, Brogten, let's stop him somehow before it's too late."

"Let's cut the scoundrel's ropes," said Brogten between his teeth; and
at once the three darted forward at full speed, at the very instant that
the sharp crack of the final signal-gun was heard.

It so happened that Julian and Lillyston had started rather late for the
races, and had come up with the barge just as it had first neglected the
summons of Bruce and Fitzurse.

"Come, bargee," said Lillyston good-humouredly, "out of the way with the
barge as quick as ever you can; there's a boat-race, and you'll spoil
the fun."

"Oh, it's a race, be it?" said the man, as he instantly helped Lillyston
to back the horses.  "If them young jackanapes had only toald me, 'stead
of blusterin' that way--"

His speech was interrupted by Bruce, who, with his friends, had
instantly sprung at the ropes, and cut them in half a dozen places,
while the great heavy horses, frightened out of their propriety, turned
tail and bolted away at a terrifically heavy trot.

"You big hulking blackguard," roared Brogten, who had been the first to
use his knife, "why the devil didn't you move when we told you?  What
business have louts like you to come blundering up the river, and spoil
our races?"  And Fitzurse, confident in superior numbers, gave emphasis
to the question by knocking off the man's cap.

The bargee was a strongly-built, stupid, healthy-looking young man, of
some twenty-three years old, who, from being slow of passion was all the
more terrible when aroused.  Not finding any vent for his anger in
words, he suddenly seized Bruce, (who of the three stood nearest him),
by the collar of his boating jersey, shook him as he might have done a
baby, and almost before he was aware, pitched him into the river.
Instantly swinging round, he gave Lord Fitzurse a butt with his elbow,
which sent his lordship tottering into the ditch on the other side, and
while his wrath was still blazing, received in one eye a blow from
Brogten's strong fist, which for an instant made him reel.

But it was only for an instant, and then he repaid Brogten with a cuff
which felled him to the ground.  Brogten was mad with fury.  At that
moment the men were running round the corner, at the bend of the Iscam,
in full career, and hundreds on both sides of the river must have seen
him sprawl before the man's blow.  He sprang to his feet, and, blind
with rage, lifted the clasp-knife with which he had cut the ropes.  A
second more, and it would have been buried to the handle in the right
arm which, quick as lightning, the bargee raised to shield his face,
when Brogten's arm was seized from behind by Lillyston, who wrested the
knife from him, and pitched it into the river.

Brogten turned round, still unconscious what he was about.  Julian stood
nearest him, and he thought it was Julian who had disarmed him.  Old
hatred was suddenly joined to outrageous passion, and clenching his
fist, he struck Julian in the face.  Julian started back just in time to
evade the full force of the blow, and fearing a second attack, suddenly
tripped his aggressor as he once more rushed towards him.

But now the full tide of men had reached the spot; the barge had drifted
helplessly lengthwise across the stream, and an angry circle closed
round the chief actors in the scene we have described, while a hundred
hasty voices demanded what was the row, and what the bargee meant by
"stopping the race in that stupid way?"  Meanwhile Bruce, wet and muddy,
was declaiming on one side, and Fitzurse, bruised and dirty, on the
other, was stammering his uncomprehended oaths; while a dozen men were
holding Brogten, who, foiled a second time, and now in a dreadfully
ungovernable passion, was struggling with the men who held him, and
vowing murder against Julian and the bargee.

It was no time for deliberation, nor are excited, hasty, and
disappointed boys the most impartial of jurors.  Julian and Lillyston
were rapidly explaining the true state of the case to the few who were
calm enough to listen; but all that appeared to most of the bystanders
was, that a bargee had spoiled the event of the day, and assaulted two
or three undergraduates.  A cry arose to duck the fellow in the muddiest
angle of the Iscam, and twenty hands were laid on his shoulder, to drag
him off to his fate.  But a sense of injustice, joined to strength and
passion, are all but irresistible when their opponents are but half in
earnest; and violently exerting his formidable muscles, the man shook
himself free with a determination, agility, and pluck which, by a
visible logic, showed the men how cruel and cowardly it was to punish
him before they knew anything of the rights of the case.  Lillyston's
voice, too, began to be loudly heard, and several dons among the crowd
exerted themselves to restore order out of the hubbub.

There is nothing like a touch of manliness.  A feeble, and fussy, and
finicking little proctor, who happened to be on the bank, was pompously
endeavouring to assert his dignity, and make himself attended to.  He
was just beginning to get indignant at the laughing contempt with which
his impotent efforts were received, and was asking men for their names
and colleges, in a futile sort of way, when a tall and stately tutor in
the crowd raised his voice above the uproar, and said, "Silence,
gentlemen, if you please, for a moment."  He was recognised and
respected, and the men made room for him into the centre of the throng.

"Now, my man, just tell us what's the matter."  The man was beginning to
tell them how wantonly his ropes had been cut, and he himself insulted,
when Bruce broke in, "That's a lie, you beggar; we asked you to move,
and you wouldn't.  I'll have you in prison yet, my fine fellow, you'll
see."

"And if I don't make you pay for they ropes, you young pink-and-white
monkey, my name ain't Jem--that's all."

"Did anybody see what really took place?" asked the don, cutting short
the altercation.

"Yes, I did," said Lillyston instantly; "the fellow was civil enough,
and began to back his horses the moment I told him there was a race,
when these gentlemen ran up, abused him, struck him, and cut the ropes."

"Ay, it's all very fine for you gentlefolk," said the man with bitter
scorn, "to take away a poor man's living for your pleasure.  How do you
think I'm to pay for them ropes?  Am I to take the bread out of the
children's mouths, let alone being kicked and speered at?  Hang you all,
I ain't afeard o' none o' you; come on, the whole lot o' you to one.  I
ain't afeard--not I," he said again, glaring round like a bull at bay,
and stripping an arm of iron strength.

"I never cut your ropes, you brute," said Bruce, between his teeth,
"though you wouldn't move when we asked you civilly."

"What's _that_, then?" said the man, pointing to a bit of rope two
inches long which Bruce still held dangling in his hand.

"I'm afraid you forget the facts, Bruce, in your excitement," said
Lillyston, very sternly.

"Facts or not, I'll have you up for assault," said Bruce affectedly,
wringing the mud out of his wet sleeve.

"Have me up for assault," mimicked the man, trying to mince his broad
rough accents into Bruce's delicate tones; and he condescended to add no
more, but turned round to catch his horses, which had trotted through
the open gate of a neighbouring field, and were now quietly grazing.

"I hope, gentleman," said Brogten, bluntly, "that you're not going to
believe that blackguard's word against ours."

"You forget, sir," said Mr Norton, the tall don, "that what the
blackguard, (as you are pleased to call him), said is confirmed by a
gentleman here."

"And impugned by three gentlemen," said Bruce, who felt how thoroughly
he was in disgrace.

"Do you mean to deny, Bruce, that you swore at the man first, and then
cut his ropes, when he was already stopping his barge?" asked Lillyston.

"I mean to say he wouldn't move when we told him."

"I appeal to Home," said Lillyston; "didn't the man instantly stop when
he understood why we wanted him to do so?"

"Yes," said Julian, who, still dizzy with Brogten's blow, was standing a
little apart, "I am bound to say that the man was entirely in the
right."

"I am inclined to think so," said Mr Norton, with scorn in his eye; and
so saying, he took the little proctor's arm, and strode away, while the
crowd of undergraduates also broke up, and streamed off in twos and
threes.

"Do you mean to pay that fellow for his rope, Bruce?" asked Lillyston;
"if not, _I do_."

"Pay!" said Brogten, with an explosion of oaths; "I'll _pay_ you and
your sizar friend there for this, depend upon it."

"We're not afraid," said Lillyston, quietly.  Julian only answered the
threat by a bow, and the two walked off to the bargee, who, in despair
and anger, was knotting together the cut pieces of his rope.

Lillyston slipped a sovereign into his hand, and told him how sorry he
was for what had happened.

"Thank you, sir," said the man, humbly; "it's a hard thing for a poor
chap to be treated as I've been; but _you're_ a rale gentleman."

"Well, do me one favour, then.  Promise not to say a word to, or take
any notice of, those three fellows as they pass you."

The man promised; but there was no need to have done so, for furious as
Brogten was, he and his companions were too crestfallen to take any
notice of the bargee in passing, except by contemptuous looks, which he
returned with interest.  On the whole, it struck them that they would
not make a particularly creditable display in hall that evening, and
therefore they partook instead of a sumptuous repast in the rooms of
Lord Fitzurse, who made up for the dirt which they had been eating by
the splendour of his entertainment.

"I'll be even yet with that fellow Home," muttered Brogten, as they were
parting.

"He's not w-w-worth it," said the host.  "He's one of the g-g-ghouls;
eh, Bruce--ha! ha! ha!"



CHAPTER TEN.

CONTRASTS.

  "And here was Labour his own bond slave; Hope
  That never set the pains against the prize;
  Idleness halting with his weary clog,
  And poor misguided Shame and witless Fear
  And simple Pleasure foraging for Death."
  Wordsworth.  _The Prelude_.

Although Julian did not immediately feel, and had not particular reason
to dread, the results of Brogten's displeasure, yet it was very annoying
to be on the same stair-case with him.  It was a constant reminder that
there was one person, and he near at hand, who regarded him as an enemy.
For a time, indeed, Brogten tried a few practical jokes on his
neighbour and quondam school-fellow, which gratified for the moment his
desire for revenge.  Thus he would empty the little jug of milk which
stood every day before Julian's door into the great earthenware pitcher
of water which was usually to be found in the same position or he would
make a surreptitious entry into his rooms, and amuse himself by
upturning chairs and tables, turning pictures with their faces to the
wall, and doing sometimes considerable damage and mischief.  Once
Julian, on preparing to get into bed, found a neat little garden laid
out for his reception, between the sheets--flower-beds and gravel walks,
all complete.  This course of petty annoyance he bore, though not
without a great struggle, in dignified and contemptuous silence.  He
looked Brogten firmly in the face, whenever they chanced to meet, and
never gave him the triumph of perceiving that his small arts of vexation
had taken the slightest effect.  He merely smiled when the hot-headed
Kennedy suggested retaliation, and would not allow Lillyston to try the
effect of remonstrance.  It was not long before Brogten became
thoroughly ashamed that his malice should be tried and despised, and he
would have proceeded to more overt acts of hatred had he not been one
day informed by Lillyston that the Hartonians generally had heard of his
proceedings, and that if he continued them he would be universally cut.
For, indeed, such practical jokes as Brogten attempted are now almost
unknown at Camford, and every man's room is considered sacred in his
absence.  But although he desisted from this kind of malice, it was not
long before Brogten was generally shunned by his former schoolfellows.
He developed into such a thorough blackguard that, had it not been for
his merits as an oarsman and a cricketer, even the countenance of Bruce
and Lord Fitzurse would have been insufficient to prevent him from being
deserted by all the undergraduates of Saint Werner's, except that small
and wretched class who take refuge from vacuity in the society of cads,
dog-fanciers, and grooms.

Yet Brogten's Harton education, idle as he had been, sufficed to make
him see that he was sinking lower and lower, not only in the world's
estimation, but in his own.  Unable to make the mental effort which the
least approach to study would have required, he suffered his few
intellectual faculties to grow more and more gross and stolid, and spent
his mornings in smoking, drinking beer, or lounging in the rooms of some
one as idle and discontented as himself.  It was sad to see the change
which even in his first term came over his face; it was not the change
from boyhood to youth which gave a manlier beauty to the almost feminine
delicacy of Julian's features, but it was a look in which effrontery
supplied the place of self-dependence, and coarseness was the substitute
for strength.  Beer in the morning, and brandy in the evening, cards,
and low company, and vice, made him sink into a degradation from which
he was only redeemed by the still lingering ambition to excel in
athletic sports, and by the manly exercises which rescued him for a time
from such dissipation as would have incapacitated him from shining in
the boat or in the field.

Lillyston was a singular contrast with Brogten; originally they were
about equal in ability, position, and strength.  They had entered school
in the same form, and, until Julian came, they had generally been placed
near each other in the quarterly examinations.  Both of them were strong
and active, and without being clever or brilliant they were both
possessed of respectable powers of mind.  Both of them had been in the
Harton eleven, and now each of them was already in the second boat of
their respective clubs; but with all these similarities Lillyston was
beginning to be one of the men most liked and respected among all the
best sets of his own year, and was reading for honours with a fair
chance of ultimate success, while Brogten was looked on as a low and
stupid fellow, whose company was discreditable, and whose doings were a
disgrace to his old school.

The two presented much the same contrast as was also visible between
Julian and Bruce.  While Julian and Lillyston had mutually influenced
each other for good, while they had been growing up together in warm and
honourable friendship, thinking whatsoever things are pure and true and
of good report, the other two had only fostered each other's vanity, and
rather encouraged than checked each other's failings.  At school they
were always exchanging the grossest flattery, and the lessons and
tendencies which each had derived from the other's society were lessons
of weakness and sin alone.  And now Bruce was looked on at Saint
Werner's as a vain, empty fellow, living on a reputation for cleverness
which he had never justified,--low, dressy, and extravagant, despised by
the reading men, (whose society he affected to avoid), for his weakness
and want of resolution; by the real athletes for his deficiency in
strength and pluck, and by the aristocrats, (whose rooms he most
frequented), for the ill-concealed obscurity of his father's origin, and
the ill-understood source of his wealth.  Since he first astonished the
men of his year by the brilliancy of his entertainments and the
gorgeousness of his rooms, he had steadily declined in general
estimation among all whose regard was most really valuable, and he would
have found few among his immense acquaintance who cared as much for
_him_ as they did for his good dinners and recherche wines.  Julian, on
the other hand, who knew far fewer men, could count among his new and
old companions some real friends--friends who would cling to him in
adversity as well as in prosperity, and who loved him for his own sake,
whether his fortunes were in sunshine or in cloud.  First among these
newly-acquired friends he counted the names of Owen and Kennedy, among
the old ones of Lillyston and De Vayne.  But, besides these, he had been
sought out by all the most distinguished men among the Saint Werner's
undergraduates, while Mr Admer, who improved immensely on acquaintance,
had introduced him to some of the most genial and least exclusive dons.
Even Mr Grayson used to address him with something approaching to
warmth, and so high was his general reputation, that he had no
difficulty in making the acquaintance of every man of his college, whom
he in the least cared to see or know.

Brogten was one of those who perceived these contrasts, and the bitter
intense malice with which they filled him was one of the evil feelings
which helped to drag him down from following out his occasional
resolutions for better things.

Strange that a few weeks could produce such differences but so it was.
At the end of those few weeks Bruce went back to take part in his
mother's splendid theatricals and routs, with a consciousness of
neglected opportunities and wasted times even if his conscience laid no
worse sins to his charge.  Brogten went back, cursing himself and all
around him, with the violent self-accusations of a reprobate obstinacy,
a man in vice, though hardly more than a boy in years.  Kennedy went
back happy on the whole, happy above all in the certainty that he had
made in Julian one noble friend.  Lillyston went back happy,
well-pleased with the sense of duty done, and the prime of life well and
innocently enjoyed.  And Julian went back in the same train with De
Vayne, happy too, with a mind strengthened and expanded, with knowledge
deepened and widened, with an honourable ambition opening before him,
and friends and a fair position already won.  All these results had
sprung from those few and swiftly-gliding weeks.

The Christmas time passed very pleasantly for the Homes.  They had few
relations, and Lady Vinsear had dropped all intercourse with them, but
they were happy in themselves.  Violet, too, had the pleasure of forming
an acquaintance with Kennedy's sister Eva, who, with her aunt, happened
to be paying a short visit to a family in the neighbourhood.  Frank and
Cyril were at home for their holidays, and the house and garden at
Ildown rang all day long with their merry voices and incessant games.
Old Christmas observances were not yet obsolete in Ildown, and Yule logs
and royal feasts were the order of the day.  The bright, clear, frosty
air--the sparkling sea and freshening wind--a lovely country, a united
and cheerful family, and the delights of moderate study, made the weeks
speed by in pure enjoyment.  With his mother, his brothers, and Violet,
Julian felt the need of no other society, but he corresponded with
Kennedy and other college friends, and saw a great deal of Lord De
Vayne, who continually rode over to pass the Sunday with them at Ildown,
and sometimes persuaded all the Homes to come and spend the day with him
and his mother in the beautiful but lonely grounds of Other Hall.

Whenever they accepted the invitation, the young and pensive viscount
seemed another man.  He would join in the boys' mirth with the most
joyous alacrity, and talked to Violet with such vivacity that none who
saw him would believe what a shade of melancholy usually hung over his
mind.  His life had been spent in seclusion, and he had never yet seen
any to whom his heart turned with such affection as he felt for Julian
and Violet.  His mother observed it, and often thought that if she saw
in Violet Home the future Lady De Vayne, a source of happiness was laid
up for her only son, which would fulfil, and more than fulfil, her
fondest prayers.  It never occurred to her to think that he would do
better to choose a bride among the noblest and wealthiest houses of
England, rather than in the orphan family of a poor and unknown
clergyman.  What she sought for him was goodness and usefulness, not
grandeur or riches; a lonely and sorrowful life had taught her at how
slight a value rank and wealth are to be reckoned in any high or true
estimate of the meaning of human life; nor did it add greatly to her
desire for such a match that Violet, with her bright hair, and soft
eyes, and graceful figure--with her sweet musical voice, and the
rippling silver of her laugh, and the rich imagery which filled her
fancy--might well have fulfilled the ideal of a poet's dream.  But
Violet was still very young, and none of Lady De Vayne's hopes had ever
for an instant crossed her mind.

Julian was at this time, and had been for some months, intensely
occupied with the thought and desire of winning the Clerkland
scholarship, a university scholarship of 60 pounds a year, open to
general competition among all the undergraduates of less than one year's
standing.  This scholarship was the favourite success of Camford life.
It stamped at once a man's position as one of the most prominent
scholars of his year, and as the names of many remarkable men were found
in the list of those who had already obtained it, it gave a strong
prestige of future distinction and success.  Julian had a peculiar
reason for longing to gain it, because, with his Harton scholarship, it
would not only enable him at once to enter his name as a pensioner,
instead of a sizar, at Saint Werner's, but even make him independent of
all help from his family and guardians.  There would have been reasons
sufficient to account for his passionate desire for this particular
distinction, even independently of his natural wish to justify the
general opinion of his abilities, and the eager ambition caused by the
formidable numbers of the other competitors.  In short, at this time, to
obtain the Clerkland scholarship was the most prominent personal desire
in Julian's heart, and could some genius have suddenly offered him the
fulfilment of any one wish, this would undoubtedly have been the first
to spring to his lips.  He looked with emulation, almost with envy, on
those who had won it before him; he almost knew by heart the list of
Clerkland scholars; and when he returned to Camford, constantly
discussed the chances of success in favour of the different candidates.
Do not blame him; his motives were all high and blameless, although he
at length turned over this thought so often in his mind as to recur to
it with almost selfish iteration, and to regard success in this
particular struggle as the one thing wanting to complete, or even to
create his happiness.

He could not refrain from mentioning it at home, although, for the sake
of preventing disappointment, he generally avoided dwelling on any of
his school or college struggles.  Deprecating his own abilities, it made
him doubly anxious to find that not only did his Saint Werner's
contemporaries regard him as the favourite candidate, and bet upon him
in the sporting circles, (although Brogten furiously took the largest
odds against him), but, what was worse, his own family, always proud of
him, seemed to regard his triumph as certain.  Thus circumstanced, and
most fondly avoiding every possibility of causing pain or disappointment
to that thrice-loved circle, of which he regarded himself as the natural
protector and head, he was more than ever determined to do his very
utmost to prevent failure, and give them the lasting pride and pleasure
which they would all receive by seeing his name in the public papers as
Clerkland scholar.

"Come, Julian, and let's have a row or a sail," said Cyril one morning
to him, as he sat at work.  "Frank and I have nothing to do to-day."

"Not to-day, Cyril, my boy.  I really must do some work; you know De
Vayne made me ride with him yesterday, and I've done very little the
last day or two."

"I wish I liked work as you do, Julian."

"It isn't only that I like work, (though I do)," said Julian; "but you
know a good deal depends on it."

"Oh!  I know!" said Cyril; "you mean the Clerkland scholarship; but
never mind, Julian, Lord De Vayne told me you were sure of that."

"Did he?" said Julian, a little anxiously; "then for goodness' sake,
don't believe him.  It's very kind of him to say so--but he's quite
mistaken."

"Ah, you always say so beforehand, you know.  You used to say that about
the Harton scholarship, Julian, and yet you see?  Do come."

"Well, I'll come," said Julian, smiling a little sadly.  "But, Cyril,
don't, pray, say anything of that kind to mother or to Violet, for if I
should fail it would make me doubly sad."

Cyril, thanking Julian, and still laughingly prophesying success, ran
out to tell Frank; and, when he had gone, Julian stamped his foot
passionately on the ground, and said half-aloud, "I _will_ get this
Clerkland, I _will_ get it, I _must_ get it."

He paused a moment, and then, raising his eyes and hands to heaven,
prayed that "God would do for him that which was best for his highest
welfare;" but even as he prayed, he secretly determined that obtaining
the Clerkland scholarship was, and must necessarily be, the best piece
of worldly prosperity that could possibly happen to him.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

SCREWED IN.

Reader, if the latter part of the preceding chapter has been dull to
you, it is because you have never entered into the devouring ambition
which, in a matter of this kind, actuates a young man's heart when he is
aiming at his first grand distinction--an ambition which, if selfishly
encouraged, becomes dangerous both to health and peace, and works
powerfully, perhaps by a merciful provision, to the defeat of its own
darling hope.

As long as Julian had been at home, a thousand objects helped to divert
his thoughts from their one cherished desire; but when he returned to
Camford, finding the Clerkland a frequent subject of discussion among
the men, even in hall, and constantly meeting others who were as
absorbed in the thought of the approaching examination as himself, he
once more fell into the vortex, and thought comparatively of little
else.

As yet he had had no means of measuring himself with others, except so
far as the lecture-room enabled him to judge of the abilities of some
few in his own college.  Under these circumstances all conjecture must
have seemed to be idle; but somehow or other at Camford, by a sort of
intuition, the exact place a man will ultimately take is often
prophesied from the first with wonderful accuracy.  Saint Werner's,
being by far the largest college at Camford, supplied the majority of
the candidates, and Julian, Owen, and Kennedy were all three mentioned
as likely to be first; but the rival ranks of Saint Margaret's boasted
their champions also, and almost every small college nursed some prodigy
of its own, for which it vehemently predicted an easy and indisputable
success.

Owen was the competitor whom Julian most really feared; educated at
Roslyn, a comparatively small school, his scholarship was not so ready
and polished as that acquired by the training of Marlby and Harton, but,
on the other hand, he had improved greatly in the short time he had been
at Saint Werner's, and besides his sound knowledge he had a
strong-headed common sense, and a clearness and steadiness of purpose,
more valuable than a quick fancy and refined taste.  In composition, and
in all the lighter and more graceful requirements of a classical
examination, Julian had an undoubted superiority, but Owen was his
equal, if not his master, in the power of unravelling intricacies and
understanding logic; and, besides this, Owen was a better mathematician,
and, although classics had considerable preponderance, yet one
mathematical paper always formed part of the Clerkland examination.
Kennedy who, if he had properly employed his time, would have been no
mean rival to either of them, had unfortunately been so idle, and
continued to be so gay and idle even for the weeks immediately preceding
the examination, that they all felt his chance to be gone.  He
acknowledged the fact himself, with something between a laugh and sigh,
and only threatening to catch them both up in the classical tripos, he
resigned all hope for himself, and threw all his wishes into the scale
of Julian's endeavours.  And although Owen was liked and respected,
there was no doubt that Julian was regarded throughout the University as
the popular candidate; the Hartonians especially, who had carried off
the prize for several years, were confident that he would win them
another victory.

As the time drew near, Julian became more and more feverish with
eagerness, and his friends feared that he would hinder, by over reading,
his real probability of success.  Kennedy felt this most strongly, but
being himself engaged in the competition, was afraid that any attempt to
divert Julian's thoughts would not have a disinterested look.  Lillyston
and De Vayne, unrestrained by such motives, did all they could to take
him from his books, and amuse him by turning his attention to other
subjects; but with such strong reasons for exertion, and so much
depending on success or failure, the Clerkland scholarship continued
ever the prominent subject of Julian's thoughts.

At last the long looked for week arrived.  After chapel, on the Sunday
morning, De Vayne invited himself to breakfast with Julian, and
continued in his company the greater part of the day, going with him to
the University sermon.  He entirely forbade Julian even to allude more
than once to the coming examination, and managed in the evening to get
him to come to his rooms, where, with some other Hartonians and Kennedy,
they spent a very pleasant evening.

"Good-night," he said to Julian, as he strolled with him to his
stair-case across the starlight court; "don't stay up to-night.  In
quietness and confidence shall be your strength."

The examination was to last a week, and Julian rose for it refreshed and
cheerful on Monday morning.  The papers suited him excellently, and his
hopes rose higher and higher as he felt that in each paper he had done
to the utmost of his knowledge and ability.  He had not been able to
afford a private tutor during the term, with whom he might have
discussed the papers, but he sent his Iambics and Latin verse to Mr
Carden at Harton, who wrote back a most favourable and encouraging
judgment of them, and seemed to regard Julian's success as certain.
Julian had implicit confidence in his opinion, for Mr Carden entered
very warmly into all his hopes and wishes, and kept up with him an
affectionate correspondence, which had helped him out of many
intellectual difficulties, and lessened the force of many a temptation.

The papers usually lasted from nine till twelve in the morning, and from
two to four in the afternoon.  It was on the Friday morning, when only
three more papers remained, that Julian found Mr Carden's kind and
hopeful letter lying on his breakfast-table at eight o'clock; he read it
with a glow of pleasure, because he knew that he could rely thoroughly
on the accuracy and truth of his old tutor's judgment, and as he read
and re-read it, his hopes rose higher and higher.  Finishing breakfast,
he began to build castles in the air, and to imagine to himself the
delight it would be to write and tell the Doctor and Mr Carden of this
new leaf to the Harton laurels.  Never before had he a more reasonable
ground for favourable expectation, and he began almost to run over in
his mind the sort of letter he would write, and the kind of things he
would say.  Leaning over his window-sill, he enjoyed the cool feeling of
the early spring breeze on his brow and hair, and then, finding by his
watch that it was time to start, he took his cap and gown, and prepared
to sally out to the senate-house.

It was the custom of the gyp, when he had laid breakfast, and put the
kettle on the fire, to go away and "sport the oak," (_i e_, shut the
outer door), so as to prevent any one from coming into the rooms until
their owner was awake and dressed.  Julian therefore was not surprised
to see his door "sported," but was surprised to find that, when he
lifted the latch, the door did not open to his touch.  He pushed it with
some force, and then kicked it with his foot to see if some stone or
coal had not caught against it, but the door still remained obstinately
closed; he put his shoulder against it, fancying that some heavy weight
like the coal-box or water-pitcher might have been placed outside,--but
all in vain; the thick door did not even stir, and then there flashed
upon Julian the bitter truth that he had been screwed in.  He understood
now the stifled titter which he fancied he had heard after one of his
most violent efforts to get out.

In one instant, before he had time to think, a fit of blind, passionate,
uncontrollable fury had clouded and overpowered Julian's whole mind.
Almost unconscious of what he was doing, he kicked the door with all his
might, and beat on it savagely with his clenched fists until his
knuckles streamed with blood; he forgot everything but the one burning
determination to get out at all hazards, and to wreak on Brogten, whom
he felt to be the author of his calamity, some desperate and terrible
revenge.  But the thick oak door, screwed evidently with much care; and
in many places, resisted all his efforts, and no one came to help him
from outside.  The gyp, who was usually about, happened to have gone on
an errand; the stair-case was one of the most secluded in the college;
the Fellow who was Julian's nearest neighbour had "gone down" for a few
days, and it was improbable that any one ever heard him except Brogten,
to whom, he thought, every sound of his angry violence would be perfect
music.

All was useless, and Julian, as he strode up and down the room, clenched
his hands, and bit his lips in passionate excitement.  Suddenly it
struck him that he would escape by the window; but looking out for the
purpose, he found that, when he had jumped on the sloping roof below
him, he was still thirty feet above the ground, which, in that place,
was not the turf of the bowling-green, but a hard gravel road.  Giving
up the attempt in despair he sat down, and covered his face with his
hands; but instantly the picture of the senate-house, with the sixty
candidates who were trying for the scholarship, all writing at some new
paper--while he was thus cut off, (as he thought), from the long-desired
accomplishment of all his hopes--rose before his eyes, and springing up
once more he seized the poker, and raising it over his shoulder like a
hammer, brought down the heavy iron knob with a crash on the oaken
panels.  He struck again and again, but, by a shower of fierce blows,
could only succeed in covering the door with deep round dents.  Finally
he seized the heaviest chair in the room, and dashed it savagely with
one heavy drive against the unyielding oak; a second blow shivered the
chair to splinters, and Julian, a compulsory prisoner at that excited
moment, flung himself on the sofa, furious and weary, with something
that sounded like a fierce imprecation.

Full twenty minutes had been occupied by his futile and frantic efforts,
and for a few moments longer he sat still in a stupor of grief and rage.
Meanwhile, several of the other competitors for the Clerkland had
noticed his absence in the senate-house, and Owen and Kennedy kept
directing anxious glances to the door, and dreading that he was ill.  At
last half an hour had elapsed, and Kennedy, unable any longer to endure
the suspense, went up to the examiner and said--

"One of the candidates is absent, sir.  Would you allow me to go and
inquire the reason?"

"Who is it?" asked the examiner.

"Home, sir."

"Indeed.  But I am afraid I cannot allow you to leave the senate-house;
the rules, you know, on this subject are necessarily very strict."

"Then, sir, I will merely show up what I have written, for I am sure
there must be some unusual reason for Home's absence."

"Oh, no, Mr Kennedy, pray don't do so," said the examiner, who knew how
well Kennedy had been doing; "I will send the University marshal to
inquire for Mr Home; it is a very unusual compliment to pay him, but I
think it may be as well to do so."

It so happened that, as the marshal crossed the court to Julian's rooms,
Lillyston and De Vayne, who were strolling towards the grounds, caught
sight of him, and went with much curiosity to inquire the object of his
errand.

"Home not in the senate-house," said Lillyston, on hearing the marshal's
answer.  "Good heavens, what can be the matter?" and without waiting to
hear more, he darted to Julian's door, and called his name.

"What do you want?" said Julian in a fretful and angry voice.

"Why are you sported?  And why aren't you in for the Clerkland?"

"Can't you see, then?"

"What!  So you are screwed in," said Lillyston in deep surprise; "wait
three minutes, Julian, three minutes, and I will let you out."

He sprang down-stairs, four steps at a time, borrowed a screwdriver at
the porter's lodge, was back in a moment, and then with quick and
skilful hand he drew out, one after another, the screws which had been
driven deep into the door.

Julian lifted the latch inside, and Lillyston saw with surprise and pain
his scared and wild glance.  Julian said not a word, but rushed past his
friend, and burst furiously into Brogten's room.  Fortunately Brogten
was not in, for the moment he heard steps approaching, he had purposely
gone out; but Lillyston followed Julian, and said--

"Come, this is folly, Julian; you have not a moment to lose.  You will
be already nearly an hour late, and remember that the Clerkland may
depend upon it."

He suffered himself to be led, but as he walked he was still silent, and
seemed as though he were trying to gulp down some hard knot that rose in
his throat.  His expression was something totally different from
anything that Lillyston had ever observed in him, even from a boy, and
his feet seemed to waver under him as he walked.

De Vayne joined them in the court, and was quite startled to see Julian
looking so ill.  He saw that it was no time to trouble him with idle
inquiries, and merely pressed him to come into his rooms and take some
wine before going to do the paper.  Julian silently complied.  The
kind-hearted young viscount took out a bottle of wine, of which Julian
swallowed off a tumblerful, and then, without speaking a word, strode
off to the senate-house, which he reached pale and agitated, attracting,
as he entered, the notice and commiseration of all present.

The examiner, with a kind word of encouragement, and an inquiry as to
the cause of his delay, which Julian left unanswered, promised to allow
him in the evening as much additional time for doing the paper as he had
already lost.  Julian bowed, and walked to his place.

And now that he was seated, with the paper before him, he found himself
in a condition to do nothing.  His mind was in a tumult of wrath and
sorrow.  Bitter sorrow that his hopes should be shattered; fiery wrath
that any one should have treated him with such malignant cruelty.  His
brain swam giddily, and his head throbbed with violent pain.  His hands
were still raw and bleeding with his efforts to burst open the door; and
the consciousness that his whole appearance was wild, and that several
eyes were upon him, unnerved him so completely, that he was quite unable
to collect or control his scattered senses.  He made but little
progress.  The clock of Saint Mary's told the passing hours, and at
twelve Julian found himself with nothing written except a few
half-finished and incoherent sentences which he was ashamed to show up.
Dashing the nib of his pen on the desk, he split it to pieces; and then,
tearing up his papers, was hurrying out, when the voice of the examiner
suddenly recalled him.

"You have not shown me up any papers, Mr Home."

"No, sir," he answered sullenly.

"Indeed!  But why?"

"I have not done any, sir."

"Really.  I am sorry for that.  It is a serious matter, for you have
been doing remarkably well, and--Are you not feeling well?"

"No, sir, not exactly."

"Hum!  Well, it is a great pity; a _great_ pity; a _very_ great pity.
However--"

There seemed to be no more to say, and as Julian's mind was in too
turbulent a state to allow of his being communicative, he did not trust
himself to make any remark, and left the room.

Kennedy, who came up with him as he went out, asked what was the matter;
but as he only answered with an impatient gesture, and evidently seemed
to wish to be alone, Kennedy left him and went to inquire of Lillyston
what had happened, while Julian hastened to the solitude of his own
room, and breaking with his poker one of the outer hinges of his door,
to secure himself from a second imprisonment, flung himself on a chair,
and pressed his hands to his burning forehead.  In his bitterness of
soul he half determined to abandon all further attempt to gain the
Clerkland, and dwelt, with galling recurrence, on the anguish of
defeated aims.  But the sound of the clock striking the hour of
examination started him into sudden effort, and almost mechanically he
seized his cap and gown, and went out without food and unrefreshed.

Although he endeavoured, with all his might, to shake off all thought of
the morning's insult and misfortune, he only partially succeeded, and
when he folded up his papers, he felt that the fire and energy which had
shone so conspicuously during the earlier days of the examination, and
had imparted such strength and brilliancy to his efforts, were utterly
extinguished, and had left him wandering and weak.  When the time was
over, he went to De Vayne's rooms, and said abruptly--

"De Vayne, will you lend me your riding-whip?"

"Certainly," said De Vayne, starting up to meet him.

"Are you going to have a ride?  I wish you would ride my horse; I'll
hire another, and come with you."

"No; I don't want a ride."

"What do you want the whip for, then?" said De Vayne uneasily.

"Nothing.  Let me go; it must be time for you to go to hall."

"I'm not going to dine in hall to-day," said De Vayne.  "Dining at the
high table, with none but dons to talk to, is dull work for an
undergraduate.  Stop! you shall dine with me here, Julian.  I know you
won't care to go to hall to-day.  Nay, you shall," he said, putting his
back against the door; "I shall be as dull as night without you."

He made Julian stay, for it happened that at that moment his gyp brought
up dinner, and Julian, hungry and weary, was tempted to sit down.  De
Vayne, who only too well divined his reason for borrowing the whip, was
delighted at having succeeded in detaining him, for he knew that the
only time when Julian would be likely to meet Brogten was immediately
after hall.

Wiling away the time with exquisite tact--talking to him without
pressing him to talk much in reply--turning his thoughts to indifferent
subjects, until he had succeeded in arousing his interest--the young
viscount detained his guest till evening, and then persuaded him to have
tea.  Lord De Vayne played well on the piano, and knowing Julian's
passion for music, was rewarded for his unselfish efforts by complete
success in rousing his attention.  He played some of the finest passages
of a recent and beautiful oratorio, until Julian almost forgot his
troubles, and was ready to talk with more freedom and in a kindlier
mood.

"You surely won't want the whip now," said De Vayne in some dismay, as
Julian picked it up on saying good-night.

"Yes, I shall," answered Julian.  "Good-night!"



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A GUST OF THE SOUL.

  "Once more will the wronger, at this last of all.
  Dare to say `I did wrong,' rising in his fall?"
  Browning.

The story of Brogten's practical joke, and the circumstances which made
it so unusually disgraceful, spread with lightning-like rapidity through
Saint Werner's College; and when he swaggered into hall with his usual
self-confident air, he was surprised to find himself met with cold and
even with frowning looks.  Snatches of conversation which went on around
him soon showed him the reason of the general disapprobation; and when
he learnt how violently the current of popular opinion was beginning to
set against him, and how unfavourable a view was taken of his conduct,
he began seriously to regret that he had given the reins to his malice.

"I shouldn't wonder now if Home were to lose the Clerkland; he was
_sure_ of it before this morning," said one.

"What a cursed shame!" echoed another.  "I never in my life heard a more
blackguard trick.  That fellow Brogten has lost the Hartonians the
scholarship; lucky if he hasn't lost it to Saint Werner's too.  Perhaps
that Benedict man will get it."

"I say, Kennedy," said a third, "if I were you or Lillyston, or any
other of Home's particular friends, I'd duck Brogten."

"Let's wait till we see whether Home _does_ lose the scholarship first,"
said Lillyston.  "_If_ he does, Brogten deserves anything; but I have
strong hopes yet."

"I know Home," said Kennedy, "and he would never forgive such an
interference, or I declare I should be inclined to do it."

"I should like to see you do it," thundered Brogten, from a farther end
of the table.

"I have just given my reasons for not seeing fit to do it," said
Kennedy, with a curl of the lip.  "By the bye, Mr Brogten," he
continued sarcastically, "I hope that you don't, after this, expect to
be paid any of the _bets_ you have made against Home's getting the
Clerkland?"

"There's my betting-book," replied Brogten, flinging it at Kennedy, whom
it struck in the face, and who took no further notice of the insult than
to pick up the book, and throw it into the great brazier, full of
glowing charcoal, which stands in the centre of Saint Werner's hall.

"Don't do that, confound you!" cried Brogten, springing up.  "Do you
think there are no bets in it but those about the Clerkland?"

"Keep your missiles to yourself, then," said Kennedy, while Brogten
burnt his fingers in the vain attempt to rescue his book.

"I hope you've at least hedged, or behaved as judiciously in the case of
your other bets as in those about the Clerkland," suggested one of his
sporting friends.

This last sneer and insinuation was too much, and it galled the proud
man to the quick to hear the laugh of scorn which followed it.  He
turned round, seized his cap, and flinging at Kennedy a look of intense
and concentrated hatred, left the hall, and rushed up to his rooms.

To do Brogten justice, he had never intended for a moment to affect
Julian's chance of ultimate success, when he enjoyed the mean
satisfaction of screwing up his door.  He had regarded him with indeed
dislike, which received a tinge of deeper intensity from the envy, and
even admiration, with which it was largely mingled.  But although he had
calculated that his trick might be more telling and offensive if done at
this particular opportunity, and although he had quite sufficient grudge
against his former school-fellow to wish him a deep annoyance, yet he
would never have dreamed of wilfully thwarting his most cherished aims,
or materially affecting his prospects and position.  So vile a malice
would have been intolerable to any one, and the thought of it was
thoroughly intolerable to Brogten, in whom all gleams of honourable
feeling were by no means extinguished, however dormant they might seem.
It had never entered into his thoughts to anticipate the violent
consequences which his act had produced; and when told of Julian's
passion and suffering, he had felt such real remorse that he had even
half intended to wait for him as he went to hall, and there, (in a
quasi-public manner, since some men were sure to be standing about on
the hall steps), to endure the mortification of expressing his regret to
the man whom he had chosen to treat as his enemy.  But when he found
himself cut and jeered at--when he was even met by the suggestion that
he had intended basely to serve his own pecuniary interests at Julian's
expense--a method of swindling which he had never for one instant
contemplated--all his softer and better feelings vanished at once, and
created a brutal hardness in his heart, which now once more he was
striving in solitude to mollify or remove.

And he succeeded so far that, while brooding savagely over the venomous
shafts of sarcasm and ridicule with which Kennedy had wounded him, he
gradually softened his feelings towards Julian, by transferring them in
tenfold virulence against Julian's nearest friend.  Home and he had been
school-fellows after all, and Julian had never done him any wrong; on
the contrary, he liked the boy; he remembered distinctly how the first
seeds of ill-will against him had been sown, by the reserve with which
Julian, as a school-fellow, had received his advances.  Without being
rude and uncivil, he had yet managed to hold aloof from him, and as
Brogten was in some repute at Harton, when Home came, and was moreover
an Hartonian of much longer standing, his sensitive pride had been stung
by the fact that the "new fellow," whose pleasant face and manners had
attracted his notice, did not at once and gratefully embrace his
proffered friendship.  Circumstances had tended to widen the breach
between them, but secretly he liked Home still, and would have gladly
been his friend.  "And, after all," he thought, "Home has never once
retaliated any injury which I have undoubtedly done him; he has never
done me any harm.  Even in the affair at the boats, he only did what was
quite justifiable, and I was far more in the wrong than he was when I
struck him.  And now they all say I shall have prevented him from
getting this confounded Clerkland.  And I know how he longed for it, and
how much all his hopes and wishes were fixed upon it.  Upon my word,
when I come to think of it, it was a very blackguard thing of me to do,
and I wish I had been at the bottom of the sea before I did it.  I
think--yes--I think I'll go and see Home, and ask his pardon; yes, upon
my word I need his forgiveness, and would give a good deal to get it.
He's a grand fellow after all.  I wish he'd take me as a friend.  I
should be infinitely better for it; and I _will_ be better, too."  And
as he thus reasoned with himself, Brogten began to yearn for better
things, and for Julian's friendship as a means of helping him to higher
aims; and he remembered the lines--

  "I would we were boys as of old,
  In the field, by the fold;
  His outrage.  God's patience, man's scorn,
  Were so easily borne."

So his thoughts ran on, but when it occurred to him that no such
humiliation on his part would perhaps go very far to mend the general
disgust with which he had been greeted, he began to waver again.  "What
business had they to assume that I meant the worst?  I may be a bad
fellow, but," (and a mental oath followed), "I'm not a black-leg after
all.  That fellow Kennedy--curse him!--I'll be even with him yet.  I
swear that he shall rue it.  I'll be a very fiend in the vengeance I
take--curse him, curse him!"  And stamping his heel furiously on the
floor, he swallowed some raw brandy, and began to pace up and down his
room.

The conflict of his thoughts lasted, almost without intermission, till
evening.  Finally, however, his heart softened towards Julian, as he ran
over in his mind all the circumstances of the day.  Cheating his
conscience with the fancy that he was conquering his feelings of revenge
and hate, while he was only displacing them with others of a deeper dye,
he at last determined to go up at once to Julian's room, ask his pardon
openly, honestly, and unreservedly, confess his past unworthy malice,
and obtain, if possible, at least, Julian's forgiveness, perhaps even
his friendship, in return for so great a victory over himself.

It _was_ a victory over himself, and no slight one.  For at least five
years he had been nursing into dislike an inward feeling of respect for
his enemy, and now to humble himself so completely before him, required
a struggle of which he had hardly supposed himself capable, and of which
he was secretly a little proud.  It inspired him with better hopes for
the future, and gave him a pledge of combating successfully other
vicious propensities which had gained an ascendency over him.

Hesitatingly he went up to Julian's rooms; he saw the broken door, and
it made him waver.  All was silence inside, but still he hoped that
Julian was in, because he felt sure that he should never persuade his
natural pride to consent to such a sacrifice again.  But yet, _what
should he say_?  He had been thinking of a thousand set forms of
apology, but they all vanished, as, with beating heart, he knocked, a
little loudly, at the door.

Julian, too, had been brooding on the events of the day, and fanning
every now and then into fierce bursts of flame the dying embers of his
morning's indignation.  He took the worst view, and had every reason to
take the worst view, of Brogten's intentions.  He had received at his
hands many wrongs, and an incivility as unvarying as it was undeserved.
Of course he could not tell that this rudeness was but the cover of a
real desire for cordiality between them, and now he fully believed that
Brogten had intentionally, deliberately, and with malice prepense,
formed a deep laid scheme to dash from his lips the cup of happiness as
he was in the very act of tasting it.  The success which had seemed in
his very grasp would have removed the poverty, which had been one of the
severest trials, not to himself only, but to those whom he most dearly
loved; it was the thing--the _one_ thing--of which he had thought, and
for which he had prayed.  "And now it was wrenched from him," so he
thought, "by this mean and dastardly villain."

He had determined to horse-whip Brogten, at all hazards, though he knew
that Brogten was far stronger than himself.  De Vayne's manoeuvre had
disconcerted his intention, for he could not carry it out in cold blood;
but even now he felt by no means sure that he was right to take
passively an insult which, if unresented, might, he thought, be
repeated, some other time, and which, if frequently repeated would
render college life wholly intolerable.  All this was floating through
his mind, when there came a loud--he took it for an insolent--knock at
the door, and his enemy stood before him.

His enemy stood before him, humbled and remorseful, with the words of
apology on his lips, and his heart full of such emotions as might have
enabled Julian to convert him from an enemy into a lasting and grateful
friend.  But when he saw him, in one instant furious, unreasoning,
headlong anger had again seized Julian's mind--the more easily because
he had already yielded to it once.  Without stopping to hear a word--
without catching the gentler tone of Brogten's rough voice--without
noticing his downcast expression of countenance--Julian sprang up,
assumed that Brogten had come to ridicule or even insult him, glared at
him, clenched his teeth, and then seizing De Vayne's riding-whip, laid
it without mercy about Brogten's shoulders.

During the first few blows, Brogten was disarmed by intense surprise.
Of all receptions, this was the only one which it had never occurred to
him to contemplate.  He had imagined Julian bitter, sarcastic, cold; he
had prepared himself for a torrent of passionate and overwhelming
invective; he had thought how to behave if Julian remained silent, or
rejected with simple contempt his stammered apology; but to be
horse-whipped by one so much weaker than himself--by one whom he
remembered to have pitied and patronised when he came to Harton, a
delicate rosy-cheeked boy--this he had certainly never thought of.
Julian had almost expended his rage in half a dozen wild blows before
Brogten was startled from his surprise into a consciousness of his
position.

But when he did realise it all the demon took possession of his heart.
He seized Julian by the collar, wrenched the whip out of his hand, and
raised the silver knob at the end of the handle.  What fearful hurt
Julian might have received from so heavy a weapon in so powerful a hand,
or how far Brogten's fury might have transported him, none can tell; but
at that very moment he heard a step on the stairs, which arrested his
violence, and the moment after Lillyston entered.

"What!" said Lillyston indignantly, as he caught the almost diabolical
expression of Brogten's face.  "Not content with doing your best to ruin
Home, you are using personal violence to one not so strong as yourself.
Come, sir, you have felt what I can do before.  Drop that whip, or take
the consequences."

"Stop, Hugh," said Julian sullenly; "I horse-whipped him first."

"You!" said Lillyston.

"Yes," answered Brogten slowly, while his voice shook with passion;
"yes, he did horse-whip me, and I took it.  Note that, you Lillyston,
and don't think I'm afraid of _you_.  And as for you, Home, listen to
me.  I came here solely to tell you that though I screwed you in, I
never dreamt that such results would follow.  I never dreamt--so help
me, God!--of doing more than causing you ten minutes' annoyance; and
now, when I was told how it had hindered you in the examination, I was
heartily sorry and ashamed of what I had done, and,"--he began to speak
lower and faster, as the remembrance of a better mood came over
him--"and I came here, Home, to ask your forgiveness.  _Yes; I to beg
pardon of you, and humbly and honestly too_.  And now you see how you
have received me.  Yes," he continued fiercely; "no word between us from
henceforth.  You have horse-whipped me, sir, and I, who never took a
blow from man yet without returning it, have taken your horse-whipping.
Take your whip," he said, flinging it to the end of the room; "and after
that never dare to say that all accounts are not squared between us."

Lillyston made room for him to pass.  With a lowering countenance he
turned from them, and they continued silent till they had heard his last
heavy footfall as he went down the echoing stairs.

Lillyston sat on the sofa, and Julian kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
There seemed nothing to talk about, so Lillyston merely said,
"Good-night, Julian.  I came to advise you to go to bed early, and so
get a good night's rest, that you may be _yourself_ to-morrow.  You have
not been yourself to-day.  Good-night."

But a worse evil had happened to Julian that day than hindrance in his
career of ambition and hope.  He had lost a golden opportunity for an
act of Christian forgiveness which might have had the noblest influence
on the life of an erring human soul.  He had lost a golden opportunity
of doing lasting good, and that, too, to one who hated him.  Alas, it is
too seldom that we have power in life to raise up them that fall!
Julian felt bitterly, he felt even with poignancy, Brogten's closing
words; but it was too late now to offer the forgiveness which would have
been invaluable to his persecutor, and would have had a healing effect
on his own troubled thoughts so short a time before.  All this gave
deeper vexation to Julian's heart as he went moodily to bed.

And Brogten?  He sat sullenly over his fire till the last spark died
from its ashes, and his lamp flickered out, and he shivered with cold.
"It is of no use to conquer myself," he thought; "it is of no use to do
better or be better if this comes of it.  Horse-whipped, and by him!"
But, as he had said, he no longer grieved over Julian's injury.  _That_
was wiped off by the horse-whipping, and he had now made himself
understand that his inward respect for Home was deeper than the long
superficial quarrel that had existed between them.  It was against
Kennedy that the current of his anger now swept this ever-growing
temptation for revenge.  His craving, often yielded to, became terrible
in its virulence, and from this day forward there was in Brogten's
character a marked change for the worse.  He ever watched for his
opportunity, certain that it would come in time; and this encouragement
of one bad passion opened the floodgates for a hundred more.  And so on
this evening he went on selling himself more and more completely to the
devil, till the anger within him burned with a red heat, and as he went
to bed the last words he muttered to himself were, "That fellow Kennedy
shall rue it; curse him, he shall rue it to his dying day."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE CLERKLAND SCHOLARSHIP.

How different our smaller trials look, when they are seen from the
distance of a quiet and refreshful rest.  Utterly wearied, Julian slept
deeply, and when the servant awoke him next morning, he determined that
as the errors of yesterday were irreparable, he would at least save the
chances of to-day.

He rose at once, and read during breakfast the letter from home, which
came to him from one of his family nearly every day.  This morning it
was from Violet, and he could see well how anxiously they were awaiting
the result of his present examination, and yet how sure they were that
he would succeed.  Unwilling to trouble them by the painful
circumstances of the day before, he determined not to write home again
until the decision was made known.

This morning's paper was to be the last, and Julian applied to it the
utmost vigour of his powers.  After the first few moments, he had
utterly banished every sorrowful reflection, and when the clock struck
twelve, he felt that once more he had done himself justice.  He answered
with a smiling assent, the examiner's expressed hope, that his health
was better than it had been the day before, and joining Owen as he left
the senate-house, found, on comparing notes, that he had done the paper
at least as well as his dreaded but friendly rival.

His spirits rose, and his hopes revived in full.  Shaking off
examination reminiscences, he proposed to De Vayne, Kennedy, and
Lillyston a bathe in the Iscam, and then a long run across the country.
They started at once, laughing and talking incessantly on every subject,
except the Clerkland, which was tabooed.  Ten minutes' run brought them
to a green bend of the Iscam, where a bathing-shed had been built, and
after enjoying the bathe as only the first bathe in a season can be
enjoyed, they struck off over the fields towards some neighbouring
villages, which De Vayne had often wanted to visit, because their old
churches contained some quaint specimens of early architecture.  On the
way they passed through Barton Wood, and there found some fine specimens
of herb Paris, with large bright purple berries resting on its topmost
trifoliations, one of which Julian eagerly seized, saying that his
sister had long wanted one for her collection of dried plants.

"I suppose you want the one you have gathered, De Vayne, for some
botanist," said Lillyston.

"No--yes--at least I meant it for a lady, too; but it's of no use now,"
he said stammering.

"For a lady--of no use _now_," said Kennedy laughing; "what do you
mean?"

"Oh, never mind," said Julian, as he noticed De Vayne's blush, and
divined that he had meant the plant for Violet, but without knowing how
much he was vexed by losing the opportunity of doing something for her.

They had a beautiful walk; De Vayne made little sketches of the windows
and gargoyles of the village churches, and they all returned in the
evening to a dinner which Lillyston had ordered in his own rooms, and
which gave the rest an agreeable surprise when they got in.

"Julian," whispered De Vayne as they went away, "would you mind my
sending that herb Paris to Vi--I beg pardon, to Miss Home, to your
sister."

"Oh dear, yes, if you like," said Julian carelessly, surprised at the
earnestness of his manner about such a trifle.

"It's only, you know, because Miss Home had heard that they were to be
found near Camford, and asked me to get her one for her herbarium."

"Oh, very well, send it by all means.  I shouldn't like you to break a
promise."

"Thank you," said De Vayne; "and I suppose that Miss Home wouldn't mind
my sending it in a letter."

"Certainly not," said Julian, laughing; "I've no doubt she'll be highly
flattered.  Here's the plant.  Good-night."

"What could he have meant," thought he, "by making such a fuss about the
trifolium, and by blushing so when Kennedy chaffed him?  He surely can't
have fallen in love with my dear little Vi."  Now he thought of it, many
indications seemed to show that such was really the case, and Julian
contemplated the thought with singular pleasure.  It did him good by
diverting his attention from all harassing topics, and knowing that
Violet was well worthy of Lord De Vayne, and could make him truly happy,
while his high character and cultivated intellect rendered him well
suited for her, he hoped in his secret heart that some day might see
them united.

But Lord De Vayne, full of delight, took the plant, dressed it
carefully, cut it to the size of an envelope, and then with a thrill of
exquisite emotion sat down to write his letter to Violet Home.

"Dear Violet," he wrote, after having chosen a good sheet of note-paper
and a first-rate pen, "you remember that I promised to find you a--"

"Dear Violet--no, that won't quite do," he said, as he read over what he
had written, "at least not yet.  How pretty it looks!  What a charming
name it is!  I wish I might leave it, it does look so happy.  I wonder
whether it would do to call her Violet?  No, I suppose not; at least not
yet--not yet!" and the young viscount let his fancy wander away to Other
Hall, and there by the grand old fireplace in the drawing-room he placed
in imagination a slight graceful figure with soft fair hair, and a smile
that lighted up an angel face,--and by her side he sat down, and let his
thoughts wander through a vista of golden years.

Waking from his reverie, he found that his letter would be too late for
the post, so he deferred it till Monday, and then wrote--

  "Dear Miss Home--I enclose you a specimen of the herb Paris, which I
  promised to procure for you, if I could find one in Barton Wood.
  Julian was the actual discoverer, but has kindly allowed me to send it
  in fulfilment of my promise; he is quite well, and we are all hoping
  that you may hear in a day or two that he has got the Clerkland
  scholarship.  With kindest remembrances to Mrs Home and your
  brothers, I remain, dear Miss Home, very truly yours, De Vayne."

Little did Violet dream that this commonplace note had given its author
such deep pleasure, and that before he despatched it he had kissed it a
thousand times for her sake, and because it was destined for her hand.

De Vayne would not have added the allusion to the Clerkland, but that
rumours were already gaining ground in Julian's favour.  The universal
brilliancy of his earlier papers had already attracted considerable
attention, and from mysterious hints at the high table, De Vayne began
to gather almost with certainty that Julian was the successful
candidate.  Similar reports from various quarters were rife among the
undergraduates, and were supposed to be traceable to competent
authorities.

Wednesday evening came, and next morning the result was to be made
known.  As certainty approached, and suspense was nearly terminated,
Julian awaited his fate with sickening, almost with trembling anxiety.
At nine o'clock he knew that the paper on which was written the name of
the Clerkland scholar would be affixed to the senate-house door, but he
did not venture to go and read it.  He knew that, if he were successful,
a hundred men would be eager to rush up to his rooms with the joyful
intelligence; if unsuccessful, he still trusted that he had one or two
friends sufficiently sincere to put an end to his painful anxiety by
telling him the news.

Nine o'clock struck.  Oh, for the sound of some footstep on the stairs!
Many must know the result by this time.  Julian's hopes were still high,
and he could not fail to hear of the numerous and seemingly
authoritative reports which had ascribed success to him.  He pressed his
hands hard together, as he prayed that what was most for his welfare
might be granted to him, and thought what boundless delight success
would bring with it.  What a joy it would be, above all, to write home,
and gladden their hearts by the news of his triumph.

Every moment his suspense made him more feverish, and now the clock
struck a quarter past nine, and he feared that in this case no news must
be bad news.  He leaned out of the window, and at this moment Mr
Grayson strolled across the bowling-green.  Then he heard another don,
who was following him, call out--

"I say, do you know that the Clerkland is out?"

"Is it?" said Mr Grayson, with unusual show of interest.

"Yes.  Who do you think has got it?"

"A Saint Werner's man, I hope."

"Yes."

"Well, who is it?"

What was the answer--Owen or Home?--at that distance the names sounded
_exactly alike_.

"Oh, then, I am very sorry for--" Again Julian _could_ not, with his
utmost effort, catch the name with certainty; and, unable any longer to
endure this state of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound
of a slow footstep stopped him.

But it was Brogten's step, and Julian heard him pass into his own room.

A moment of breathless silence, and then another step, or rather the
steps of two men; he detected by the sound that they were Lillyston and
De Vayne.  In one moment he would know the--Was it the best or the
worst?  He stood with his hand on the handle of the door; but it seemed
as if they would never get to the top of the stairs.  Why on earth were
they so slow?

"Well," said Julian, as they came in sight, "is the Clerkland out?"  He
knew it was, but would not ask them the result.

"Yes," they both said; and Lillyston added, in a sorrowful tone of
voice, "I am sorry for you, Julian, but Owen has got it."

Julian grew very pale, and for one second reeled as if he would faint.
Lord De Vayne caught him as he staggered, and added eagerly, "But you
are most honourably mentioned, Julian, `proxime accessit,' and an
allusion to your illness during one paper."

"Nothing, nothing," muttered Julian; "please leave me by myself."  They
were unwilling to leave him, and both lingered, but he entreated them to
go, and respecting his desire for solitude they left him alone.

Julian found relief in a burst of passionate tears.  He flung himself on
the ground and cursed his birth, and his hard fate, and above all he
cursed Brogten, who, as was clear, had been the cause, the sole cause,
as Julian obstinately said, of his heavy misfortune.  "Here I am," he
murmured, "a sizar, an orphan, poor, without relations, with others
depending on me, with my own way to make in the world, and now he has
lost me the one thing I longed for, the one thing which would have made
me happy," and as Julian kept brooding on this, on the loss of
reputation, of help, of hope, his eyes grew red and swollen, and his
temples throbbed with pain.  He was far from strong, and the shock of
news that shattered all his hopes, and dashed rudely to the ground his
long, long cherished desires, came more heavily upon him, because his
constitution, naturally delicate, had suffered much during the last week
from study and over anxiety.  The necessity of writing home haunted
him,--to his mother and sister, whose pride in him was so great, and who
hoped so much for the honours which they thought him so sure to win,--to
his brothers who had seen his diligence, and who would be deeply sorry
to know that it had been in vain; to them at least he would be forced to
announce the humiliating intelligence of defeat.  He might leave his
other friends to learn it from accidental sources, but oh, the
bitterness of being obliged to announce it for himself, to those to
whose disappointment he was most painfully alive, and oh, the
intolerable plague of receiving letters of commiseration.

He could not do anything, he could not read, or write, or even think,
except of the one blow which had thus laid him prostrate.  He leaned
over his window-sill, and stared stupidly at the great stone bears
carved on the portals of Saint Margaret's; his eyes wandered listlessly
over the smooth turf of the Fellows' bowling-green, and the trim
parterres full of crocus and anemone and violet which fringed it; he
watched the boats skim past him on the winding gleams of the Iscam, and
shoot among the water-lilies by the bridge and then he stared upwards at
the sun, trying to think of nothing until his eyes watered, and then the
sight of a don in the garden below made him shrink back, to avoid
observation, into his own room.

Some of the Saint Werner's men would be coming soon to condole with him.
What a nuisance it would be!  He got up and sported the door.  This
action recalled in all their intensity his bitterest and angriest
feelings, and he flung the door open again, and threw himself full
length on the sofa, until a sort of painful stupor came over him, and he
became unconscious of how the time went by.

At length a slight sound awoke him, and he saw De Vayne standing by him.
De Vayne was so gentle in heart and manner, so full of sympathy and
kindness, that of all others he was the one whom at that moment Julian
could best endure to see.

"I am afraid," he said, "that you will think me very foolish, De Vayne.
But to me everything almost depended on this scholarship, and you can
hardly tell how absolutely it had engrossed my hopes."

"It is very natural that you should feel it, Julian.  But I came to ask
if you would like me to save you the trouble of writing home to-day.  I
could say more, you know, than you could," he added with a pleasant
smile, "of the splendid manner in which you acquitted yourself, of which
I have heard a great deal that I will tell you some day."

"Thanks, De Vayne.  I should be really and truly grateful if you would.
They will expect to hear by to-morrow, and I know that if I write now, I
shall be saying something bitter and hasty."

"Very well, I will.  Are you inclined for a stroll now?"

"No, thank you," said Julian, unwilling to encounter the many eyes which
he knew would look on him with curiosity to see how he bore his loss.

"Good morning then; I shall come again soon."

"Do, I shall like to see _you_," said Julian; and De Vayne went away,
thinking with some happiness, that if he had won Julian's affection,
that would be something towards helping him to win Violet's too.

Julian had no intention that any strange eye should see how much he had
felt his disappointment, so when Mr Admer came to see him, he gave no
sign of vexation, and they talked indifferently for a few minutes, till
Mr Admer said--

"Well, Home, I'm sorry you haven't got this scholarship.  Not that it
makes the least difference, you know, really.  No sensible man would
have thought one atom the better of you for getting it, and even your
reputation stands just as high as before.

"Ah, I see you take it to heart rather; all very natural, but when
you're my age you'll think less of these things.  There are higher
successes in the world than these small University affairs."

"But they aren't small to me," said Julian.  "Not to men up here," said
Mr Admer.

  "`They think the rustic cackle of their body
  The murmur of the world.'"

"Perhaps, after all, if you had got it, it would only have helped to
make you as fussy, as foolish, and as self-important as Jones, and
Brown, and Robinson, who, because they are dons, think themselves the
most important people in England, when really they are only conspicuous
for empty-headedness and conceit; or as the senior Wrangler, who
entering the theatre at the same moment as the queen, bowed graciously
on all sides in acknowledgment of the acclamations.  As it is, Home, you
are a man who ought to do something in the world."

Julian could not help smiling at Mr Admer's usual style, and would have
found some relief in arguing with him, had not Hazlet entered, whose
very appearance put Mr Admer to a precipitate flight.  There could not
have been any human being less likely to give Julian any effectual
consolation at such a moment, and he could not help sighing as Mr Admer
left him to his persecutor.

"Fugit improbus ac me sub cultro linquit," he said appealingly, secure
in Hazlet's ignorance of the Latin tongue; but Mr Admer only shook his
head significantly, and disappeared.

With his black shining hair brushed down in unusual lankiness over his
receding forehead, and with an expression of sleek resignation unusually
sanctimonious, Hazlet sat down, and gave a half groan.

"I am sorry," he said, "dear Julian--"

"Home, if you please, Hazlet," interrupted Julian.

Hazlet was a little taken aback, but he said--

"Well, dear Home--"

"Home _only_, if you please," said Julian still more abruptly.

"Ah!  I see you are in a rebellious--excuse me, dear--I mean Home,--a
rebellious spirit.  I feared it would be so when I saw that godless
young clergyman with you."

Julian relieved his disgust by an expression of impatience.

"I have no doubt, dear Ju--, I mean Home--I have no doubt," he
continued, with a gusto infinitely annoying, "that you needed this rod.
I am afraid that you are as yet unconverted; that you have as yet no
saving, no vital sense of Christianity.  Some sin, perhaps, needs
correction; some--"

"Confound your intolerable impudence and cant!" said Julian, starting
from his seat, aroused by his hypocritical prate into unwonted
intolerance; and he suddenly observed, by the cowering attitude which
Hazlet assumed, that the worthy youth was afraid of receiving at his
head the water-bottle, on which Julian's hand was resting.  Julian
thought it best to avoid the temptation, and hoping Hazlet would take
the hint, he said, "Forgive my rudeness, Hazlet, but I am very tired and
annoyed just now; in fact, I am hardly in a condition to talk with, as
you see, and you are really _quite_ incapable of saying anything to help
me."

But Hazlet had come prepared to say his say, and did not attempt to
move.

"Ah," he said, with a sigh which seemed to express satisfaction--(some
people always sigh when they thank God)--"I am afraid you are unprepared
for the consolations of religion."

"Of such a religion as yours, most certainly," interrupted Julian, with
haughty vehemence.

"The natural man, you see--" He stopped as he saw Julian's hand
fidgeting towards the water-bottle.  "Ah! well, you will have still to
sit at the sizars' table, and dine on the Fellows' leavings; perhaps it
might inscrutably be good for you to bear the yoke--"

Had the fellow come to insult him?  Was he there on purpose to gratify
his malice at another's misfortune, under the pretext of pious
reflections?  Half-a-dozen times Julian had thought so, and thought so
correctly.  Hazlet's very little and very ignorant mind had been fed
into self-complacency by the cheering belief that he and his friends
formed a select party whose future welfare was secure, while "the world"
was very wicked, and destined to everlasting burning; and in proportion
to his gross conceit, was he nettled with the evident manner in which
Julian, though without any rudeness, avoided his company even at Ildown,
where he reigned with undisputed sway among his own admiring circle of
_gynaikazia_.  (Excuse the word, gentle reader; it is Saint Paul's--not
mine.)  Hazlet had come there, though in the depth of his hypocrisy he
hardly knew it himself, to enjoy a little triumph over Julian's pride,
and to pour a little vinegar, in the guise of a good Samaritan, on
wounds which he knew to be bleeding still.

In saying the last sentence, in which he cut Julian to the very quick,
Hazlet had seemed to his victim's excited imagination to be actually
smacking his lips with undisguised delight.  "Ah, you will have still to
dine at the sizars' table on the Fellows' leavings."  Julian knew that
the form of the sentence made it most maliciously and odiously false;--
and that this hypocritical son of Belial should address him at such a
moment in such a way was so revolting to his own generous spirit, that
he could endure it no longer.

"What did you say?" he asked sharply.

"Of course, my dear Ju--, Home, I mean--poverty is no disgrace to you,
you know.  Some of the sizars are pious men, I have no doubt, and I dare
say the Fellows leave--"

"I swear this is too much," said Julian, using the only oath that ever
in all his life-time crossed his lips.  "You canting and mean--Pshaw!
you are beneath my abuse.  _Sizar_ indeed! there, take that, and
begone."  He had meant to empty the tumbler in his face, but his hand
shook with passion, and the glass flew out of it, and after cutting the
top of Hazlet's head, fell broken on the floor.

With a howl of dismay Hazlet fled to his own rooms, where, having
satisfied himself that the cut had done little other harm than leaving
some red streaks upon his damp and lanky hair, he put over it some
strips of plaster as large as he conveniently could, and then with a
lugubrious expression went to hall, and gratified his malice by buzzing
and babbling among his fellows all sorts of lies and exaggerations about
Julian's conduct and state of mind.  When Kennedy came in, however, he
put an abrupt end to Hazlet's calumnies by handling his own tumbler with
so significant a glance, that Hazlet assumed a look of terror, and, amid
shouts of laughter, retired with all speed out of reach of the danger.

Lillyston, always a firm and faithful friend, was grieved to the soul to
hear of Julian's condition; for, without believing half that Hazlet
said, it was at least clear that Julian had shown some violence, and, if
Hazlet was to be trusted, "had sworn at him in a manner perfectly
awful."  What had come over Julian of late?  Since that fit of
uncontrollable and lasting passion which had overpowered him when he was
screwed in, he did not seem to have recovered that noble moral strength
and equilibrium which was usually conspicuous in his character.  The
restlessness which had prevented him from doing the paper, the half
sullen silence through the day, the horse-whipping of Brogten, the
second outburst of unchecked feeling at the loss of the scholarship, and
finally, this treatment of Hazlet, caused Lillyston a deep regret that
his friend should have strayed so widely from his usual calm and manly
course.  It was as if one staggering blow had loosened all the joints of
his moral armour, and left room for successive wounds.  He determined to
go and see him before chapel, and, if possible, get him to come and
spend the evening quietly with him; he was only prevented from going at
once by supposing that Julian would be dining by himself to avoid
meeting any one in hall, and he did not wish to disturb him at his
lonely meal.

Julian's head was aching with mortification, passion, and fatigue; it
seemed as if he had but one thought to which he could turn, and that
this was a thought of weariness and pain.  He dwelt much less on his own
defeat than on the disappointment which he knew it would cause to Violet
and his young brothers.  He knew well that Mrs Home would bear it with
equanimity, because she regarded all the events of life, however
painful, with the same quiet resignation, and trusted ever in the gentle
dealing and loving purposes of His hand who guides them all.  Poor
Julian longed to be able to regard it in this light too, but he had
suffered the angry part of his nature to gain the victory, and his human
reason was now being torn by his lion heart.

Unable to endure the notion of going to hall, which would be a painful
reminder that the opportunity to which he had long looked for
emancipation from his sizarship had passed by, he determined to take
some wine, in the hope that it would support him till the evening.  He
could not of course afford to give wine parties, but he always kept a
few bottles in his rooms for medicinal purposes, or to offer to any
stranger who might come to visit him.  Taking out a decanter, he sat
down in his armchair, and drank a glass or two.  The wine exhilarated
him; as he had scarcely tasted anything all day, it got rapidly into his
head, and in a few minutes his thoughts seemed in a tumult of delirious
emotion.  Pride and passion triumphed over every other feeling; after
all, what was the scholarship to him?  Tush! he looked for better things
in life than scholarships.  He would discard the petty successes of
pedantry, and would seek a loftier greatness.  He had been a fool to
trouble himself about such trifles.  And as these arrogant mists clouded
his fancy, he broke out into irregular snatches of unmeaning song.

It was a saint's-day evening, and consequently chapel was at a quarter
past six instead of six, and the undergraduates wore surplices in chapel
instead of their ordinary gowns.  On saints'-days there is always a
choral service at Saint Werner's College, and the excellence of the
choir generally attracted a large congregation.  To Julian, who was fond
of music, these saint's-day services had a peculiar interest; and now
while his brain was swimming with the fumes of wine, he determined to go
to chapel, and imagined to himself the pleasure he should feel in
striding haughtily through the throng of men up the long aisle to the
sizar's seat, to show by his look and manner that his courage was
undaunted, and that his self-confidence rose superior to defeat.
Although the chapel-bell had not yet begun to ring, he put out his cap
and surplice, and sat down to drink more wine.

Just as the clock struck six, Lillyston knocked at Julian's door.

"Aha! old fellow," said Julian, "you are just in time to have a glass of
wine before chapel."

"No, thank you," said Lillyston coldly, sick at heart to see a fresh
proof of his friend's unworthy excitement, but without realising as yet
his true condition.

"Tush! you think I care about that trumpery Clerkland?  Not I!  Won't
you have some wine?--no? well, I shall, and then I'm going to chapel."

His flushed countenance, and excited manner, joined to the harsh tones
of his generally pleasant and musical voice, produced on Lillyston's
mind a feeling of deep pain and shame, and when with unsteady hand,
Julian endeavoured to pour out for himself a fresh glass, and in doing
so spilt the wine in great streams over the table, Lillyston saw that he
was in an utterly unfit state to go to chapel, and that the attempt to
do so would certainly draw upon him exposure and disgrace.

"Julian," he said gently; "you are not in a condition to go to chapel;
you must not think of it."

"What do you mean?" said Julian with a stupid stare.

"I mean," he replied slowly, "that the wine has got into your head."

A laugh, half hysterical, half defiant, was the only answer, and Julian
began to put on his surplice, wrong side out.

"Julian, I beg of you to stay here as you would avoid ruin."

"Pooh!  I am not a child, as you seem to think.  You are--Yes, you are a
fool, Lillyston."

Pained to the very heart, Lillyston wavered for a moment, but a glance
at Julian decided him.  Five years of happy uninterrupted friendship,
five years during which he had regarded his friend's stainless character
with ever-growing pride and affection, determined him at all hazards to
save him from the effects of this temporary possession.  Firmly, but
quietly, he planted his back against the door, and said--

"Dear Julian, I beseech you not to go."

The tone of voice, the mention of his own name recalled Julian for a
moment, but the sound of the chapel-bell renewed his determination, and
he answered, "Nonsense.  Come, make room."

"You _shall not go_, Julian."

"But I will," shouted he angrily; "how dare you prevent me; stand
aside."

Lillyston did not stir, and rendered furious by opposition, Julian
grappled with him.  It required all Lillyston's strength to retain his
position against this wild assault, but he managed to do so without
inflicting any hurt; and when Julian paused, Lillyston noticed with a
sense of relief that the chapel-bell had ceased to ring.

"I WILL go," said Julian, madly renewing the struggle.  But with all his
efforts he could not stir Lillyston from the door, and only succeeded in
tearing his surplice from the neck downwards.  He paused, and, baffled
of his intention, glared at his opponent.

"The clock has now struck," said Lillyston calmly, "and the doors will
be shut.  You are too late to get in."  Julian stamped impatiently on
the floor, and prepared to close with Lillyston again, but now Lillyston
stepped from the door, and as he slowly went out, turned round and
said--

"Julian, do you call this being brave or strong?  Can you let one
disappointment unman you so utterly?"

"Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you."  The words
flashed into light from the folded pages of Julian's memory, and with
them the dim image of a dead face, and the dying echo of a father's
voice.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

MR CARDEN.

  "Pol pudere quam pigere proestat totidem literis."
  Plautus _Trinum_, Two, 2.

Who has not felt, who does not know, that one sin yielded to, that one
passion uncontrolled, too often brings with it a train of other sins,
and betrays the drawbridge of the citadel to a thousand enemies beside?

It had been so with Julian Home, and in proportion to the true strength
and beauty of his character, was the poignancy of his bitterness when he
awoke the next morning, and calmly reviewed the few last excited,
prayerless, and unworthy days.  Surely after so many proofs of weakness,
surely after emotions and acts so violently inadequate to the
circumstances which had caused them, his best friends must despise him
as utterly as he despised himself.

He arose that morning strong out of weakness.  He determined that he
would be checked no longer by unavailing regrets, and that his
repentance should be open and manly, as his prostration had been
conspicuous.  Fortified by the humiliating experience of his own want of
strength he sought for help in resolute determination and earnest
prayer.  After breakfast, his first step was to call on Owen, and
congratulate him with hearty and unaffected simplicity on his success--a
success which Owen generously acknowledged to be due solely to Julian's
misfortune.  It was much more difficult to call on Hazlet, but this,
too, Julian felt to be his duty; and distasteful as it was, he would not
shrink from performing it.  Hazlet received him with a ludicrous air of
offended dignity, and was barely overcome into a tone of magnanimous
forgiveness by Julian's frank apology.  On the whole, Julian decided
that it would be best not to call on Brogten, lest, by so doing, he
should seem to be reminding him of the consequences of his enmity under
the appearance of expressing a regret.  It only remained therefore to
see Lillyston, and to this visit Julian looked with unmitigated joy.

"Forgive me, Hugh," he said, as he entered the room; "from this time
forward I shall owe you a new debt of gratitude; you have saved me from
I know not what disgrace."

Lillyston was delighted to see him look like his old self once more.
The thunder-cloud which had been hanging on his brow was dissipated, and
the sullen expression had wholly passed.

"Don't talk of debt, Julian," he said; "between friends, you know, there
are no obligations--they are merged in the friendship itself."

"I am amazed at my own intolerable folly, Hugh.  I hope this is the last
time that I shall yield to such storms of passion.  I have much to be
ashamed of."

"Well, Julian," said Lillyston, changing the subject, "you mustn't think
any more of this Clerkland, for potentially you got it, as everybody
acknowledges; _dynamei_ you were successful, if not _ezgo_."

"I don't _mean_ to let it discourage me," said Julian, "though the
potential is mightily different from the actual."  Nor _did_ he suffer
it to discourage him, or weaken his endeavours.  His life soon began to
flow once more in its usual, even, and quiet course.  It did not take
him long to discover that it was possible to live happily without the
Clerkland, and he wondered in himself at the intensity of the desire to
obtain it, which he had suffered to overpower him.  He felt no touch of
envy towards Owen, whose friendship he began to value more and more, and
who voluntarily told him, from information that he had derived from the
examiners themselves, that the decision had long hung in a doubtful
scale.  In fact, the scholarship would have been divided between both of
them but for one of the examiners, who hardly appreciated Julian's
merits.  It was so well understood that Julian must have been the
successful candidate but for the one fatal paper on Monday morning, that
he rather gained than lost in reputation from the result of the
competition.

It was a few days after these events that Julian received from Mr
Carden a pressing invitation to spend a Sunday with him at Harton.  Glad
of a change, he easily obtained an exeat, and went down on the Saturday
morning.  Even the half-year since he had left had made a perceptible
change in the old place.  There were many new faces, and many old ones
had disappeared, so that, already, he began to feel himself half a
stranger among the familiar scenes.  But alike from boys and masters he
received a kindly greeting, and Mr Carden entertained him with a
pleasant and genial hospitality.  The only thing which pained him was
the obvious change for the worse in Mr Carden's health.  He wore a
sadder expression than of old, and though he made no remark about his
health, yet every now and then his face seemed to be suddenly contracted
by a throb of pain.

On the Monday morning, when it was necessary for Julian to return to
Camford, Mr Carden called him into his study after breakfast, and asked
him to choose any book he liked, as a farewell present, from the
shelves.

"But why a _farewell_ present, Mr Carden?" asked Julian, laughing.
"Aren't you ever going to ask me to Harton again?"

"No," said Mr Carden with a sad smile, "never again.

"I resign my mastership at the end of this term," he continued, in
answer to Julian's inquiring look; "my health is so uncertain that I
feel unequal any longer to these most arduous, most responsible duties.
Perhaps, too," he added, "I may be a little disappointed in the result
of my labours; but, at any rate, though as yet few are aware of it, this
is my last month at Harton--so choose one of my books, Julian, as a
farewell present."

Julian expressed his real sorrow at Mr Carden's failing health.  "If
you go away," he said, "it will seem as if the chief tie which bound me
to dear old Harton was suddenly snapped."  He chose as his memento a
small volume of sermons which Mr Carden had published in former days,
and asked him to write his name on the title-page.

"Yes," said the master, "you shall have that book if you like; but I
mean you to have also a more substantial memorial of my library.  Here,
Julian, this book I always destined to be yours some day; you may as
well have it now."

He took down from the shelves a richly bound copy of Coleridge's works,
in ten volumes, which Julian knew to be the one book of his library
which he most deeply prized.  His marginal comments enriched almost
every page, and Julian was ashamed to take what he knew that the owner
so highly valued.

"But I thought you told me once that you were thinking of publishing a
biography of Coleridge, and an edition of his writings," said Julian.
"Surely, sir, you will want these manuscript notes, won't you?"

"Ah, Julian! that is one of the many plans which have floated through my
mind unfulfilled.  My life, I fear, will have been an incomplete one.
Thank God that there is no such thing as a necessary man--_il n'y a
point d'hommes necessaires_; others will be found to do a thousandfold
better the work which I had purposed to do."  And then he murmured half
to himself--

  "Till, in due time, one by one,
  Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
  Death came suddenly, and took them where men never see the sun."

His eyes filled with tears.  "No," he said, "take the book, Julian.  If
it does you all the good it has done me, it will have been more useful
than I could ever have made it.  And when you hang on the eloquent and
earnest words of the great poet philosopher, mingle his teachings with
some few memories of me; it will be like a drop of myrrh, perhaps, in
the cup, but I should like," he added, with faltering voice, "to leave
at least _one_ to think of me with affection."

He turned away as his old pupil grasped his hand; and Julian, as he went
back in the train to Camford, could not help a feeling of real pity that
one so generous and upright in heart and life should be destined to so
lonely and sorrowful a lot.

As he had said, he resigned his Harton mastership at the end of the
term, and sailed to Madeira for his health.  He begged Julian to
continue his correspondence with him, and to tell him all about his old
Harton and Camford friends.

During Easter week, while Julian was at Ildown, he received from him a
letter to the following effect:--

  "Dear Julian--I was not mistaken in hinting, while you were at Harton,
  that we should never meet again.  I am on my death-bed; and, in all
  probability, the rapid decline which is now wasting my powers, and
  which, while I write, shakes me with painful fits of coughing, will
  have terminated my life before this letter reaches your hands.

  "I leave life, I hope, with simple resignation; and although I have
  left undone much which I hoped to have accomplished, yet I die
  trusting in God.  My friends in this world have been few, and my
  fortune have not been bright, yet happiness has largely preponderated
  even in _my_ destiny, and I look on the death which is approaching as
  the commencement, not as the end, of true existence.

  "But I did not write to you, dear Julian, to tell you of the frame of
  mind in which death finds me.  I wrote to bid you farewell, and to
  tell you of something which concerns you--I mean my intention,
  recently adopted, of leaving you my small private fortune, and the
  added earnings which my labours have procured.  Together, they amount
  only to ten thousand pounds, but I hope that they may be of real
  service to you.  Had you still been the heir to your aunt's property,
  perhaps even if you had got the Clerkland, I should have disposed of
  this money in some other way; but as these events have been ordered
  otherwise, and as I have no relations of my own who need the legacy,
  nor any friend in whose welfare I take deeper interest than in yours,
  it gives me a gleam of real satisfaction to be able to place at your
  disposal this little sum.

  "Good-bye, my dear Julian.  When these words meet your eye, I expect
  to be in that state where even your prayers can benefit me no more.
  But I know your affectionate and grateful heart, and I know that you
  will sometimes recur with a thought of kindness to the memory of your
  affectionate friend, Henry Carden."

The next mail brought the news of Mr Carden's death.  It caused many a
sorrowing heart both at Harton and at Camford.  Mr Carden was a man
whose impetuous and enthusiastic disposition had caused him to commit
many serious errors in life, and these had been a barrier to the success
which must otherwise have rewarded his energy and talent.  But even
among those who were envious of his ability, and offended by his
eccentricities, they were few who did not do justice to the rectitude of
his motives, and none who did not admit the warmth of his affections.
There were more to mourn over his untimely death than there had been to
forgive the mistakes he made, and by wise and friendly counsel to raise
him to that height which he might easily have obtained.  And among the
crowd who had known him, and the many who honoured him, there were some
who loved him with no ordinary love, and who were not too proud to admit
the obligation of a permanent gratitude.  It was one of the great
happinesses of Mr Carden's life that of this number was Julian Home.

With a clear 300 pounds a year of his own, it was of course unnecessary
for Julian to return to Saint Werner's as a sizar, and he at once wrote
to his tutor to beg that his name might be removed from the list.  There
was one respect in which he found this a very material addition to his
comfort and happiness.  As the sizars dined an hour later than the other
men, and at a separate table, he had been by this means cut off from the
society of many of his friends in hall, where men have more
opportunities of meeting and becoming intimate than anywhere else.  It
was no slight addition to his happiness to sit perpetually with the
group of friends he valued most.

"I've got a magnificent plan for the Long, Julian," said Kennedy to him
one day, as they left the hall.  "My father is going to Switzerland for
three months, with my sister Eva and me.  Eva goes under the wing of an
aunt of mine, Mrs Dudley, whom I think you met at Ildown once.  Won't,
you come with us?"

The proposal was very tempting, the more so as Julian had never been
abroad.  He mentioned it in his next letter home, and asked if it would
be possible for any of them to accompany him, without which he gave up
all intention of making the tour.  In reply, Mrs Home proposed that
Violet should go, (if Mrs Dudley would kindly chaperon her), because
the trip would be of great advantage to her in many ways; and that Cyril
should go, as a reward for his industry and success at Marlby.  "As for
Frankie and me," she continued, "we will stay at home to take care of
Ildown in your absence.  Frank is too young to enjoy travelling, and I
have but little desire for it; we two will stay behind, and I daresay we
shall be very happy, especially if you write us long accounts of all
your proceedings."

So this most delightful plan was definitely adopted, and all concerned
were full of the happiest anticipations.  Kennedy and Julian looked
forward to it with the utmost eagerness; Violet, who had already grown
fond of Mrs Dudley and Eva, was charmed at the prospect, and Cyril,
with all a boy's eagerness for novelty, was well-nigh wild with joy.

But as yet six weeks were to elapse before the Long commenced.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

KENNEDY'S DISHONOUR.

  "I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
  Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
  Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
  An arm in mine, to fix me to the place.
  That way he used, ...  Alas! one hour's disgrace!"
  Robert Browning.  _Childe Roland_.

"I am very doubtful, after all, Julian, whether I shall be one of the
Switzerland party," said Kennedy, with a sigh, as he and Julian were
walking round the Saint Werner's gardens one bright evening of the May
term.  The limes and chestnuts were unfolding their tender sprays of
spring-tide emerald, the willows shivered as their green buds made
ripples in the water, and the soft light of sunset streamed over towers
and colleges, giving a rich glow to the broad windows of the library,
and bathing in its rosy tinge the white plumage of the swans upon the
river.  The friends were returning from a walk, during which they had
thoroughly enjoyed the blue and golden weather.  Up to this time Kennedy
had seemed to be in the highest spirits, and Julian was astonished at
the melancholy tone in which the words were spoken.

"Doubtful?  Why?" said Julian, quickly.

"Because my father has made it conditional on my getting a first class
in the May examination."

"But, my dear fellow, there is not the ghost of a doubt of your doing
that."

"I don't feel so sure."

"Why, there are often thirty in the first class in the freshman's year;
and just as if _you_ wouldn't be among them!"

"All very well; I know that anybody can do it who works, but I am
ashamed to say that I haven't read one of the books yet."

"Haven't you, really?  Well then, for goodness' sake, lose no more
time."

"But there's only a fortnight to the examination."

"My dear Kennedy, what _have_ you been doing to be so idle?"

"Somehow or other the time manages to slip away.  Heigh ho!" said
Kennedy, "my first year at college nearly over, and nothing done--
nothing done!  How quickly the time has gone!"

"Yes," said Julian;

  "_ptezugas gaz epoomaduas phezai
  Kampes bzadutezoi ta poteemena syllabein_,

"as Theocritus prettily observes."

Seized with the strong determination not only to pass the examination,
but even to excel in it, Kennedy devoted the next fortnight to
unremitted study for the first time since he had been an undergraduate.
But the more he read the more painfully he became aware of his own
deficiencies, and the more bitterly he deplored the waste of time.  He
seemed to be toiling in vain after the opportunities he had lost.  He
knew that the examination, though limited in subjects, was searching in
character, and he found it impossible to acquire, by a sudden impulse,
what he should have learned by continuous diligence.  As the time drew
nearer, he grew more and more nervous.  He had set his heart on the
Swiss tour, and it now seemed to him painfully probable that he would
fail in fulfilling the condition which his father had exacted, and
without which he well knew that Mr Kennedy would insist on his spending
the vacation either at Camford or at home.

Of the three main subjects for examination he had succeeded by desperate
effort, aided by natural ability, in very quickly mastering two
sufficiently well to secure a creditable result; but the third subject,
the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, remained nearly untouched, and Kennedy was
too good and accurate a scholar not to be aware that the most careful
and elaborate study was indispensable to an even tolerable understanding
of that masterpiece of Grecian tragedy.  Besides this, he had a hatred
of slovenly and superficial work, and he therefore determined to leave
the Aeschylus untouched, while, at the same time, he was quite conscious
that if he did so, all chance of distinction, and even all chance of a
first class were out of the question.  With some shame he reflected over
this proof, that, for all purposes of study, a third of his academical
life had been utterly and wholly lost.

As he had decided on giving up the Aeschylus, it became more imperative
to make sure of the Tacitus and Demosthenes, and he therefore went to
Mr Grayson's rooms to get a library order which should entitle him to
take from the Saint Werner's library any books that would be most likely
to give him effectual help.

At the moment of his arrival, Mr Grayson was engaged, and he was shown
into another room until he should be ready.  This room was the tutor's
library, and like many of the rooms in Camford, it opened into an inner
and smaller study, the door of which was partly open.

Kennedy sat down, and after a few minutes, as there seemed to be no
signs that he would be summoned immediately, he began to grow very
restless.  He tried some of the books on the table, but they were all
unspeakably dull; he looked at the pictures on the wall, but they were
most of them the likenesses of Camford celebrities which he already knew
by heart; he looked out of the window, but the court was empty, and
there was nothing to see.  Reflecting that the only thing which can
really induce ennui in a sensible man, is to be kept waiting when he is
very busy for an _indefinite_ period, which may terminate at any moment,
and may last for almost any length of time, Kennedy, vexed at the
interruption of his work, chose the most comfortable armchair in the
room, and settled himself in it with a yawn.

At this moment, as ill fate would have it, his eye caught sight of a
book lying on Mr Grayson's reading-desk.  Lazily rising to see what it
was, he found it to be an Aeschylus, and turned over the leaves with a
feeling of listless indifference.  Between two of the leaves lay a
written paper, and suddenly, after reading two or three lines, he
observed it to be a manuscript copy of the much-dreaded Agamemnon paper
for the May examination.

Temptation had surprised him with sudden and unexpected violence.  He
little knew that on this idle weary moment rested the destiny of many
years.

As when in a hostile country one has laid aside his armour, and from
unregarded ambush the enemy leaps on him, and, though he be strong and
noble, stabs him with a festering wound, so this temptation to a base
act sprang on poor Kennedy when he was unarmed and unprepared.  In the
gaieties of life, and the brightnesses of hope, and the securities of
unbroken enjoyment, he had long been trusting in himself only, in his
own high principle, his own generous impulses, his own unstained honour.
But these were never sufficient for any human being yet, and they
snapped in an instant under this unhappy boy.

The only honourable thing to do, the thing which at another moment
Kennedy might have done, and which any man would have done, whose right
instincts and high character had the reliable support of higher
principles than mere personal self-confidence and pride, would have been
to shut the book instantly, inform Mr Grayson that he had accidentally
read one of the questions, and beg him to change it before the
examination.  This Kennedy knew well; it flashed before him in an
instant as the only proper course but at the same instant he
passionately obliterated the suggestion from his mind, fiercely stifled
the impulse to do right, choked the rebukes of honour and principle, and
blindly willed to save his reputation as a scholar, and his chance of
enjoyment for the vacation by reading through the entire number of the
questions.  This mental struggle did not last an instant, for the
emotions of the spirit belong only to eternity, and the guilt of human
actions is not commensurate with the length of time they occupy.  But in
the intense wish to see what the examination would be like, and to
secure his first class, Kennedy repressed altogether by one blow the
moral element of his being, and concentrated his whole intellect on the
paper before him.  To read it through was the work of a minute; when it
was read through, it was too late to wish the act undone, and without
suffering himself to dwell, or even to recur in thought to the nature of
his proceedings, Kennedy deliberately read through the whole paper a
second time.

But this imperious effort of the will was not exercised without visible
effects.  Absorbed as he was in seizing every prominent subject in the
questions, his forehead contracted, his hand shook, his knees trembled,
and his heart palpitated with violence.  He observed nothing; he did not
notice the shadow that chequered the sunlight streaming from the door of
the inner room; he did not hear the light step which passed over the
carpet; he did not feel the breath of a man who stood behind him, looked
over his shoulder, watched his eager determination to secure the unfair
advantage, smiled at his agitation, and then slipped back again into the
inner room, unnoticed as before.

It was done.  Not a question but was printed indelibly on Kennedy's
memory.  Quickly, fearfully, he shut the book, and glided back to the
armchair, in the vain attempt to look and feel at ease.

At ease!  No, now the tumult broke.  Now Kennedy hated himself; called
himself mean, vile, contemptible, a reptile, a cheat.  Now his insulted
honour began to vindicate its rights, and his trampled sense of truth to
spring up with a menacing bound, and his conscience to speak out calmly
and clearly the language of self-condemnation and contempt.  Good
heavens! how could he have sunk so low; fancy if Julian had seen him, or
could know his meanness.  Fancy if _anybody_ had seen him.  Hazlet, or
Fitzurse, or Brogten himself, could hardly have been guilty of a more
dishonourable act.

You miserable souls, that do not know what honour is, or what torments
rend a truly noble heart, if ever it be led to commit an act which to
your seared consciences and muddy intelligence appears a trivial sin, or
even no sin at all; you, the mean men to whom an offence like this is so
common, that, unless it were discovered, it would not trouble your
recollections with a feather's weight of remorse,--for you, I scorn to
write, and I scorn from my inmost being the sneer with which you will
regard the agony that Kennedy suffered from his fall.  But to the high
and the generous, who have erred and have bewailed their error in
secret,--to them I appeal to imagine the anguish of self-reproach, the
bitterness of humiliation, which stung him in those few moments after
his first dishonour.  It is the lofty tower that falls with the heaviest
crash; it is the stately soul that suffers the deepest abasement; it is
the white scutcheon on which the dark stain seems to wear its darkest
hue.

He had not sat there for many minutes--though to him they seemed like
hours--when a step on the stairs told him that his tutor's visitor had
departed, and the gyp blandly entering, observed--

"Now, sir, Mr Grayson can see you."

"Oh! very well," said Kennedy, rising and assuming, with a painful
effort, his most indifferent look and tone.

"Pardon me, Mr Kennedy, my turn first; I have been waiting longest,"
said a harsh voice behind him, that sounded mockingly to his excited
ear.  He turned sharply round, and with a low bow and a curl on the
protruding lip, and a little guttural laugh, Brogten came from the inner
room, and passed before him into Mr Grayson's presence.

If a thunderbolt had suddenly fallen before Kennedy's feet and cloven
its sulphurous passage into the abyss, he could hardly have been more
startled or more alarmed.  Without a word he sat down half stupefied.
Was any one else in the inner room?  For very shame he dare not look.
Had Brogten seen him?  If so, would he at once tell Mr Grayson?  What
would be done in that case?  Dare he deny the fact?  Passionately he
spurned the hateful suggestion.  Would Brogten tell all the Saint
Werner's men?  Brogten of all others, whom he had publicly insulted and
branded with dishonour!  Ah me, there is no anguish so keen, so
_deadly_, as the anguish of awakened shame!

With unspeakable anxiety Kennedy awaited Brogten's departure.  Why
should he be so long?  Surely he must be telling Mr Grayson.

At last the heavy step was heard, the door opened, and the gyp once more
announced that Mr Grayson was disengaged.

Pale and almost breathless, Kennedy went into the room.

"Good morning, Mr Kennedy."

"Good morning, sir."

He quite expected that Mr Grayson was about at once to address him on
the subject of the paper, and, expecting this, totally forgot the
purpose for which he had come.  The tutor's cold eye was upon him, and
after a pause he said--

"Well, Mr Kennedy?"

"Well, sir?" he replied, with a start.

"Do you want anything?"

"Oh, I came for--Really, sir, I must beg your pardon, but I have
forgotten what it was."

"To look at an examination-paper," were the words which, in his
embarrassment, sprang to his lips, but he checked them just in time.

"Really, Mr Kennedy, you appear to be strangely absent this morning,"
said Mr Grayson, in a tone the reverse of encouraging.

"Oh, I remember now," he replied, desperately; "it was a library order I
wanted."

Mr Grayson wrote him the order.  Kennedy took it, and, without even
shaking the cold hand which the tutor proffered, hurried out of the
room, relieved at least by the conviction that Brogten, if he had seen
him look at the paper, had not, as yet at any rate, revealed it to the
examiner.

"After all," he reflected, "he was hardly likely to do that.  But had he
told the men?"

Kennedy did not go to the library; he could not bear to meet anybody,
and hastened to bury himself in his own rooms.  His walk, usually so
erect and gay as he went across the court--the tune he used to hum so
merrily in the sunshine--and the bright open glance of recognition with
which he passed his acquaintances and friends, were gone to-day.  He
shuffled silently along the cloisters with downcast eyes.

Hall-time would be the time to know whether Brogten had seen him and
betrayed him.  And if he had seen him, surely there could be no doubt he
would tell of him.  What a sweet revenge it would be for that malicious
heart!  How completely it would turn the tables on Kennedy for the day
when he had sarcastically alluded to Brogten's bets!  How amply it would
fulfil the promise of which that parting scowl of hatred had been full.

He went to hall rather late on purpose; and instead of sitting in his
usual place near Julian, he chose a vacant place at another table.  Half
a minute sufficed to show him that there was no difference in his
reception; the same frequent nods and smiles from all sides still gave
him the frank greeting of which, as a popular man, he was always sure.
He looked round for Brogten, but could make nothing of his face; it
simply wore a somewhat slight smile when their eyes met, and Kennedy's
fell.  Kennedy began to convince himself that Brogten could _not_ have
seen what he had done in Mr Grayson's room.

The thought rolled away a great load--a heavy, intolerable load from his
heart.  It was not that with him, as with so many thousands, the fear of
discovery constituted the sense of sin, but young as he was, and high as
his character had stood hitherto in man's estimation, he prayed for any
chastisement rather than that of detection, any stroke in preference to
open shame.  This was the one thing which he felt he could not bear.

Even now, as conscience strongly suggested, he might make, by private
confession to his tutor, or at any rate by not using the knowledge he
had thus acquired, the only reparation which was still in his power.
But it was a hard thing for conscience to ask--too hard for poor
Kennedy's weakness.  Much of the paper, as he saw at once, he could very
easily have answered from his previous general knowledge and
scholarship; so easily, that he now felt convinced that he might have
done quite enough of it to secure his first class.  His sin then had
been useless, quite useless, worse than useless to him.  Was he obliged
also to make it positively injurious? was he to put himself in a _worse_
position than if he had never committed it?  After all the punishment
which the sin had brought with it, was he also to lose, in consequence
of it, the very advantage, the very enjoyment, for the sake of which he
had harboured the temptation?  It was too much--too much to expect.

The night before the Aeschylus examination he began to read up the
general information on the subject, and he intended to do it quite as if
he were unaware of what the actual questions were to be.  But it was the
merest self-deception.  Each question was branded in fiery letters on
his recollection, and he found that, as he read, he was skipping
involuntarily every topic which he knew had not been touched on in Mr
Grayson's paper.

Oh, the sense of hypocrisy with which he eagerly seized the paper next
morning, and read it over as though unaware of its contents.

Julian could not help observing that, during the last few days,
Kennedy's spirits had suffered a change.  His old mirth came only in
fitful bursts, and he was often moody and silent; but Julian attributed
it to anxiety for the result of the examination, and doubt whether he
should be allowed by his father to make one of the long-anticipated
party in the foreign tour.

Kennedy dared not admit any one into his confidence, but the last
evening, before they went down, he turned the conversation, as he sat at
tea in Owen's room, to the topic of character, and the faults of great
men, and the aberrations of the good.

"Tell me, Owen," he said, "as you're a philosopher--tell me what
difference the faults of good men make in our estimate of them?"

"In our real estimate," said Owen, "I fancy we often adopt, half
unconsciously, the maxim, that `the king can do no wrong'--that the true
hero is all heroic."

"Yes," said Kennedy; "but when some one calls your attention to the fact
of their failings, and _makes_ you look at them--what then?"

"Why, in nine cases out of ten the faults are grossly exaggerated and
misrepresented, and I should try to prove that such is the fact; and for
the rest,--why, no man is perfect."

"You shirk the question, though," said Lillyston; "for you have to make
very tremendous allowance indeed for some of the very best of men."

As, for instance?

"As, for instance, king David."

"Oh, don't take Scripture instances," said Suton, an excellent fellow
whom they all liked, though he took very different views of things from
their own.

"Why not, in heaven's name?" said Kennedy; "if they suit, they are good
because so thoroughly familiar."

"Yes, but somehow one judges them differently."

"I daresay you do,--in fact I know you do; but you've no business to.  I
maintain that even according to Moses, king David deserved a felon's
death.  Murder and adultery were crimes every bit as heinous then as
they are now.  Yet David, this most _human_ of heroes, was the man after
God's own heart.  Solve me the problem."

"Practically," said Lillyston; "I believe one follows a genuine instinct
in _determining not_ to look at the spots, however wide or dark they
are, upon the sun."

"And in accepting theoretically old Strabo's grand dictum, _ouch oion
agathon genesthai poieeteen mee pzotezon geneethenta anoza agathon_.
Eh?"

"As Coleridge was so fond of doing," said Julian.

"Ay, he needed the theory," said Suton.

"Hush!" said Julian, "I can't stand any such Philadelphus hints about
Coleridge.  By the bye, Owen, you might have quoted a still more apt
illustration from Seneca, who criticises Livy for saying `Vir ingenii
magni magis quam boni' with the remark, `Non potest illud separari; aut
_et_ bonum erit aut _nec_ magnum.'"

Mr Admer, who was one of the circle, chuckled inwardly at the
discussion.  "I was once," he said, "at a party where a lady sang one of
Byron's Hebrew melodies.  At the close of it a young clergyman sighed
deeply, and with an air of intense self-satisfaction, observed, `Ah!  I
was wondering where poor Byron is now!'  What should you have all said
to that?"

"Detesting Byron's personal character, I should have said that the very
wonder was a piece of idle and meddling presumption," said Owen.

"And I should have answered that the Judge will do right," said Suton
reverently.

"Or if he wanted a text, `Who art thou that judgest another?'" said
Lillyston contemptuously.

"And I," said Julian, should have said,--

  "Let feeble hands iniquitously just,
  Rake up the relics of the sinful dust,
  Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot heal,
  And Malice brand what Mercy would conceal;--
  It matters not!"

"And I," said Kennedy, "should have been vehemently inclined to tweak
the man's nose."

"But what did _you_ say, Mr Admer?" asked Lillyston.

"I answered a fool according to his folly.  I threw up my eyes and said,
`Ah, where, indeed!  What a good thing it is that you and I, sir, are
not as that publican.'"

"I should think he skewered you with a glance, didn't he?" said Kennedy.

"No, he was going to _bore_ me with an argument, which I declined."

"But you've all cut the question: tell me now, supposing you had known
king David, should you have thought worse of him, should you have been
cool to him--in a word, should you have _cut_ him after his fall?"

"I think not--I mean, I shouldn't have _cut_ him," said Owen.

"And yet you would have treated so any ordinary friend."

"Not necessarily.  But remember that the two best things happened to
David which could possibly happen to a man who has committed a crime."

"Namely?"

"Speedy detection," said Lillyston.

"And prompt punishment," added Julian; "but for these there's no knowing
what would have become of him."

Unsatisfactory as the discussion had been, yet those words rang
hauntingly in Kennedy's ears; he could not forget them.  During all
those first days of happy travel they were with him; with him as they
strolled down the gay and lighted Boulevards of Paris; with him beside
the quaint fountains of Berne; and the green rushing of the Rhine at
Basle; with him amid the scent of pine-cones, and under the dark green
umbrage of forest boughs; with him when he caught his first glimpse of
the everlasting mountains, and plunged into the clear brightness of the
sapphire lake--the thought of speedy detection and prompt punishment.
It was no small pleasure to partake in Violet's happiness, and mark the
ever fresh delight that lent such a bright look to Cyril's face; but
before Kennedy in the midst of enjoyment, the memory of a dishonourable
act started like a spectre, and threw a sudden shadow on his brow.  He
felt its presence when he saw the sun rise from Rigi; it stood by him
amid the wreathing mists of Pilatus; it even checked his enthusiasm as
they gazed together on the unequalled glories spread beneath the green
summit of Monterone, and as their graceful boat made ripples on the
moonlit waves of Orta and Lugans.  In a word, the conviction of weakness
was the only alloying influence to the pleasure of his tour, the one
absinthe-drop that lent bitterness to the honeyed wine.  It was not only
the consciousness of the wrong act and its possible results, but horror
at the instability of moral principle which it showed, and a deep fear
lest the same weakness should prove a snare and a ruin to him in the
course of future life.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A DAY OF WONDER.

  "Flowers are lovely.  Love is flowerlike,
  Friendship is a sheltering tree;
  O the joys that came down showerlike
  With virtue, truth, and liberty,
  When I was young."--Coleridge.

"To-morrow, then, we are all to ascend the Schilthorn," said Mr
Kennedy, as he bade good-night to the merry party assembled in the salle
a manger of the chalet inn at Murrem.

"Or as high as we ladies can get," said Mrs Dudley.

"Oh, we'll get you up, aunt," said Kennedy; "if Julian and my father and
I can't get you and Miss Home and Eva up, we're not worth much."

"To say nothing of _me_" said Cyril, putting his arms akimbo, with a
look of immense importance.

"Breakfast, then, at five to-morrow morning, young people," said Mr
Kennedy, retiring; and full of happy anticipations they went off to bed.

Punctually at five they were all seated round the breakfast-table,
eagerly discussing the prospects of the day.

"I say, _did_ any of you see the first sunbeam tip the Jungfrau this
morning?" said Kennedy.  "It looked like--like--what did it look like,
Miss Home?"

"Like the golden rim of a crown of pearls," said Violet, smiling.  "And
did you see the morning star, shining above the orange-coloured line of
morning light, over the hills behind us, Eva?  What did that remind you
of?"

"Oh, I can't _invent_ poetic similes," answered Eva.  "I must take
refuge in Wordsworth's--

  "`Sweet as a star when only one
  Is shining in the sky.'"

"Yes," said Julian; "or Browning's--

  "`One star--the chrysolite!'"

"Hum!" said Cyril, who had been standing impatiently at the door during
the colloquy; "when you young ladies and people have done poetising,
etcetera, the guide's quite ready."

"Come along, then; we're soon equipped," said Violet, adjusting at the
looking-glass her pretty straw hat, with its drooping feather, and the
blue veil tied round it.

"I say, Miss Kennedy--bother take it though, I can't always be saying
Miss Kennedy--it's too long.  I shall call you Eva--may I?" said Cyril.

"By all means, if you like."

"Well, then, Eva, the guide _is_ such a rum fellow; he looks like a
revived mummy out of--out of Palmyra," said he, blundering a little in
his geography.

"Mummy or no," said Julian, "he'll carry all our provisions and plaids
to-day up to the top, which is more than most of your A Cs would do."

"A C--what does that mean?" asked Violet.  "One sees it constantly in
the visitors' books."

"Don't you know, Vi?" said Cyril.  "It stands for athletic climber."

"Alpine Club, you little monkey," said Kennedy, throwing a fir-cone at
him.  "_You'll_ be qualified for the Alpine Club, Miss Home, before the
day's over, I've no doubt."

"No," said Julian, "they want 13,000 feet, I believe, and the Schilthorn
is only 9,000."

"Nearly three times higher than Snowdon; only fancy!" said Cyril.

Meanwhile the party had started with fair weather, and in high spirits.
The guide, with the gentlemen's plaids strapped together, led the way
cheerily, occasionally talking his vile patois with Julian and Mr
Kennedy, or laughing heartily at Cyril's "bad language"--for Cyril, not
being strong in German, exercised a delightful ingenuity in making a
very few words go a very long way.  Kennedy walked generally with Eva
and Violet, while Julian often joined them, and Cyril, always with some
new scheme in hand, or some new fancy darting through his brain, ran
chattering, from one group to another, plucking bilberries and wild
strawberries in handfuls, and trying the merits of his alpenstock as a
leaping-pole.

The light of morning flowed down in an ever-broadening river, and peak
after peak flashed first into rose, then into crimson, and then into
golden light, as the sun fell on their fields of snow; high overhead
rose Alp after Alp of snow-white and luminous cloud, but the flowing
curves of the hills themselves stood unveiled, with their crests cut
clearly on the pale, divine, lustrous blue of heaven, and our happy band
of travellers gazed untired on that glorious panorama of glistering
heights from the towering cones of the Eiger and the Moench to the
crowding precipices of the Ebenen-fluen and the Silberhorn.  Deep below
them, in the valley, "like handfuls of pearl in a goblet of emerald,"
the quiet chalets clustered over their pastures of vivid grass, and gave
that touch of human interest which alone was wanting to complete the
loveliness of the scene.

Every step brought them some new object to gaze upon with loving
admiration; now the gaunt spurs of some noble pine that had thrust his
gnarled roots into the crevices of rock to look down in safety on the
torrent roaring far below him, and now the track of a chamois, or the
bright black eyes of some little marmot peering from his burrow on the
side of a sunny bank, and whistling a quick alarm to his comrades at
their play.

"What an extraordinary howl," said Cyril, laughing, as the guide whooped
back a sort of jodel in answer to a salute from the other side of the
valley.

"It's very harmonious--is it not?" said Violet.

"Yes, that's one of the varieties of the Ranz des Vaches," said Kennedy.

"And why do they shout at each other in that way?"

"Because the mountains are lonely, Cyril, and the shepherds don't see
human faces too often; so men begin to feel like brothers, and are glad
to greet each other in these silent hills."

"Did you hear how the mountain echoed back his cry?" said Eva; "it
sounded like a band of elves mocking at him."

"Yes, you'll hear something finer directly; the guide told me he was
going to borrow an alpen-horn at one of these chalets, and then you'll
discover for the first time what echo can do."

In a few minutes the guide appeared with the horn, and blew.  Heavens!
what a melody of replications!  How in the hollows of the hills every
harsh tone died away, and all the softer notes flowed to and fro in
tenderest music, and fainted in distant reverberations more and more
exquisite, more and more exquisitely low.  Can it be a mere echo of
those rude blasts?  It seemed as though some choir of spirits had caught
each tone as it came from the peasant's horn, and had deified it there
among the clouds, and had repeated it over and over with divinest
variations, to show man how crabbed were the sounds which he produced,
and yet how ravishing they might one day become, when to the symphony of
silver strings they rang out amid the seraph harps and choral harmonies
of heaven.  All the party stood still in rapturous attention, and even
Cyril forgot for ten minutes his frolicsome and noisy mirth.

Reader, have you ever seen an Alpine pasture in warm July at early
morning?  If not, you can hardly conceive the glorious carpet over which
the feet of the wanderer in Switzerland press during summer tours.
Around them as they passed the soft mosses glowed with gold and crimson,
and the edges of the lady's-mantle shimmered with such diamonds and
pearls as never adorned a lady's mantle yet.  Everywhere the grass was
vivid with a many-coloured tissue of dew-dropped flowers: pale crocuses,
and the bright crimson-lake carnation, and monk's-hood, and
crane's-bill, and aster alpinus, and the lovely myosotis, and thousands
of yellow and purple flowers, nameless or lovelier than their names,
were the tapestry on which they trod; and it was interwoven through warp
and woof with the blue gleam of a myriad harebells.  At last they came
to the cold region of those delicate nurslings of the hills, the
gentianellas and gentians.  Kennedy, who had been keenly on the look
out, was the first of the party to find the true Alpine gentian, and
instantly recognising it, ran with it to Violet and his sister.

"There," he said, "the first Alpine gentian you ever saw.  Did you ever
know real blue in a flower before?  Doesn't it actually seem to shed a
blue radiation round it?"

"How perfectly beautiful!" said Violet; "see, Eva, how intense blue and
green seem to be shot into each other, or to play together like the
waters of a shoaling sea."

"Shall I take a root or two?" said Kennedy.

"Not the slightest use," said Julian; "they only grow at certain
elevations, and would be dead before you got down."

"Isn't it strange, Violet, that Nature should fling such a tender and
exquisite gem so high up among these awful hills, where so few eyes see
them?"

"Just look," said Julian, "how the moss and the grass seem to be
illuminated with them, as though the heavens were golden, and stars in
it were of blue."

While they talked, Cyril dashed past them with all the ardour of a young
entomologist in full chase of a little mountain-ringlet, which he soon
caught and pinned on the top of his straw hat.  In a few minutes more he
had added a great fritillery to his collection, and it gave him no
trouble to pick out the finest of the superb lazy-flying Apollos, which
quickly shared the same fate.

"Here's another for you, Cyril," said Eva, pointing to a gorgeous
peacock-butterfly which had settled amicably by a bee on the
pink-and-downy coronet of a great thistle.

"Oh, I don't want that; one can get it any day in England; here though,
look at this lovely burnet-moth," he cried, as the blue-and-red-winged
little creature settled on the same thistle-head.

"What a shame to disturb that beautiful Psyche," said Julian, as Cyril
dashed his cap over the prey, and the peacock fluttered off; "it was
enjoying itself so intensely in the sunshine, opening and shutting its
wings in unmitigated contentment."  But Cyril had secured his moth
without heeding the remark, and was now twenty yards ahead.

A sudden roar of sound stopped him, and he waited to ask the rest, "if
they had heard the thunder?"

"It wasn't thunder, but the rush of an avalanche," said Kennedy; "there,
you may see it still on the side of the Jungfrau."

"What, those little white streaks, which look like a mountain torrent?"

"Yes."

"And can those threads of snow make all that row?"

"You must remember that the threads of snow are five miles off, and are
perhaps thousands of tons in weight."

By this time they had reached the part of the mountain where the climb
became really toilsome, and they settled down into the steady pace,
which the Swiss guides always adopt because they know that it is the
quickest in the long run.  And at this point Mr Kennedy and Mrs Dudley
left them, preferring, like sensible old people, to stroll back in
quiet, and avoid an exertion which they found too fatiguing.  They knew
that they could safely entrust the party to the care of Julian and the
guide.  The ladies often needed help, and there seemed to be something
very pleasant to Kennedy in the light touch of Violet's hand, for he
lent her his arm or his alpenstock oftener than was absolutely required.
They only stopped once more to quench their thirst at a streamlet which
was rushing impetuously down the rocks, and a little below them foamed
over the precipice into a white and noisy cataract.

"I never noticed water before falling from such a height," said Julian;
"it looks exactly like a succession of white comets plunging through the
sky in a crowd."

"Or a throng of white-sheeted ghosts hurrying deliriously through the
one too-narrow entrance of the lower world," said Kennedy.  "Doesn't it
remind one of Schiller's line--

"`Und es wallet und liedet und brauset und Pikcht?'"

"I admire the rainbow most, which over-arches the fall, and plays into
light, or dies away as the sunbeams touch the foam," said Violet.

"Doesn't it remind you of Al-Sirat's arch, Miss Home?" asked Kennedy.

"Haven't the pleasure of that gentleman's acquaintance," observed Cyril.

"Nor I," said Kennedy; "but Al-Sirat's arch is the bridge--narrow as the
edge of a razor, or the thread of an attenuated spider--which is
supposed to span the fiery abyss, over which the good _skate_ into
Paradise, while the bad topple over it.  Don't you remember Byron's
lines about it in the Giaour?

  "`Yea, _Soul_, and should our prophet say
  That form was nought but breathing clay,
  By Alla!  I would answer nay;
  Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood,
  That topples o'er the fiery flood,
  With Paradise within my view,
  And all its Houris beckoning through.'

"Pretty nearly the only lines of Byron I know."  Somehow Kennedy was
looking at Violet while he repeated the lines.

A few minutes more brought them on to the great field of snow, through
which they toiled along laboriously, treading as much as possible in the
footsteps of the guide.

"This isn't a glacier, is it?" asked Cyril.

"Oh dear, no!  If it were, you wouldn't find it such easy walking, for
it would be full of hidden crevasses, and we should have to march much
more carefully, occasionally poking our feet through the snow that
lightly covers a fathomless depth."

"Yes, you must have read in Murray that eerie story of the guide that
actually tumbled, though not very deep, into the centre of the glacier,
and found his way back to light down the bed of a sub-glacial torrent,
with no worse result than a broken arm."

"There is a still eerier story, though, of two brothers," said Kennedy,
"of whom one fell into a crevasse, and was caught on a ledge some fifty
feet down, where he could be actually seen and heard."

"Did he ever get out?" asked Violet.

"Yes; the guide went back four hours' walk, and brought ropes and
assistance just before dark, and meanwhile the other brother waited
anxiously by the side of the crevasse, talking, and letting down brandy
and other things to keep the poor fellow alive.  He did escape, but not
without considerable risk of being frozen to death."

Beguiling the way with talk, they at last got over the tedious climb,
and reached the summit.  Eva and Violet were very tired, but the
difficult and eager air of the icy mountain-top was exhilarating as new
wine, and the provisions they had brought with them reinvigorated them
completely.  To hungry and thirsty climbers black bread and _vin
ordinaire_ taste like nectar and ambrosia.  The day was cloudless, the
view unspeakably magnificent, and Cyril's high spirits were contagious.
They lingered long before they began the descent, and laughingly
pooh-poohed the guide's repeated suggestion that it was getting late.

"I bet you Kennedy has been writing poetry," said Cyril; "do make him
read it, Julian."

"Hear, hear!" said all in chorus, and Julian with playful force
possessed himself of the pocket-book, while Kennedy, only asseverating
that the verses were addressed to nobody in particular, fled from the
sound of his own lyrics, which Julian proceeded to read.

  "Rose-opals of the sunlit hills
  Are flashing round my lonely way,
  And cataracts dash the rushing rills
  To plumes of glimmering spray.
  But mountain-streams and sunny gleams
  Are not so dear to me,
  As dawning of the golden love
  My spirit feels for thee!

  "Their diamond crowns and giant forms,
  The lordly hills upraise;
  Nor rushing winds nor shattering storms
  Can shake their solid base:
  Though Europe rests beneath their crests,
  And empires sleep secure,
  Less firm their bases than my love,
  Their snow less brightly pure."

"There, rubbish enough," said Kennedy, returning and snatching away the
pocket-book before Julian could read another verse.  "`Like coffee made
without trouble, drunk without regret,' as the Monday Oracle, with its
usual exquisite urbanity, observed of a recent poet."

"Of course addressed quite to an imaginary object, Eddy," said Eva,
while Violet looked towards the hills, and hoped that the glow which
covered her fair face might be taken for a reflection of the faint tinge
that already began to fall over the distant ridges of pale snow.

"We really must come away," said Julian; "it'll be sunset very soon, and
then we shall have to climb down nearly in the dark."

So they left the ridge, and while Kennedy and Cyril, amid shouts of
laughter, glissaded gallantly over the slopes of snow, Julian and the
guide conducted the girls by a method less rapid, but more secure.
Arrived at the rocks, Cyril went forward with the guide, Julian followed
with Eva, and Kennedy with Violet led up the rear.

Why did they linger so long?  Violet was tired, no doubt, but could she
not have walked as fast as Eva, or was Kennedy's arm less stout than
Julian's?  She lingered, it seemed, with something of a conscious
pleasure, now to pluck a flower or a fern, now to look at some yellow
lichens on the purple crags; and once, when Julian looked back, the two
were some way behind the rest of the party.  They were standing on a
rock gazing on the fading splendour of the mountains in front of them,
while the light wind that had risen during the sunset, flung back his
hair from his forehead, and played with one golden tress which had
strayed down Violet's neck.  He shouted to them to make haste, and they
waved their hands to him with a gay salute.  Thinking that they would
soon overtake him, he pressed forward with Eva, and did not look back
again.

While Kennedy walked on with Violet in silence more sweet than speech,
they fell into a dreamy mood, and wandered on half-oblivious of things
around them, while deeper and deeper the shades of twilight began to
cast their gloom over the hills.

"Look, Violet, I mean Miss Home; the moon is in crescent, and we shall
have a pleasant night to walk in; won't it be delightful?"

"Yes," she murmured; but neither of them observed that the clouds were
gathering thick and fast, and obscured all except a few struggling
glimpses of scattered stars.

They came to a sort of stile formed by two logs of wood laid across the
gap in a stone wall, and Kennedy vaulting over it, gave her his hand.

"Surely," she said, stopping timidly for a moment, "we did not pass over
this in coming, did we?"

Kennedy looked back.  "No," he said, "I don't remember it; but no doubt
it has been put up merely for the night to prevent the cattle from going
astray."

They went forward, but a deeper and deeper misgiving filled Violet's
mind that they had chosen a wrong road.

"I think," she said with a fluttered voice, "that the path looks much
narrower than it did this morning.  Do you see the others?"

They both strained their eyes through the gloom, now rendered more thick
than ever by the dark driving clouds, but they could see no trace of
their companions, and though they listened intently, not the faintest
sound of voices reached their eager ears.

They spoke no word, but a few steps farther brought them to a towering
rock around the base of which the path turned, and then seemed to cease
abruptly in a mass of loose shale.  It was too clear now.  They had lost
their road and turned, whilst they were indulging those golden fancies,
into a mere cattle-path worn by the numerous herds of goats and oxen,
the music of whose jangling bells still came to them now and then in low
sweet snatches from the pastures of the valley and hill.

What was to be done?  They were alone amid the all but unbroken silence,
and the eternal solitudes of the now terrible mountain.  The darkness
began to brood heavily above them; no one was in sight, and when Kennedy
shouted there was no answer, but only an idle echo of his voice.  Sheets
of mist were sweeping round them, and at length the gusts of wind drove
into their faces cold swirls of plashing rain.

"Oh, Mr Kennedy, what can we do?  Do shout again."

Once more Kennedy sent his voice ringing through the mist and darkness,
and once more there was no answer, except that to their now excited
senses it seemed as if a scream of mocking laughter was carried back to
them upon the wind.  And clinging tightly to his arm, as he wrapped her
in his plaid to shelter her from the wet, she again cried, "Oh, Edward,
what must we do?"

Even in that fearful situation--alone on the mountain, in the storm,--he
felt within him a thrill of strength and pleasure that she called him
Edward, and that she clung so confidingly upon his arm.

"Dare you stay here, Violet," he asked, "while I run forward and try to
catch some glimpse of a light?"

"Oh, I dare not, I dare not," she cried; "you might miss your way in
coming back to me, and I should be alone."

He saw that she loved him; he had read the secret of her heart, and he
was happy.  Passionately he drew her towards him, and on her soft
fragrant cheek--on which the pallor of dread had not yet extinguished
the glow which had been kindled by the mountain wind--he printed a
lover's kiss; but in maidenly reserve she drew back, and was afraid to
have revealed her secret, and once more she said, "Oh, Mr Kennedy, we
shall die if we stay here unsheltered in this storm."

As though to confirm her words, the thunder began to growl, and while
the sounds of it were beaten back with long loud hollow buffetings from
the rocks on every side, the blue and winged flash of lightning
glittered before their eyes, cleaving a rift with dazzling and vivid
intensity amid the purple gloom.

"Stay here but one instant, Violet--Miss Home,"--he said; "I will climb
this rock to see if any light is near, and will be with you again in a
moment."

He bounded actively up the rock, reckless of danger, and gazed from the
summit into the night.  For a second, another flash of lightning half
blinded him with its lurid glare, but when he was again accustomed to
the darkness, he saw a dull glimmer in the distance, and supposing it to
come from the hotel, sprang down the rock again to Violet's side.

"This way," he said, "dear Violet; I see a light, and from the direction
of it I think it must be from our hotel.  Keep up courage, and we shall
soon reach it."

Dangerous as it was to hurry over the wet and slippery shale, and down
the steep sides of the rugged hill, Kennedy half drew, half-carried her
along with swift steps towards the place from which the dim light still
seemed to allure them by its wavering and uncertain flicker.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

  "For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,
  Our God, our Father's God;
  Thou hast made our spirits mighty,
  By the touch of the mountain sod!"
  Hemans.

"Here you all are, then," said the cheerful voice of Mr Kennedy, as
Julian, Eva, and Cyril, followed by the guide, entered the little Murrem
Inn.

"Here are three of us," answered Julian; "haven't Edward and Violet
arrived?  Not having seen them for the last half-hour, I fancied they
must have got before us by some short cut."

"No, they've not come yet.  Fortunately for you, Eva, Aunt Dudley is
very tired and has gone to bed," he said laughing, "otherwise you would
have got a scolding for not taking better care of Violet."

"Oh, then, they must be close behind somewhere for certain," said
Julian; "they could not have missed the path--it lay straight before us
the whole way."

"Well, I hope they'll be in soon, for it begins to look lowering.  I've
ordered tea for you; make haste and come down to it.  You're ready for
tea, Cyril, I have no doubt."

"_Rather_!" said Cyril, reviving; for fatigue had made him very quiet
during the last half-hour.  And, indeed, the tempting-looking display on
the table, the bright teapot, and substantial meal, and amber-coloured
honey, would have allured a more fastidious appetite.

They ran up-stairs to make themselves comfortable before having tea and
retiring to bed, and on re-entering the warm and glowing room, their
first question was, "Have they come?"

"No," said Mr Kennedy, anxiously, and even the boy's face grew grave
and thoughtful as Julian rose from the tea-table and said, "I must go
and search for them."

He seized his straw hat, put on his boots again, and ran out, calling on
the guide to accompany him.  They took out with them a lighted torch,
but it was instantly extinguished by the streaming rain.  Julian and the
guide shouted at the top of their voices, but heard no sound in reply;
and the darkness was now so intense, that it was madness to proceed
farther amid that howling storm.

They ran back to the inn, where the rest sat round the table, pale and
trembling with excessive fear.  In reply to their hasty questions,
Julian could only shake his head sorrowfully.

"The guide says that in all probability they must have been overtaken by
the storm, and have run to some chalet for refuge.  If so, they will be
safe and well-treated till the morning."

"You children had better go to bed," said Mr Kennedy to Eva and Cyril,
who reluctantly obeyed.  "You cannot be of any help, and directly the
storm begins to abate, Julian and I will go and find the others."

"Oh, papa," sobbed Eva; "poor Eddy and Violet!  What will become of
them?  Perhaps they have been struck by the lightning."

"They are in God's hand, dearest," he said, tenderly kissing her tearful
face, "as we all are.  In His hand they are as safe as we."

"In God's hand, dear Eva," said Julian, as he bade her good-night.  "Go
to sleep, and no doubt they will be here safe before you awake."

"I shall not sleep, Julian," she whispered; "I shall go and pray for
their safety.  Dear, dear Eddy and Violet."

Cyril lingered in the room.

"Do let me stay up with you, Julian.  I couldn't sleep--indeed, I
couldn't; and I might be of some use when morning comes, and when you go
to look for them.  Do let me stay, Julian."

Julian could not resist his brother's wish, though Mr Kennedy thought
it best that the boy should go to bed.

So they compromised matters by getting him to lie down on the sofa,
while they sat up, and stared out of the windows silently into the rain.
How wearily the time goes by when you dread a danger which no action
can avert.

Meanwhile the objects of their anxiety had hurried up to the light, and
found that it came from the ragged windows of an old tumble-down
tenement, built of pine-boards which the sun had dried and charred,
until they looked black and stained and forbidding.  Going up the rotten
wooden steps to the door, and looking through the broken windows,
Kennedy saw two men seated, smoking, with a flaring tallow candle
between them.

"Must we go in there?" asked Violet; and Kennedy observed how her arm
and the tones of her voice were trembling with agitation.

"Isn't it better than staying out in this dreadful storm?" said Kennedy.
"The Swiss are an honest people, and I daresay these are herdsmen who
will gladly give us food and shelter."

Their voices had roused the inmates of the chalet, and both the men
jumped up from their seats, while a large and fierce mastiff also shook
himself from sleep, and gave a low deep growl.

Kennedy knocked at the door.  A gruff voice bade him enter; and as he
stepped over the threshold, the dog flew at him with an angry bark.
Violet uttered a cry of fear, and Kennedy struck the dog a furious blow
with the knobbed end of his alpenstock, which for the moment stunned the
animal, while it drew down on the heads of the tired and fainting
travellers a volley of brutal German oaths.

"Can you give us shelter?" said Kennedy, who spoke German with tolerable
fluency.  "We have lost our way, and cannot stay out in this storm."

The man snarled an affirmative, and Violet observed with a shudder that
he was an ill-looking, one-eyed fellow, with villainy stamped legibly on
every feature.  The other peasant looked merely stolid and dirty, and
seemed to be little better than a cretin, as he sat heavily in his place
without offering to stir.

"Can't you give us some food, or at any rate some milk?--we have been to
the top of the Schilthorn, and are very tired."

The man brought out a huge coarse wooden bowl of goat's milk, and some
sour bread; and feeling in real need of food, they tried to eat and
drink.  While doing so, Kennedy noticed that Violet gave a perceptible
start and looking up, observed the one eye of their grim entertainer
intently fixed on the gold watch-chain which hung over his silk jersey.
He stared the man full in the face, finished his meal, and then asked
for a candle to show the lady to her room.

"No light but this," said the Cyclops, as Kennedy mentally named him.

"Then you must lend me this."

And taking it without more ado, he went first to the cupboard from which
the milk had been produced, where seeing another dip, he coolly took it,
lighted it, and pushed open the creaking door which opened on the close,
damp closet which the man had indicated as the only place where Violet
could sleep.

This room opened on another rather larger; and here, putting the candle
on the floor, for the room, (if room it could be called), was destitute
of all furniture, he spread his plaid on the ground over some straw, and
said--

"Try to sleep here, Miss Home, till morning.  I will keep watch in the
outer room."

He shut the door, went back to the two men, looked full at them both,
and leaving them their candle, returned to the closet, where, fastening
the door with his invaluable alpenstock, he sat on the ground by the
entrance of Violet's room.  He heard her murmuring words of prayer, and
knew well that she could not sleep in such a situation; but he himself
determined to sit in perfect silence, to keep watch, and to commend
himself and her, whom he now knew that he loved more than himself, in
inward supplication to the merciful protection of their God and Father.

He felt a conviction that they had fallen into bad hands.  The man's
anger had first been stirred by the severe wound which Kennedy had in
self-defence inflicted on the dog, and now there was too much reason to
dread that his cupidity had been excited by the sight of the gold chain,
and by Violet's ornaments, which gave promise that he might by this
accident gain a wealthy prize.

After an interval of silence, during which he perceived that they
listened at his door, and were deceived by his measured breathing into a
notion that he was asleep, he noticed that they put out the candle, and
continued to whisper in low thick voices.  He was very very weary, his
head nodded many times, and more than once he was afraid that sleep
would overcome him, especially as he dared not stir or change his
position; but the thought of Violet's danger, and the blaze of the
lightning mingled with the yell of the wind kept him watchful, and he
spent the interminable moments in thinking how to act when the attack
came.

At last, about an hour and a half after he had retired, he heard the men
stir, and with a thrill of horror he detected the sound of guns being
loaded.  Violet's candle was yet burning, as he perceived by the faint
light under her door, so he wrote on a leaf of his pocket-book in the
dark, "Don't be afraid, Violet, whatever you may hear; trust in God,"
and noiselessly pushed it under the crevice of the door into her room.

The muffled footsteps approached, but he never varied the sound of his
regular breathing.  At last came a push at the door, followed by
silence, and then the whisper, "he has fastened it."  Still he did not
stir, till he observed that they were both close against the door, and
were preparing to force it open.  Then guided by a swift instinctive
resolution, he determined to trust to the effects of an unexpected
alarm.  Noiselessly moving his alpenstock, he suddenly and with all his
force, dashed the door open, shouted aloud, and with his utmost violence
swung round the heavy iron spike.  A flash, the report of a gun, and a
yell of anguish instantly followed; and as Violet in terror and
excitement threw open her door, the light which streamed from it showed
Kennedy in a moment that the foremost villain, startled by the sudden
opposition, had accidentally fired off his gun, of which the whole
contents had lodged themselves in the shoulder of his comrade.

This second man had also armed himself with a chamois-gun, which slipped
out of his hands as he fell wounded to the ground.  Springing forward
Kennedy wrenched it out of his relaxing grasp, and presented it full at
the head of the other, who, half-stunned with the blow he had received
from the heavy iron-shod point of the ashen alpenstock, was crouching
for concealment in the corner of the chalet.

"Violet," he said, "all is now safe.  These wretches are disarmed; if
you like to take shelter here till the morning, I can secure you from
any further attack.  If you stir but an inch," he continued, addressing
the unwounded man, "I will shoot you dead.  Lay down your gun."

The man's one eye glared with rage and hatred, but Kennedy still held
the loaded gun at his head, and he was forced sullenly to obey.  Kennedy
put his foot upon the gun, and was in perplexity what to do next,
fearing that the wounded murderer, who was moaning heavily, might
nevertheless spring at him from behind, and also momentarily dreading an
attack from the mastiff, who kept up a sullen growl.

"Let us leave this dreadful place," said Violet, who, pale but undaunted
at the horrors of the scene, had taken refuge by Kennedy's side.

"Dare you pick up and carry the gun?" he asked.  "It would be dangerous
to leave it in their hands."

Violet picked it up, where it lay under his feet, and then glided
rapidly out of the chalet, while Kennedy slowly followed, never once
taking his eye from his crouching antagonist.  Before he stepped into
the open air, he said to the men, "If I hear but one footstep in pursuit
of us, I will shoot one of you dead."

"Oh, what a relief to be on the mountain-turf once more!" said Violet in
a low and broken whisper, as she grasped Kennedy's arm, and he
cautiously led her down a rude path, which was faintly marked a few
hundred yards from the lonely cottage where they had been.  "Are we safe
now, do you think?"

"Yes, quite safe, Violet, I trust.  They will not dare pursue me, now
that their guns are gone, and I have this loaded one in my hand."

"Dear brave Mr Kennedy.  How shall I ever thank you enough for having
saved my life so nobly?  If you had not been so strong and watchful, we
should both have now been killed."

"I would die a thousand deaths," he whispered, "to save you from the
least harm, Violet.  But you are tired, you must rest here till the
dawn.  Sit under this rock, dearest, and cover yourself with my plaid.
I will keep watch still."

She sat down wearily, and her head sank upon the rock.  The storm was
over: the thunder was still muttering like a baffled enemy in the
distance, but the wind after its late fury was sobbing gently and
fitfully like a repentant child.  The rock gave her shelter, and after
her fatigue and agitation she was sleeping peacefully, while Kennedy
bowed down his head, and thanked God for the merciful protection which
He had extended to them.

He had not been seated long when his eye caught the light of torches,
being waved at a distance in the direction of the hotel.  In an instant,
he felt sure that Julian was come out to search for them, and gently
awakening Violet, he told her with a thrill of joy that help was at
hand.  The torches drew nearer the place where they were seated, and he
raised a joyous shout.  As yet they were too far off to hear him, but
suddenly it occurred to him to fire his gun.  The flash and echoing
report attracted their notice; the torches grew rapidly nearer; he could
almost see the dark figures of those who carried them; and now in answer
to his second shout came the hurried sound of familiar voices, and in
five minutes more Julian and his father had grasped him by the hands,
and Cyril had flung his arms round Violet's neck.

And now at last Kennedy gave way to his emotion, and his highly-wrought
feelings found relief in a burst of passionate tears.  It was no time
for questionings.  Julian passed his arm round his sister's waist, and,
aided by Mr Kennedy, half-carried her to their hotel.  Kennedy leaned
heavily on the guide's arm; the honest landlord, who accompanied the
searching party, carried the plaid, the alpenstock, and one of the guns,
and Cyril, impressed by the strange scene, carried the other gun, full
of wondering conjecture what Kennedy could have been doing with it, and
from whence it could have come.

And when Violet reached Eva's room, in which she slept, she could only
say, as they sat locked in a long embrace:--

"Dearest Eva, it is only through Edward that my life has been saved."

Eva had never before heard Violet call her brother by his name, and she
was glad at heart.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE ALPEN-GLUHEN.

  "And, last of all,
  Love, like an Alpine harebell, hung with tears,
  By some cold morning glacier."
  The Princess.

Violet's fluttered nerves and wearied frame rendered it necessary for
the party of English travellers to stay for a few days at Murrem, and
afterwards it was decided that they should all go down to Grindelwald,
and spend there the remainder of the time which they had set apart for
the Swiss tour.  The landlord of the Jungfrau treated them with the
utmost consideration, and amused Kennedy by paying him as much deference
as if he had been Tell or Arnold himself.  Leaving in his hands all
endeavours to discover the two scoundrels, who had entirely decamped,
Kennedy gave him one of the guns, while he carried with him the other to
keep as a trophy in his rooms at Camford.

There are few sights more pleasant than that of two families bound
together by the ties of friendship and affection, and living together as
though they were all brothers and sisters of a common home.  For long
years afterwards the Homes and the Kennedys looked back on those days at
Grindelwald as among the happiest of their lives, and, indeed, they
glided by like a dream of unbroken pleasure.  How is it that there can
be such a thing as ennui, or that people ever can be at a loss what to
do?  In the morning they took short excursions to the glaciers or the
roots of the great mountains, and Cyril made adventurous expeditions
with his fishing-rod to the mountain-streams.  And at evening they sat
in the long twilight in the balcony of their room, while Eva and Violet
sang them sweet, simple English songs, which rang so softly through the
air, that the crowd of guides and porters which always hang about a
Swiss hotel used to gather in the streets to listen, and the English
visitors collected in the garden to catch the familiar tones.  Julian
and Kennedy always gave some hours every day to their books, and Cyril,
though he could be persuaded to do little else, spent some of his
unemployed time on his much-abused holiday task for the ensuing quarter
at Marlby.

And when the candles were lit, the girls would sketch or work, and
Julian or Kennedy would read or translate to them aloud.  Sometimes they
spent what Mr Kennedy used to call "an evening with the immortals," and
taking some volume of the poets, would each choose a favourite passage
to read aloud in turn.  This was Mr Kennedy's great delight, and he got
quite enthusiastic when the well-remembered lines came back to him with
fresh beauty, borne on the pleasant voices of Eva, Julian, or Cyril,
like an old jewel when new facets are cut on its lustrous surface.

"Stop there; that's an immortal, lad--an immortal," he would say to
Cyril, when the boy seemed to be passing over some flower of poetic
thought without sufficient admiration; and then he would repeat the
passage from memory with such just emphasis, that on these evenings all
felt that they were laying up precious thoughts for happy future hours.

"Now, Mrs Dudley, and you young ladies, we're going to translate you
part of a Greek novel to-night," said Julian.

"A Greek novel!" said Cyril, with a touch of incredulous suspicion.
"Those old creatures didn't write novels, did they?"

"Only the best novel that ever was written, Cyril."

"What's it called?"

"The Odyssey."

"Oh, what a chouse!  You don't mean to call that a novel, do you?"

"Well, let the ladies decide."

So he read to them how Ulysses returned in the guise of a beggar, after
twenty years of war and wandering to his own palace-door, and saw the
haughty suitors revelling in his halls; and how, as he reached the door,
Argus, the hunting-dog, now old and neglected, and full of fleas,
recollected him, when all had forgotten him, and fawned upon him, and
licked his hand and died; and how the suitors insulted him, and one of
them threw a foot-stool at him, which by one quick move he avoided, and
said nothing, and another flung a shin-bone at his head, which he caught
in his hand, and said nothing, but only smiled grimly in his heart--ever
so little, a grim, sardonic smile and how the old nurse recognised him
by the scar of the boar's tusk on his leg, but he quickly repressed the
exclamation of wonderment which sprang to her lips; and how he sat,
ragged but princely, by the fire in his hall, and the red light
flickered over him, and he spake to the suitors words of solemn warning;
and how, when Agelaus warned them, a strange foreboding seized their
souls, and they looked at each other with great eyes, and smiled with
alien lips, and burst into quenchless laughter, though their eyes were
filled with tears; and how Ulysses drew his own mighty bow, which not
one of them could use, and how he handled it, and twanged the string
till it sang like a swallow in his ear, and sent the arrow flying with a
whiz through the twelve iron rings of the line of axes; and then,
lastly, how, like to a god, he leapt on his own threshold with a shout,
and gathered his rags about him, and aided by the young Telemachus and
the divine Swineherd, sent hurtling into the band of wine-stained
rioters the swift arrows of inevitable death.

Pleased with the tale, which the girls decided, in spite of Cyril's
veto, to be a genuine novel, they asked for a new Greek romance, and
Julian read to them from Herodotus about the rise and fall of empires,
and "Strange stories of the deaths of kings."  One of his stories was
the famous one of Croesus, and the irony of his fate, and the warning
words of Solon, all of which, rendered into quaint rich English, struck
Cyril so much, that, mingling up the tale with reminiscences of
Longfellow's "Blind Bartimeus," he produced, with much modesty at the
breakfast-table next morning, the following very creditable boyish
imitation:--

  "Speak Grecia's wisest, thou, 'tis said,
  Full deeply in Life's page hast read,
  And many a clime hath known my tread;
  Tis pantoon olbiotatos?

  "The monarch raised his eager eye,
  Gazed on the sage exultingly,
  And slow came forth the calm reply
  Tellos ho Atheenaios.

  "Upon his funeral pyre he lay
  Crownless, his sceptre passed away,
  The shade of Solon seem to say,
  oudeis toon zoontoon holbios.

  "How little thought that Grecian sage
  Those words should live from aye to aye,
  Tis pantoon olbiotatos?
  Tellos ho Atheenaios,
  oudeis toon zoontoon holbios."

[Note.  These verses were really written by a boy of fourteen.]

In a manner such as this the summer hours glided happily away.  But all
things, happy or mournful, must come to an end, lest we should forget
God in our prosperity, or curse Him in our despair.  Too quickly for all
their wishes their last Sunday in Switzerland had come.  Most of them
had spent the day in thoughtful retirement or quiet occupations, and
both morning and evening they assembled together in their pleasant
sitting-room for matins and evensong.  Their thoughts were full of the
coming separation, and it gave a deep interest to these last services;
for the Homes, unwilling to leave their mother and Frank so long alone
at Ildown, were to start for England on the following day, and the
Kennedys intended to visit Chamounix for two weeks more.

On the Sunday evening they strolled down to the glacier to look once
again, for the last time, into its crevices, and wonder at its fairy
caverns, fringed with icicles, like rows of silver daggers, and ceiled
with translucent sapphire, beneath whose blue fretwork the stray
sunbeams lost their way amid ice-blocks of luminous green, and pillars
of lapis-lazuli and crystal.  They sat on a huge boulder of granite,
which some avalanche had torn down, and tumbled from the mountain's
side, and there enjoyed the icy wind which tempered the warm evening
air, as it swept over the leaping waves of the glacier stream.

"What a mixture of terror and beauty these monstrous glaciers are," said
Julian; "crawling down the valleys, and shearing away the solid rocks
before them like gigantic ploughshares."

"Yes," said Eva.  "When you look up at the tumbled pinnacles of those
seracs, does it not seem as if Summer had rent in anger with some great
ice-axe the huge enemy whom she could not quite destroy?"

"And see," said Mr Kennedy, "how Nature gets out of these terrible
heaps of shattered ice both use and beauty; and since she must leave
them as the eternal fountains of her rivers, see how she tinges them
with her loveliest blue."

They talked on until it was time to return, but Violet and Kennedy still
lingered, sitting on the vast boulder, under pretence of seeing the
sunset.

"Well, don't get lost again, that's all," said Cyril sagely.

"Oh no, we shall be back very soon," answered Violet, but she felt
instinctively that the "very soon" in time might measure an eternity of
emotion.

Need we say that Kennedy and Violet had, since that night of wild
adventure, loved each other, hour by hour, with deeper affection?  He
was young, and brave, and light-hearted, and of a pleasant countenance;
and she was a young, and confiding, and graceful, and lovely girl, and
they were drawn to one another with a love which absorbed all other
thoughts, and overpowered all other considerations; and it was
unspeakable happiness for each to know how lovely were all their acts,
and how dear were all their words in the other's eyes.  And now that the
time was come to declare the love in words, and ratify it by a plighted
troth, there was something in the act so solemn as almost to disturb
their dream of a lover's paradise.

They sat silent on the rock until the sun had set behind the peaks of
snow, and their eyes were filled with idle yet delicious tears.  Ripples
of luminous sunshine, and banks of primrose-coloured cloud still
lingered on the path which the sun had traversed, and, when even these
began to fade, there stole along the hill crests above them a film of
tender colour, flinging a veil of the softest carnation over their cold
grey rocks, and untrodden fields of perpetual snow.

"Look, Violet, at that rose-colour on the hills; does it not seem as it
rests on those chill ledges, as though Nature had said that her last act
to-day should be a triumph of glory, and her last thought a thought of
love?"

Violet murmured an assent.

"Oh, Violet," he continued, "you know that I love you, and I know that
you love me;--is it not so, Violet?"

He hardly heard the "Yes," which came half like a sigh from her lips.

"Violet, dear Violet, we part to-morrow; let me hear you say `Yes' more
clearly still."

"You know I love you, Edward--did you not save my life?"

"I know you love me," he repeated slowly, "but, oh Violet, I am not
worthy of you--I am not all you think me."  There passed over his fair
forehead the expression of humiliation and pain which she had seen there
with wonder once or twice before.

"You are good and noble, Edward," she answered; "I see you to be good
and noble, or I could not love you as I do."

"No," he said, "alas! not good, not noble, Violet--in no wise worthy of
one so pure, and bright, and beautiful as you are."  He bent his face
over her hand, and his warm tears fell fast upon it.  "But," he
continued, "I will strive to be so hereafter, Violet, for your sweet
sake.  Oh, can you take me as I am?  Will you make me good and noble,
Violet, as Julian is?  Can you let the sunshine of your life fall on the
shadow of mine?"

She did not understand his passion as he raised to her his face, not
bright and laughing as it generally was, but stained with the traces of
many tears; she only knew that he had won her whole heart, and for one
moment she let her hand rest in the curls of the head which he had bent
once more.

"Oh, Violet," he said, looking up again, "I can be anything if you love
me."  In an instant the cloud had passed away from his face, and the old
sunshine brightened his blue eyes.  For one instant their eyes met with
that lustrous and dewy love-gleam that only lovers know, but during that
instant it seemed as if their souls had flowed together into a common
fount.  With a happy look she suffered him to take her hand, and draw
off from her finger a sapphire ring; this he put on his own finger,
while on hers he replaced it by the gold-set ruby, his mother's gift,
which he usually wore.

The crescent moon had risen as they walked home, and they found the rest
of the party seated in the hotel garden, under her soft silver light;
but nobody seemed to be much in a mood for talking, until that little
monkey Cyril, who observed everything, exclaimed--

"Why, Julian, do look; Violet has got Kennedy's ring on, and--well, I
declare if he hasn't got hers."

"Let us all come up-stairs," said Kennedy hastily and then, before them
all, he drew Violet to his side, and said--

"Julian, Violet and I are betrothed to each other."

"As I thought," said Julian with a smile, as a rush of sudden emotion
made his eyes glisten, and he warmly grasped Kennedy's hand.

"And as I hoped, Julian," said Mr Kennedy, as he turned away to wipe
his spectacles, which somehow had grown dim.

The moonlight streamed over them as the two stood there together, young,
happy, hopeful, beautiful, and while Cyril held Kennedy's hand, Eva and
Violet exchanged a sister's kiss.

And Julian looked on with a glow of happiness--happiness that had one
drawback only--a passing shadow of sorrow for the possible feelings of
De Vayne.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ONLY A BLUSH.

"Erubuit! salva res est!"--Plautus.

Back from the glistening snow-fields, where every separate crystal
flashes with a separate gleam of light--back from the Alpine pastures,
embroidered with their tissue of innumerable flowers, over which, like
winged flowers, the butterflies flutter continually--back from the
sunlit silver mantle of the everlasting hills, and the thunder of the
avalanche, and the wild leap of the hissing cataract--back to the cold
grey flats and ancient towers of Camford, and the lazy windings of the
muddy Iscam, and the strife and struggle of a university career.

Kennedy arrived at Camford at mid-day, and as but few men had yet come
up, he beguiled the time by going out to make the usual formal call on
his tutor.  As he passed the door of the room where temptation had
brought on him so many heavy hours, he could hardly repress an
involuntary shudder; but on the whole, he was in high spirits, and Mr
Grayson received him with something almost approaching to cordiality.

"You did very well in the examination, Mr Kennedy; very well indeed.
With diligence you might have been head of your year--as it was, you
were in the first ten."

"Was Owen head of the year, sir?"

"No, Home was head; his brilliant composition, and thorough knowledge of
the books, brought him to the top.  Either he or Owen were first in all
the papers except one."

"Which was that, sir?"

"The Aeschylus paper, in which you were first, Mr Kennedy; you did it
remarkably accurately.  If you had seen the paper, you could hardly have
done it better."

"Indeed!  Would you give me a library order, sir?" said Kennedy, rising
abruptly, to change the subject.  Mr Grayson was offended at this
sudden change of subject, and, silently writing the order, bade Kennedy
a cold "good morning."  All that Kennedy hoped was that he would not
tell others as well as himself, the odious fact of his success.

The thought damped his spirits, but he shook it off.  The novelty of
returning as a junior soph, the pleasure of meeting the familiar faces
once more, the consciousness of that bright change of existence, which,
during the past vacation, had bound the golden thread of Violet's
destiny with his, filled him with inward exultation.  And then there was
real delight in the warmth with which he was greeted by all alike.

He found himself, very unexpectedly, a hero in the general estimation.
The romantic adventure on the Schilthorn had been rumoured about among
the numerous English visitors to the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, until it
had reached the editor of a local paper, and so had flowed through
_Galignani_ into the general stream of the English journals.  True, the
names had been suppressed, but all the Saint Werner's men knew who was
intended by "Mr K dash y," and as he entered the hall there was a
murmur of applause.

He was greeted on all sides with eager questions.

"I say, Mr K dash y," said one, "did the fellow whom you shot die of
his wound?"

"It was rather a chouse to shoot a cretin, though," said another, in
chaff.

"I _didn't_ shoot him," said Kennedy.

"No, you very leerily managed to make the other fellow shoot him.
Preserve me from my friends, must have been his secret reflections."

"Have you kept the guns, Kennedy?  You must let me have a look after
hall."

While this kind of talk was going on, Brogten, who was nearly opposite
to Kennedy, sat silent, and watched him.

He did not join in the remarks about the night adventure in Switzerland,
but when there was a slight pause in the fire of questions, he turned
the conversation to the subject of the May examination.

"Those are not your only triumphs, Kennedy, it appears.  You seem to
have been doing uncommonly well in the examination, too."

"Oh aye, you were in the first ten," said Suton; "Mr Grayson told me
so."

"Who was first?" asked Lillyston.

"Oh, Home of course; except in one paper, and Kennedy was first in
that."

"I believe that was the Aeschylus paper," said Brogten, throwing the
slightest unusual emphasis into his tone; "you were first in that,
weren't you, Kennedy?"

The men were surprised to hear Brogten address him with such careless
familiarity, knowing the old quarrel that existed between them; and they
were still more surprised to hear Brogten interest himself about a topic
usually so indifferent to him as the result of an examination.  It
seemed particularly strange that he should give himself any trouble to
inquire about the present list, because he himself had been _posted_, in
company with Hazlet and Lord Fitzurse, _i e_, their names had been
written up below the eighth class, as "_unworthy to be classed_."

"Was I?" said Kennedy in the most careless tone he could assume.

"Yes--really, didn't you know it?  You did it so well that Grayson said,
you _couldn't have done the paper better if you had seen it
beforehand_."

"I say, Kennedy, you _must_ have come out swell, then," said D'Acres,
"for Grayson said just the same thing to me."

"How very odd," said Brogten, affectedly.  "You _didn't_ see the papers
beforehand, Kennedy--did you?"

The last few moments had been torture to Kennedy; he had moved uneasily;
the bright look of gratified triumph, which the allusions to his courage
had called forth, had gone out the moment the examination was mentioned,
and it was only by a painful and violent exercise of the will that he
was able to keep back the blood which had begun to rush towards his
cheeks.  In the endeavour to check or suppress the blush, he had grown
ashy pale; but now that Brogten's dark and cruel eye was upon him--now
that the protruding underlip curled with a sneer that left no more room
to doubt that he _was_ master of Kennedy's guilty secret--the effort was
useless, and spite of will, the burning crimson of an uncontrollable
shame burst and flashed over Kennedy's usually clear and open face.  It
was no ordinary blush--no common passage of colour over the cheeks.
Over face, and neck, and brow the guilty blood seemed to be crowding
tumultuously, and when it had filled every vein and fibre till it
swelled, then the rich scarlet seemed to linger there as though it would
never die away again, and if for an instant it began to fade, then the
hidden thought sent new waves of hot agony in fresh pulses to supply its
place.  And all the while the conscious victim made matters worse by his
attempts to seem unconcerned, until his forehead was wet with heavy
perspiration.  By that time the men had turned to other topics, and were
talking about Bruce's laziness, and the utter manner in which he must
have fallen off for his name to appear, as it had done, in the second
class; and, in course of time, Kennedy's face was as pale and cold as it
before had burned and glowed.

And all this while, though he would not look--though he looked at his
plate, and at the busts over his head, and the long portraits of Saint
Werner's worthies on the walls, and on this side and on that--Kennedy
knew full well that Brogten's eye had been on him from beginning to end,
and that Brogten was enjoying, with devilish malignity, the sense of
power which he had gained from the knowledge of another's sin.  The
thought was intolerable to him, and, finishing his dinner with hasty
gulps, he left the hall.

"Brogten, how rude you were to Kennedy," said Lillyston.

"Was I?" said Brogten, in a tone of sarcasm and defiance.

"No wonder he blushed at your coarse insinuations."

"No wonder," said Brogten, in the same tone; "am I the only person who
makes coarse insinuations, as you call them?"

"It is just like you to do so."

"Is it?  Oh well, I shall have to make some more, perhaps, before I have
done."

"Well, you'd better look out what you say to Kennedy, at any rate.  He
is a fiery subject."

"Thank you, I will."

This wrangling was very unprofitable, and Lillyston gladly dropped it,
not however without feeling somewhat puzzled at the air which Brogten
assumed.

That night Kennedy was sitting miserably in his room alone; he had
refused all invitations, and had asked nobody to take tea with him.  He
was just making tea for himself, when Brogten came to see him.

"May I stay to tea?" he asked, in mock humility.

"If you like," said Kennedy.

He stayed to tea, and talked about all kinds of subjects rather than the
one which was prominent in the thoughts of both.  He told Kennedy old
Harton stories, and asked him about Marlby; he turned the subject to
Home, and really interested Kennedy by telling him what kind of a boy
Julian had been, and what inseparable friends he had always been with
Lillyston, and how admirably he had recited on speech-day, and how
stainless his whole life had been, and how vice and temptation seemed to
skulk away at his very look.

"You are reconciled to him, then," said Kennedy in surprise.

"Oh, yes.  At heart, I always respected him.  He wasn't a fellow to take
the worst view of one's character, you know, or to make nasty
innuendoes--" He stopped, and eyed Kennedy as a parrot eyes a finger put
into his cage, which he _could_ peck if he would.  "He wasn't, you know,
a kind of fellow who would force you to leave the table by sneering at
you in hall--" He still continued to eye Kennedy, but in vain, for
Kennedy kept his moody glance on the table and was silent, and would not
look at him or speak to him.  Brogten could not help being struck with
his appearance as he sat there motionless,--the noble and perfectly
formed head, the well-cut features, the cheek a little pale now, so
boyishly smooth and round, the latent powers of fire and sarcasm and
strength in the bright eye and beautiful lip.  It was a base source of
triumph that made Brogten exult in the knowledge that this youth was in
his power; that he held for a time at least the strings of his happiness
or misery; that at any time by a word in any public place he could bring
on his fine features that hue of shame; that for his own purposes he
could at any time ruin his reputation, and put an end to his popularity.

Not that he intended to do so.  He had the power, but unless provoked,
he did not wish or mean to use it.  It was far more luxurious to keep it
to himself, and use it as occasion might serve.  Everybody's secret is
nobody's secret, and it was enough for Brogten to enjoy privately the
triumph he had longed for, and which accident had put into his hands.

"Come, come, Kennedy," he said, "this is nonsense; we understand each
other.  I saw you coolly read over the whole examination-paper, you
know, which wasn't the most honourable thing in the world to do--"

He paused and half relented as he saw a solitary tear on Kennedy's
cheek, which was indignantly brushed away almost as soon as it had
started.

"Come," he said, "cheer up, man.  I'm not going to tell of you; neither
Grayson nor any of the men shall know it, and at present not a soul has
a suspicion of such a thing except ourselves.  Come--I've had my triumph
over you, for your sharp words in hall last term, before all the men,
and that's all I wanted.  Don't let's be enemies any longer.
Good-night."

But Kennedy sat there passively, and when Brogten had gone away
whistling "The Rat-catcher's Daughter," he leant his head upon his hand,
and his thoughts wandered away to Violet Home.

O holy, ennobling, purifying love!  He felt that if he had known Violet
before, he should not now have been in Brogten's power.  He fancied that
the secret had oozed out; he fancied that men eyed him sometimes with
strange glances; he pictured to himself the degradation he should feel
if Julian, or De Vayne, or Lillyston ever knew of what weakness he was
capable.  This one error rode like a night-mare on his breast.

But none of his gloomy presentiments on the score of detection were
fulfilled.  Except to Bruce, and that under pledge of secrecy, Brogten
never betrayed what he knew, and the only immediate way in which he
exercised the influence which his knowledge gave him, was by claiming
with Kennedy a tone of familiarity, and asking him to card parties,
suppers, and idle riots of all kinds, in which Bruce and Fitzurse were
frequent visitors.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

BRUCE THE TEMPTER.

"Oui autrefois; mais nous avons change tout cela."--Moliere.

Bruce was disgusted with his second class in the Saint Werner's May
examination.  He had quite flattered himself that he could not fail to
be among the somewhat large number who annually obtained the pleasant
and easy distinction of a first.  He had not been nearly so idle as men
supposed, although he had managed to waste a large amount of time; and
if he could have foreseen that his name would only appear in the Second
class, he would have endeavoured to be lower still, so as to make it
appear that he had not condescended to give a thought to the subject.
As it was, he hoped that if he got a first, men would remark, "Clever
fellow that Bruce!  Never opened a book, and yet got a first class;"
whereas now he knew that the general judgment would be, "Bruce can't be
half such a swell as one fancied.  He's only taken a second."

His vanity was wounded, and he determined to throw up reading
altogether.  "What good would it do him to grind?  His father was
rolling in money, and of course he should cut a very good figure in
London when he had left Camford, which was a mere place for crammers and
crammed, etcetera."

So Bruce became more and more confirmed as a trifler and an idler, and
he suffered that terrible ennui, which dogs the shadow of wasted time.
Associating habitually with men who were his inferiors in ability, and
whose tastes were lower than his own, the vacuity of mind and lassitude
of body, which at times crept over him, were the natural assistants of
every temptation to extravagance, frivolity, and sin.

An accidental conversation gave a mischievous turn to his idle
propensities.  Coming into hall one evening, he found himself seated
next to Suton, and observing from the goose on the table, and the audit
ale which was circling in the loving cup that it was a feast, he turned
to his neighbour, and asked:--

"Is it a saint's-day to-day?"

"Yes," said Suton, "and the most memorable of them all--All Saints'
Day."

"Oh, really," said Bruce with an expression of half contemptuous
interest, "then I suppose chapel's at a quarter past six, and we shall
have one of those long winded choral services."

"Don't you like them?"

"Like them?  I should think not!  Since one's forced to do a certain
amount of chapels, the shorter they are the better."

"Of course, if you regard it in the light of `doing' so many chapels,
you won't find it pleasant."

"Do you mean to tell me now," said Bruce, turning round and looking full
at Suton, "that you regard chapels as anything but an unmitigated
nuisance?"

"Most certainly I do mean to tell you so, if you ask me."

"Ah!  I see--a Sim!" said Bruce, with the slightest possible shrug of
the shoulders.

"I don't know what you mean by a `Sim,' Mr Bruce," said Suton, slightly
colouring; "but whether a Sim or not, I at least expect to be treated as
a gentleman."

"Oh, I beg pardon," said Bruce; "but I couldn't help recognising the
usual style of--"

"Of cant, I suppose you would say.  Thank you.  You must find it a cold
faith to disbelieve in all sincerity."

"Well, I don't know.  At any rate, I don't believe that all your saints
put together were really a bit better than their neighbours; so I can't
get up an annual enthusiasm in their honour.  All men are really alike
at the bottom."

"Nero's belief," said Owen, who had overheard the conversation.

"It doesn't matter whether it was Nero's or Neri's or Neander's,"
answered Bruce; "experience proves it to be true."

Suton had finished dinner, and as he did not relish Bruce's off-hand and
patronising manner, he left the discussion in Owen's hand.  But between
Owen and Bruce there was an implacable dissimilarity, and neither of
them cared to pursue the subject.

Bruce, who went to wine with D'Acres, repeated there the subject of the
conversation, and found that most of his audience affected to agree with
him.  In fact, he had himself set the fashion of a semi-professed
infidelity; and amid his most intimate associates there were many to
adopt with readiness a theory which saved them from the trouble and
expense of a scrupulous conscience.  With Bruce this infidelity was
rather the decay of faith than the growth of positive disbelief.  He had
dipped with a kind of wilful curiosity into Strauss's Life of Jesus, and
other books of a similar description, together with such portions of
current literature as were most clever in sneering at Christianity, or
most undisguised in rejecting it.

Such reading--harmless, or even desirable, as it might have been to a
strong mind sincere in its search for truth, and furnished with that
calm capacity for impartial thought which is the best antidote against
error--was fatal to one whose superficial knowledge and irregular life
gave him already a powerful bias towards getting rid of everything which
stood in the way of his tendencies and pursuits.  Bruce was not in
earnest in the desire for knowledge and wisdom: he grasped with avidity
at a popular objection, or a sceptical argument, without desiring to
understand or master the principles which rendered them nugatory; and he
was ignorant and untaught enough to fancy that the very foundations of
religion were shaken if he could attack the authenticity of some Jewish
miracle, or impugn the genuineness of some Old Testament book.

When all belief was shaken down in his shallow and somewhat feeble
understanding, the structure of his moral convictions was but a baseless
fabric.  Error in itself is not fatal to the inner sense of right; but
Bruce's error was not honest doubt, it was wilful self-deception,
blindness of heart, first deliberately induced, then penally permitted.

In Bruce's character there was not only the _error in intellectu_, but
also the _pertinacia in voluntate_.  All sense of honour, all delicacy
of principle, all perception of sin and righteousness, all the landmarks
of right and wrong, were obliterated in the muddy inundation of flippant
irreverence and ignorant disbelief.

  "For when we in our viciousness grow hard,
  O, misery on't! the wise gods seal our eyes:
  In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us
  Adore our errors, laugh at us while we strut
  To our confusion."

"I'm sometimes half inclined to agree with what you were saying about
would-be saints," said Brogten, as they left D'Acres' wine-party.

"What fun it would be to try the experiment of a saint's peccability on
some living subject," said Bruce.

"Rather!  Suppose you try on that fellow Hazlet?"

"Oh, you mean the lank party who snuffles the responses with such
oleaginous sanctimony.  Well, I bet you 2 to 1 in ponies that I have him
roaring drunk before a month's over."

"I won't take the bet," said Brogten, "because I believe you'll
succeed."

"I'll t-t-take it for the fun," said Fitzurse.

"Done, then!" said Bruce.

So Bruce, _pour passer le temps_, deliberately undertook the corruption
of a human soul.  That soul might have been low enough already; for
Hazlet was, as we have seen, mean-hearted and malicious, and in him,
although unknown to himself, the garb of the Pharisee but concealed the
breast of the hypocrite.  But yet Hazlet _was_ free, and if Bruce had
not undertaken the devil's work, might have been free to his life's end,
from all gross forms of transgression--from all the more flagrant and
open delinquencies that lay waste the inner sanctities of a fallen human
soul.

He was an easy subject for Bruce's machinations, and those machinations
were conceived and carried on with consummate and characteristic
cleverness.  Bruce did not spread his net in the sight of the bird, but
set to work with wariness and caution.  He determined to try the arts of
fascination, not of force.  The thought of the desperate wickedness
involved in his attempt either never crossed his mind, or, if it did,
was rejected as the feeble suggestion of an over-scrupulous conscience.
Bruce pretended at least to fancy that the basis of all men's characters
was identical, and that, as they only differed in external
manifestations, it made very little difference whether Hazlet became
"fast" or continued "slow."  "Fast" and "slow" were the mild euphemisms
with which Bruce expressed the slight distinction between a vicious and
a virtuous life.

At hall--the grand place for rencontres--he managed to get a seat next
to his victim, and began at once to treat him with that appearance of
easy and well-bred familiarity which he had learnt in London circles.
He threw a gentle expression of interest into his face and voice, he
listened with deference to Hazlet's remarks, he addressed several
questions to him, thanked him politely for all his information, and then
adroitly introduced some delicate compliments on the agreeableness of
Hazlet's society.  His bait took completely; Hazlet, whom most men
snubbed, was quite flustered with gratified vanity at the condescending
notice of so unexceptionable a man of fashion as the handsome and noted
Vyvyan Bruce.  "At last," thought Hazlet, "men are beginning to
appreciate my intellectual powers."

After continuing this process for some days, until Hazlet was
unalterably convinced that he must be a vastly agreeable and attractive
person, Bruce asked him to come to breakfast, and invited Brogten and
Fitzurse to meet him.  He calculated justly that Hazlet, accustomed only
to the very quiet neighbourhood of a country village, would be duly
impressed with the presence and acquaintance of a live lord; and he
instructed both his guests in the manner in which they should treat the
subject of their experiment.  Hazlet thought he had never enjoyed a
breakfast party so much.  There was a delicious spice of worldliness in
the topics of conversation which was quite refreshing to him, accustomed
as he was to the somewhat droning moralisms of his "congenial friends."
Nothing which could deeply shock his prejudices was ever alluded to, but
the discussions which were introduced came to him with all the charm of
novelty and awakened curiosity.

Hazlet never could endure being a silent or inactive listener while a
conversation was going forward.  No matter how complete his ignorance of
the subject, he generally managed to hazard some remarks.  Bruce talked
a good deal about actors and theatres, and Hazlet had never seen a
theatre in his life.  He did not like, however, to confess this fact,
and, after a little hesitation, began to talk as if he were an habitue.
The dramatic criticisms, which he occasionally saw in the papers,
furnished him with just materials enough to amuse Bruce and the others
at his assumption of "savoir vivre," and to furnish a laugh at his
expense the moment he was gone; but of this he was blissfully
unconscious, and he rather plumed himself on his knowledge of the world.
He had yet to learn the lesson that consistency alone can secure
respect.  He had indeed ventured at first to remark, "Don't you think
the stage a little--just a little--objectionable?"

"Objectionable," said Bruce, with a bland smile; "oh, my dear fellow,
what can you mean?  Why, the stage is a mirror of the world, and to show
virtue her own image is one of its main objects."

"Yes," said Hazlet, "I am inclined to think so.  I should like to see a
theatre, I confess."

He had let slip unintentionally the implied admission that he had never
been to a theatre; but when Fitzurse asked in astonishment, "What, have
you never been to a theatre?" he merely replied, "Well, I can hardly say
I have; at least not for a long time."

"Oh, then we must all run down to London some night very soon," said
Bruce, "and we'll go together to the Regent."

"But I've no friend in London, except--except a clergyman or two, who
perhaps might object, you know."

"Oh, never mind the clergymen," said Bruce; "you shall all come and stay
with me at Vyvyan House."

Here was a triumph!--to go to the celebrated Vyvyan House, and that in
company with a lord, and to be a partaker of Bruce's hospitality!  Of
course it would be very rude and wrong to refuse so eligible an
invitation.  How pleasant it would be to remark casually at hall-time,
"I'm just going to run down for the Sunday to Vyvyan House with Bruce
and Lord Fitzurse!"

"Let me see," said Bruce, "to-day's Monday; supposing you come to wine
with me on Thursday, and then we'll see if we can't manage to get to
London from Saturday to Monday."

"Thursday--I'm afraid I've an engagement on Thursday to--"

"To what?" asked Bruce.

The more Hazlet coloured and hung back, the more Bruce, in his agreeable
way, pressed to know, till at last Hazlet, unable to escape such genial
importunity, reluctantly confessed that it was to a prayer-meeting in a
friend's rooms.

"Oh," said Bruce, with the least little laugh, "tea and hassocks, eh?"
He said no more, but the little, scornful laugh, and the few scornful
words had done their work more effectually than a volume of ridicule.
It need not be added that Hazlet came, not to the prayer-meeting, but to
the wine-party.  Cards were introduced in the evening, and one of the
players was Kennedy.  Kennedy played often now, but he certainly did
feel a qualm of intense and irrepressible disgust as, with great
surprise, he found himself _vis a vis_ with the spectacled visage of
Jedediah Hazlet.

"But how shall I get my exeat to go to London?" said Hazlet.

"Oh, say a particular friend has invited you to spend the Sunday with
him.  Say you want to hear Starfish preach."

Mr Norton, Hazlet's tutor, who did not expect him to fall into
mischief, and thought that very likely Mr Starfish's eloquence might be
the operating attraction, granted him the exeat without any difficulty,
and on Saturday Hazlet was reclining in a first-class carriage, with
Bruce, Brogten, and Fitzurse, on his way to Vyvyan House.  A change was
observable in his dress.  Bruce had hinted to him that his usual garb
might look a little formal and odd at a theatre, and had persuaded him
to come to his own egregious Camford tailor, Mr Fitfop, who, as a
particular favour to his customer Bruce, produced with suspicious
celerity the cut-away coat and mauve-coloured pegtops, in which unwonted
splendour Hazlet was now arrayed.  It was a pity that his ears were so
obturated with vanity as not to have heard the shrieks of half-stifled
laughter created by his first public appearance in this fashionable
guise, which only required to be completed by the death's-head pin with
which Bruce presented him, (and which therefore he was obliged to wear),
to make it perfect.

The sumptuous and voluptuous richness of all the appointments in Vyvyan
House introduced Hazlet to a new world.  Sir Rollo and Lady Bruce were
not in town, so that the four young men had the house entirely to
themselves, and Bruce ordered about the servants with royal energy.
Soon after their arrival they sat down to a choice dinner, and Bruce
took care, although the champagne had been abundant at dinner, to pass
pretty freely, at dessert, the best claret and amontillado of his
father's cellars.  Hazlet was not slow to follow the example which the
others set him; he helped himself plentifully to everything, and after
dinner, lolling in an easy attitude, copied from Fitzurse, he even
ventured to exhibit his very recently acquired accomplishment of smoking
a weed.  Very soon he imagined that he had quite made an impression on
the most fashionable members of the Saint Werner's world.

They went to the Regent, and between the acts, Bruce, who knew
everything, introduced them behind the scenes.  Hazlet, rather amazed at
his own boldness, but in reality entirely ignorant which way to turn,
necessarily followed his guides, and, exultant with the influence of
mellow wine, imitated the others, and tried to look and feel at home.
Within a month of Bruce's manipulation this excellent and gifted young
man, this truly gracious light in the youthful band of confessors, was
seated, talking to a fascinating young _danseuse_ who wore a gossamer
dress, behind the scenes of a petty London theatre.  Bruce looked on
with a smile, and hummed to himself--

  "Jene Tanzerinn
  Fliegt, mit leichtem Sinn
  Und noch leichtern Kleide
  Durch den Saal der Freude
  Wie ein Zephyr bin, _etcetera_."

The head of Jedediah Hazlet was somewhat confused, when, after the play
and an oyster supper in the cider cellars, it sank deep into the
reposeful down of a spare chamber in the gay Sir Rollo Bruce's London
house.

The next morning was Sunday.  They none of them got up till twelve to a
languid breakfast, and then read novels.  Hazlet, who was rather shocked
at this, did indeed faintly suggest going to church.  "Oh yes," said
Bruce, looking up with a smile from his Balzac, "we'll do that, or some
other equally harmless amusement."  The dinner hour, however, coincided
with the time of evening service, so that it was impossible to go then,
and finally they spent the evening in what they all agreed to call "a
perfectly quiet game at cards."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

ONE OF THE SIMPLE ONES.

  "I tempted his blood and his flesh,
  Hid in roses my mesh,
  Choicest cates, and the flagon's best spilth."
  Robert Browning.

"Faugh," said Bruce, on his return to Camford, "that fellow Hazlet isn't
worth making an experiment upon--_in corpore vili_ truly; but the
creature is so wicked at heart, that even his cherished traditions
crumble at a touch.  He's no game; he doesn't even run cunning."

"Then I hope you'll p-p-pay me my p-p-p-ponies," said Fitzurse.

"By no means; only I shall cut things short; he isn't worth playing; I
shall haul him in at once."

Accordingly, Hazlet was invited once more to one of Bruce's parties--
this time to a supper.  It was one of the regular, reckless, uproarious
affairs--D'Acres, Boodle, Tulk, Brogten, Fitzurse, were all there, and
the elite of the fast fellow-commoners, and sporting men besides.  Bruce
had privately entreated them all not to snub Hazlet, as he wanted to
have some fun.  The supper was soon despatched, and the wine circled
plentifully.  It was followed by a game of cards, during which the
punch-bowl stood in the centre of the table, rich, smoking, and crowned
with a concoction of unprecedented strength.  Hazlet was quite in his
glory.  When they had plied him sufficiently--which Bruce took care to
do by repeatedly replenishing his cup on the sly, so that he might fancy
himself to have taken much less than was really the case--they all drank
his health with the usual honours:

  "For he's a jolly good fe-el-low.
  For he's a jolly good fe-el-low,
  For he's a jolly good fe-el-l-ow--
  Which nobody can deny,
  Which nobody can deny;
  For he's a jolly good fe-el-low," etcetera.

And so on, _ad infinitum_, followed by "Hip! hip! hip! hurrah! hurrah!!
hurrah!!!" and then the general rattling of plates on the table, and
breaking of wine-glass stems with knives of "boys who crashed the glass
and beat the floor."

Hazlet was quite in the seventh heaven of exaltation, and made a feeble
attempt at replying to the honour in a speech; but he was in so very
oblivious and generally foolish a condition, that, being chiefly
accustomed to Philadelphus oratory, he began to address them as "My
Christian Friends;" and this produced such shouts of boisterous
laughter, that he sat down with his purpose unaccomplished.

Before the evening was over, Bruce, in the opinion of all present,
including Fitzurse himself, had fairly won his bet.

"I shan't mind p-p-paying a bit," said the excellent young nobleman;
"it's been such r-r-rare f-f-fun."

Rare fun indeed!  The miserable Hazlet, swilled with unwonted draughts,
lay brutally comatose in a chair.  His head rolled from side to side,
his body and arms hung helpless and disjointed, his eyelids dropped--he
was completely unconscious, and more than fulfilled the conditions of
being "roaring drunk!"

Now for some jolly amusement--the opportunity's too good to be lost!
What exhilaration there is on seeing a human soul imbruted and
grovelling hopelessly in the dirt or rather to have a body before you,
_without_ a soul for the time being--a coarse animal mass, swinish as
those whom the wand of Circe smote, but with the human intelligence
quenched besides, and the charactery of reason wiped away.  Here, some
ochre and lamp-black, quick!  There--plaster it well about the whiskers
and eyelids, and put a few patches on the hair!  Magnificent!--he looks
like a Choctaw in his war-paint, after drinking fire-water.

Screams of irrepressible laughter--almost as ghastly, (if the cause of
them be considered), as those that might have sounded round a witch's
cauldron over diabolical orgies--accompanied the whole proceeding.  So
loud were they that all the men on the stair-case heard them, and fully
expected the immediate apparition of some bulldog, dean, or proctor.  It
was nobody's affair, however, but Bruce's, and he must do as he liked.
Suton, who "kept" near Bruce, was one of those whom the uproar puzzled
and disturbed, as he sat down with sober pleasure to his evening's work.
His window was opposite Bruce's, and across the narrow road he heard
distinctly most of what was said.  The perpetual and noisy repetition of
Hazlet's name perplexed him extremely, and at last he could have no
doubt that they were making Hazlet drunk, and then painting him; nor was
it less clear that many of them were themselves half intoxicated.

It had of course been impossible for Suton and others of similar
character to avoid noticing the eccentricities of dress, and manner
which had been the outward indications of Hazlet's recent course.  When
a man who has been accustomed to dress in black, and wear tail coats in
the morning, suddenly comes out in gorgeous apparel, and begins to talk
about cards, betting and theatres, his associates must be very blind, if
they do not observe that his theories are undergoing a tolerably
complete revolution.  Suton saw with regret mingled with pity, Hazlet's
contemptible weakness, and he had once or twice endeavoured to give him
a hint of the ridicule which his metamorphosis occasioned; but Hazlet
had met his remarks with such silly arrogance, nay, with such a
patronising assumption of superiority, that he determined to leave him
to his own experiences.  This did not prevent Suton from feeling a
strong and righteous indignation against the iniquity of those who were
inveigling another to his ruin, and he felt convinced that, as at this
moment Hazlet was being unfairly treated, it was his duty in some way to
interfere.

He got up quietly, and walked over to Bruce's rooms.  His knock produced
instant silence, followed by a general scuffle as the men endeavoured to
conceal the worst signs of their recent outrage.  When Suton opened the
door, he was greeted with a groan of derision.

"Confound you," said Bruce, "I thought it must be the senior proctor at
the very least."

Without noticing his remark, Suton quietly said, "I see, Bruce, that you
have been treating Hazlet in a very unwarrantable way; he is clearly not
in a fit condition to be trifled with any more; you must help me to take
him home."

"Ha! ha! rather a good joke.  I shall merely shove him into the street,
if I do anything.  What business has he to make a beast of himself in my
rooms?"

"What business have you to do the devil's work, and tempt others to sin?
You will have a terrible reckoning for it, even if no dangerous
consequences ensue," said Suton sternly.

"C-c-c-cant!" said Fitzurse.

"Yes--what you call cant, Fitzurse.  You shall hear some more, and
tremble, sir, while you hear it," replied Suton, turning towards him,
and raising his hand with a powerful but natural gesture; "it is this
`Woe unto him that giveth his neighbour drink, that putteth thy bottle
to him, and makest him drunken also--_thou art filled with shame for
glory_.'"

"Bruce," said D'Acres, the least flushed of the party, "I really think
we ought to take the fellow home.  Just look at him."

Bruce looked, and was really alarmed at the grotesque yet ghastly
expression of that striped and sodden face, with the straight black
hair, and the head lolling and rolling on the shoulder.  Without a word,
he took Hazlet by one arm, while Suton held the other, and D'Acres
carried the legs, and as quickly as they could they hurried along with
their lifeless burden to the gates of Saint Werner's.  It was long past
the usual hour for locking up, and the porter took down the names of all
four as they entered.  A large bribe which D'Acres offered was firmly,
yet respectfully refused, and they knew that next day they would be
called to account.

Having put Hazlet to bed they separated; Suton bade the others a stiff
"Good-night;" and D'Acres as he left Bruce, said, "Bruce, we have been
doing a very blackguard thing."

"Speak for yourself," said Bruce.

"Good," said D'Acres, "and allow me to add that I have entered your
rooms for the last time."

Next morning Suton spoke privately to the porter, and told him that it
would be best for many reasons not to report what had taken place the
night before, beyond the bare fact of their having come into college
late at night.  The man knew Suton thoroughly and respected him; he knew
him to be a man of genuine piety, and the most regular habits, and
consented, though not without difficulty, to omit all mention of
Hazlet's state.  All four had of course to pay the usual gate fine, and
D'Acres and Bruce were besides "admonished" by the senior Dean, but
Suton and Hazlet were not even sent for.  The Dean knew Suton well, and
felt that his character was a sufficient guarantee that he had not been
in any mischief; Hazlet had been irregular lately, but the Dean
considered him a very steady man, and overlooked for the present this
breach of rules.

Of course all Saint Werner's laughed over the story of Hazlet's
escapade.  He did not know how to avoid the storm of ridicule which his
folly had stirred up.  He had already begun to drop his "congenial
friends" for the more brilliant society to which Bruce had introduced
him, and so far from admitting that he felt any compunction, he
professed to regard the whole matter merely as "an amusing lark."  Bruce
and the others hardly condescended to apologise, and at first Hazlet,
who found it impossible at once to remove all traces of the paint, and
who for a day or two felt thoroughly unwell, made a half-resolve to
resent their coolness.  But now, deserted by his former associates, and
laughed at by the majority of men, he found the society of his tempters
indispensable for his comfort, and even cringed to them for the notice
which at first they felt inclined to withdraw.

"Wasn't that trick on Hazlet a disgraceful affair, Kennedy?" said
Julian, a few days after.  "Some one told me you were at the supper
party; surely it can't be true."

"I was for about an hour," said Kennedy, blushing, "but I had left
before this took place."

"May I say it, Kennedy?--a friend's, a _brother's_ privilege, you know--
but it surprises me that you care to tolerate such company as that."

"Believe me, Julian, I don't enjoy it."

"Then why do you frequent it?"

Kennedy sighed deeply and was silent for a time; then he said--

  "Not e'en the dearest heart, and next our own,
  Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh."

"True," said Julian; for he had long observed that some heavy weight lay
on Kennedy's mind, and with deep sorrow noticed that their intercourse
was less cordial, less frequent, less intimate than before.  Not that he
loved Kennedy, or that Kennedy loved him less than of old, for, on the
contrary, Kennedy yearned more than ever for the full cherished
unreserve of their old friendship; but, alas there was not, there could
not be complete confidence between them, and where there is not
confidence, the pleasure of friendship grows dim and pale.  And, besides
this, new tastes were growing up in Edward Kennedy, and, by slow and
fatal degrees, were developing into passions.

Hazlet had come to Camford not so much innocent as ignorant.  He had
never learnt to restrain and control the strong tendencies which, in the
quiet shades of Ildown, had been sheltered from temptation.  A few
months before he would have heard with unmitigated horror the
delinquencies which he now committed without a scruple, and defended
without a blush.  None are so precipitate in the career of sin and folly
as backsliders; none so unchecked in the downward course as those to
whom the mystery of iniquity is suddenly displayed when they have had
none of the gradual training whereby men are armed to resist its
seductions.

Who does not know from personal observation that the cycle of sins is
bound together by a thousand invisible filaments, and that myriads of
unknown connections unite them to one another?  Hazlet, when he had once
"forsaken the guide of his youth, and forgotten the covenant of his
God," did not stop short at one or two temptations, and yield only to
some favourite vice.  With a rapidity as amazing as it was disastrous,
he developed in the course of two or three months into one of the most
shameless and dissipated of the worst Saint Werner's set.  There was
something characteristic in the way in which he frothed out his own
shame, boasting of his infamous liberty with an arrogance which
resembled his former conceit in spiritual superiority.

Julian, who now saw less of him than ever, had no opportunity of
speaking to him as to his course of life; but at last an incident
happened which persuaded him that further silence would be a culpable
neglect of his duty to his neighbour.

Montagu, of Roslyn School, came up to Camford to spend a Sunday with
Owen, and Owen asked Julian and Lillyston to meet him.  They liked each
other very much, and Julian rapidly began to regard Montagu as a real
friend.  In order to see as much of each other as possible, they all
agreed to take a four-oar on the Saturday morning, and row to Elnham; at
Elnham they dined, and spent two pleasant hours in visiting the
beautiful cathedral, so that they did not get back to Camford till
eleven at night.

Their way from the boats to Saint Werner's lay through a bad part of the
town, and they walked quickly, Owen and Montagu being a little way in
front.

A few gas-lights were burning at long intervals in the narrow lane
through which they had to pass, and as they walked under one of them
they observed a group of four standing half in shadow.  One of them
Julian instantly recognised as the very vilest of the Saint Werner "fast
men;" another was Hazlet; there could be no doubt as to the company in
which he was.

For one second, Julian turned back to look in sheer astonishment,--he
could hardly believe the testimony of his own eyes.  The figure which he
took to be Hazlet hastily retreated, and Julian half-persuaded himself
that he was mistaken.

"Did you see who that was?" asked Lillyston sadly.

"Yes," said Julian; "one of the simple ones; `but he knoweth not that
the dead are there, and that her guests are in the depths of hell.'"

"You must speak to him, Julian."

"I will."

As Hazlet was out when he called, Julian wrote on his card, "Dear H,
will you come to tea at 8?  Yours ever, J Home."

At 8 o'clock accordingly Hazlet was seated, as he had not been for a
very long time, by Julian's fireside.  Julian's conversation interested
him, and he could not help feeling a little humbled at the unworthiness
which prevented him from more frequently enjoying it.  It was not till
after tea, when they had pulled their chairs to the fire, that Julian
said, "Hazlet, I was sorry to see you in bad company last night."

"Me!" said Hazlet, feigning surprise.

"You!"

Hazlet saw that all attempt at concealment was useless.  "For God's
sake, don't tell my mother, or any of the Ildown people," he said,
turning pale.

"Is it likely I should?  Yet my doing so would be the very least harm
that could happen to you, Hazlet, if you adopt these courses.  I had
rather see you afraid of the sin than of the detection."

Hazlet stammered out in self-defence one of those commonplaces which he
had heard but too often in the society of those who "put evil for good
and good for evil."

Julian very quietly tore the miserable sophism to shreds, and said,
"There is but one way to describe these vices, Hazlet,--they are deadly,
bitter, ruinous."

"Oh, they are very common.  Lots of men--"

"Tush!" said Julian; "their commonness, if indeed it be so, does not
diminish their deadliness.  Not to put the question on the religious
ground at all, I fully agree with Carlyle that, on the mere
consideration of expedience and physical fact, nothing can be more
fatal, more calamitous than `to burn away in mad waste the divine aromas
and celestial elements from our existence; to change our holy of holies
into a place of riot; to make the soul itself hard, impious, barren.'"

Hazlet, ashamed and bewildered, confused his present position with old
reminiscences, and muttered some balderdash about Carlyle "not being
sound."

"Carlyle not sound?" said Julian; "good heavens!  You can still retain
the wretched babblements of your sectarianism while your courses are
what they are!"

He was inclined to drop the conversation in sheer disgust, but Hazlet's
pride was now aroused, and he began to bluster about the impertinence of
interference on Julian's part, and his right to do what he chose.

"Certainly," said Julian, sternly, "the choice lies with yourself.  Run,
if you will, as a bird to the snare of the fowler, till a dart strike
you through.  But if you are dead and indifferent to your own miserable
soul, think that in this sin you cannot sin alone; think that you are
dragging down to the nethermost abyss others besides yourself.  Remember
the wretched victims of your infamous passions, and tremble while you
desecrate and deface for ever God's image stamped on a fair human soul.
Think of those whom your vileness dooms to a life of loathliness, a
death of shame and anguish, perhaps an eternity of horrible despair.
Learn something of the days they are forced to spend, that they may
pander to the worst instincts of your degraded nature; days of squalor
and drunkenness, disease and dirt; gin at morning, noon, and night;
eating infection, horrible madness, and sudden death at the end.  Can
you ever hope for salvation and the light of God's presence, while the
cry of the souls of which you have been _the murderer_--yes, do not
disguise it, the _murderer_, the cruel, willing, pitiless murderer--is
ringing upwards from the depths of hell?"

"What do you mean by the murderer?" said Hazlet, with an attempt at
misconception.

"I mean this, Hazlet; setting aside all considerations which affect your
mere personal ruin--not mentioning the atrophy of spiritual life and the
clinging sense of degradation which is involved in such a course as
yours--I want you to see if you will be honest, that the fault is yet
more deadly, because you involve _other_ souls and _other_ lives in your
own destruction.  Is it not a reminiscence sufficient to kill any man's
hope, that but for his own brutality some who are now perhaps raving in
the asylum might have been clasping their own children to their happy
breasts, and wearing in unpolluted innocence the rose of matronly
honour?  Oh, Hazlet, I have heard you talk about missionary societies,
and seen your name in subscription lists, but believe me you could not,
by myriads of such conventional charities, cancel the direct and awful
quota which you are now contributing to the aggregate of the world's
misery and shame."

It took a great deal to abash a mind like Hazlet's.  He said that he was
going to be a clergyman, and that it was necessary for him to see
something of life, or he would never acquire the requisite experience.

"Loathly experience!" said Julian with crushing scorn.  "And do you ever
hope, Hazlet, by centuries of preaching such as yours, to repair one
millionth part of the damage done by your bad passions to a single
fellow-creature?  Such a hateful excuse is verily to carry the Urim with
its oracular gems into the very sty of sensuality, and to debase your
religion into `a procuress to the lords of hell.'  I have done; but let
me say, Hazlet, that your self-justification is, if possible, more
repulsive than your sin."

He pushed back his chair from the fire, and turned away, as Hazlet, with
some incoherent sentences about "no business of his," left the room, and
slammed the door behind him.

What are words but weak motions of vibrating air?  Julian's words passed
by the warped nature of Hazlet like the idle wind, and left no more
trace upon him than the snow-flake when it has melted into the purpling
sea.  As the weeks went on, his ill-regulated passions grew more and
more free from the control of reason or manliness, and he sank
downwards, downwards, downwards, into the most shameful abysses of an
idle, and evil, and dissipated life.

And the germ of that ruin was planted by the hand of the clever, and
gay, and handsome Vyvyan Bruce.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

DE VAYNE'S TEMPTATION.

  "And felt how awful goodness is, and virtue
  In her own shape how lovely."
  Milton's _Paradise Lost_.

Shall I confess it?  Pitiable and melancholy as was Hazlet's course, I
liked him so little as to feel for him far less than I otherwise should
have done.  His worst error never caused me half the pain of Kennedy's
most venial fault.  Must I then tell a sad tale of Kennedy too--my
brave, bright, beautiful, light-hearted Kennedy, whom I always loved so
well?  May I not throw over the story of his college days the rosy
colourings of romance and fancy, the warm sunshine of prosperity and
hope?  I wish I might.  But I am writing of Camford--not of a divine
Utopia or a sunken Atalantis.

Bruce, so far from being troubled by his own evil deeds, was proud of a
success which supported a pet theory of his infidel opinions.  He made
no sort of secret of it, and laughed openly at the fool whom he had
selected for his victim.

"But after all," said Brogten, who had plenty of common sense, "your
triumph was very slight."

"How do you mean?  I chose the most obtrusively religious man in Saint
Werner's, and, in the course of a very short time, I had him, of his own
will, roaring drunk."

"And what's the inference?"

"That what men call religion is half cant, half the accident of
circumstances."

"Pardon me, you're out in your conclusion; it only shows that Hazlet was
a hypocrite, or at the best a weak, vain, ignorant fellow.  The very
obtrusiveness and uncharitableness of his religion proved its unreality.
Now I could name dozens of men who would see you dead on the floor
rather than do as you have taught Hazlet to do--men, in fact, with whom
you simply _daren't_ try the experiment."

"_Daren't_! why not?"

"Why, simply because they breathe such a higher and better atmosphere
than either you or I, that you would be abashed by their mere presence."

"Pooh!  I don't believe it," said Bruce, with an uneasy laugh; "mention
any such man."

"Well, Suton for instance, or Lord De Vayne."

"Suton is an unpleasant fellow, and I shouldn't choose to try him,
because he's a bore.  But I bet you what you like that I make De Vayne
drunk before a month's over."

"Done!  I bet you twenty pounds you don't."

Disgusting that the young, and pure-hearted, and amiable De Vayne should
be made the butt of the machinations of such men as Bruce and Brogten!
But so it was.  So it was; I could not invent facts like these.  They
never could float across my imagination, or if they did, I should reject
them as the monstrous chimeras of a heated brain.  I can conceive a
man's private wickedness,--the wickedness which he confines within his
own heart, and only brings to bear upon others so far as is demanded by
his own fancied interests; I can imagine, too, an open and willing
partnership in villainy, where hand joins in hand, and face answereth to
face.  But that any knowing the plague of their own hearts, should
deliberately endeavour to lead others into sin, coolly and deliberately,
without even the blinding mist of passion to hide the path which they
are treading,--this, if I had not known that it was so, I could not have
conceived.  The murderer who, atom by atom, continues the slow poisoning
of a perishing body for many months, and dies amid the yell of a
people's execration,--in sober earnest, before God, I believe he is less
guilty than he who, drop by drop, pours into the soul of another the
curdling venom of moral pollution, than he who feeds into full-sized
fury the dormant monsters of another's evil heart.  Surely the devil
must welcome a human tempter with open arms.

Of course Bruce had to proceed with Lord De Vayne in a manner totally
different from that which he had applied to Jedediah Hazlet.  He felt
himself that the task was far more difficult and delicate, especially as
it was by no means easy to get access to De Vayne's company at all.
Julian, Lillyston, Kennedy, and a few others, formed the circle of his
only friends, and although he was constantly with _them_, he was rarely
to be found in other society.  But this was a difficulty which a man
with so large an acquaintance as Bruce could easily surmount, and for
the rest he trusted to the conviction which he had adopted, that there
was no such thing as sincere godliness, and that men only differed in
proportion to the weakness or intensity of the temptations which
happened to assail them.

So Bruce managed, without any apparent manoeuvring, to see more of De
Vayne at various men's rooms, and he generally made a point of sitting
next to him when he could.  He had naturally a most insinuating address
and a suppleness of manner which enabled him to adapt himself with
facility to the tastes and temperaments of the men among whom he was
thrown.  There were few who could make themselves more pleasant and
plausible when it suited them than Vyvyan Bruce.

De Vayne soon got over the shrinking with which he had at first regarded
him, and no longer shunned the acquaintance of which he seemed desirous.
It was not until this stage that Bruce made any serious attempt to take
some steps towards winning his wager.  He asked De Vayne to a dessert,
and took care that the wines should be of an insidious strength.  But
the young nobleman's abstemiousness wholly defeated and baffled him, as
he rarely took more than a single glass.

"You pass the wine, De Vayne; don't do that."

"Thank you, I've had enough."

"Come, come; allow me," said Bruce, filling his glass for him.

De Vayne drank it out of politeness, and Bruce repeated the same process
soon after.

"Come, De Vayne, no heel-taps," he said playfully, as he filled his
glass for him.

"Thank you, I'd really rather not have any more."

"Why, you must have been lending your ears to--

  "`Those budge doctors of the Stoic fur,
  Praising the lean and sallow abstinence;'

"You take nothing.  I shall abuse my wine-merchant."

"You certainly seem as anxious as Comus that I should drink, Bruce,"
said De Vayne, smiling; "but really I _mean_ that I wish for no more."

Bruce saw that he had overstepped the bounds of politeness, and also
made a mistake by going a little too far.  He pressed De Vayne no
longer, and the conversation passed to other subjects.

"Anything in the papers to-day?" asked Brogten.

"Yes, another case of wife-beating and wife-murder.  What a dreadful
increase of those crimes there has been lately," said De Vayne.

"Another proof," said Bruce, "of the gross absurdity of the
marriage-theory."

De Vayne opened his eyes wide in astonishment.  Knowing very little of
Bruce, he was not aware that this was a very favourite style of remark
with him,--indeed, a not uncommon style with other clever young
undergraduates.  He delighted to startle men by something new, and
dazzle them with a semblance of insight and reasoning.  "The gross
absurdity of the marriage-theory," thought De Vayne to himself; "I
wonder what on earth he can mean?"  Fancying he must have misheard, he
said nothing; but Bruce, disappointed that his remark had fallen flat,
(for the others were too much used to the kind of thing to take any
notice of it), continued--

"How curious it is that the _whole_ of the arguments should be against
marriage, and yet that it should continue to be an institution.  You
never find a person to defend it."

"`_At quis vituperavit_?' as the man remarked, on hearing of a defence
of Hercules," said De Vayne.  "I should have thought that marriage, like
the Bible, `needed no apology.'"

"My dear fellow, it surely is an absurdity on the face of it?  See how
badly it succeeds."

Without choosing to enter on that question, De Vayne quietly remarked,
"You ask why marriage exists.  Don't you believe that it was originally
appointed by divine providence, and afterwards sanctioned by divine
lips?"

"Oh, if you come to that kind of ground, you know, and abandon the
aspect of the question from the side of pure reason, you've so many
preliminaries to prove; _e g_, the genuineness and authenticity of the
Pentateuch and the Gospels; the credibility of the narrators; the
possibility of their being deceived; the--"

"In fact," said De Vayne, "the evidences of Christianity.  Well, I trust
that I have studied them, and that they satisfy alike my reason and my
conscience."

"Ah, yes!  Well, it's no good entering on those questions, you know.  I
shouldn't like to shock your convictions, as I should have to do if I
discussed with you.  It's just as well after all--even in the nineteenth
century--not to expose the exotic flower of men's belief to the rude
winds of fair criticism.  Picciola! it might be blighted, poor thing,
which would be a pity.  Perhaps one does more harm than good by exposing
antiquated errors."  And with a complacent shrug of the shoulders, and a
slight smile of self-admiration, Bruce leant back in his armchair.

This was Bruce's usual way, and he found it the most successful.  There
were a great many minds on whom it created the impression of immense
cleverness.  "That kind of thing, you know, it's all exploded now," he
would say among the circle of his admirers, and he would give a little
wave of the hand, which was vastly effective--as if he "could an if he
would" puff away the whole system of Christianity with quite a little
breath of objection, but refrained from such tyrannous use of a giant's
strength.  "It's all very well, you know, for parsons--though, by the
way, not half of the cleverest believe what they preach--but really for
men of the world, and thinkers, and acute reasoners"--(oh, how agreeable
it was to the Tulks and Boodles to be included in such a
category)--"why, after such books as Frederic of Suabia `De Tribus
Impostoribus,' and Strauss' `Leben Jesu,' and De Wette, and Feuerbach,
and Van Bohlen, and Nork, one can't be expected, you know, to believe
such a mass of traditionary rubbish."  (Bruce always professed
acquaintance with German writers, and generally quoted the titles of
their books in the original; it sounded so much better; not that he had
read one of them, of course.)  And they _did_ think him _so_ clever when
he talked in this way.  Only think how wise he must be to know such
profound truths!

But so far from Bruce's hardly-concealed contempt for the things which
Christians hold sacred producing any effect on Lord De Vayne, he
regarded it with a silent pity.  "I hate," thought he, "when Vice can
bolt her arguments, and Virtue has no tongue to check her pride."  The
annoying impertinence, so frequent in argument, which leads a man to
speak as though, from the vantage-ground of great intellectual
superiority to his opponent, the graceful affectation of dropping an
argument out of respect for prejudices which the arguer despises, or an
incapacity which the arguer implies--this merely personal consideration
did not ruffle for a moment the gentle spirit of De Vayne.  But that a
young man--conceited, shallow, and ignorant--should profess to settle
with a word the controversies which had agitated the profoundest
reasons, and to settle with a sneer, the mysteries before which the
mightiest thinkers had veiled their eyes in reverence and awe; that he
should profess to set aside Christianity as a childish fable not worthy
a wise man's acceptance, and triumph over it as a defeated and deserted
cause; this indeed filled De Vayne's mind with sorrow and disgust.  So
far from being impressed or dazzled by Bruce's would-be cleverness, he
sincerely grieved over his impudence and folly.

"Thank you, Bruce," he said, after a slight pause, and with some
dignity, "thank you for your kind consideration of my mental
inferiority, and for the pitying regard which you throw, from beside
your nectar, on my delicate and trembling superstitions.  But don't
think, Bruce, that I admit your--may I call it?--impertinent assumption
that all thinking men have thrown Christianity aside as an exploded
error.  Some shadow of proof, some fragment of reason, would be more
satisfactory treatment of a truth which has regenerated the world, than
foolish assertion or insolent contempt.  Good-night."

There was something in the manner of De Vayne's reproof which
effectually quelled Bruce, while it galled him; yet, at the same time,
it was delivered with such quiet good taste, that to resent it was
impossible.  He saw, too, not without vexation, that it had told
powerfully on the little knot of auditors.  The wine-party soon broke
up, for Bruce could neither give new life to the conversation, nor
recover his chagrin.

"So-ho!" said Brogten, when they were left alone, "I shall win my bet."

"Hanged if you shall," said Bruce, with an oath of vexation.  In fact,
not only was he determined not to be foiled in proving his wisdom and
power of reading men's characters, but he was wholly unable to afford
any payment of the bet.  Bruce could get unlimited credit for goods, on
the reputation of his father's wealth, but money-dealers were very
sharp-eyed people, and he found it much less easy to get his
promissory-notes cashed.  It was a matter of etiquette to pay at once
"debts of honour," and his impetuous disposition led him to take bets so
freely that his ready money was generally drained away very soon after
his return.  Not long before he had written to his father for a fresh
supply, but, to his great surprise, the letter had only produced an
angry and even indignant reproof.  "Vyvyan," (his father had written--
not even `dear Vyvyan'), "I allow you 500 pounds a year, a sum totally
out of proportion with your wants, and yet you are so shamefully
extravagant as to write without a blush to ask me for more.  Don't
presume to do it again on pain of my heavy displeasure."  This letter
had so amazed him that he did not even answer it, nor, in spite of his
mother's earnest, urgent, and almost heart-rending entreaties, post by
post, would he even condescend to write home for many weeks.  It was the
natural result of the way in which at home they had pampered his vanity,
and never checked his faults.

But, for these reasons, it was wholly out of Bruce's power to pay
Brogten the bet, if he failed in trying to shake the temperance of De
Vayne.  He saw at once that he had mistaken his subject; he took De
Vayne for a man whose goodness and humility would make him pliant to all
designs.

A dark thought entered Bruce's mind.

He went alone into a druggist's shop, and said, with a languid air, "I
have been suffering very much from sleeplessness lately, Mr Brent; I
want you to give me a little laudanum."

"Very well, sir.  You must be careful how you use it."

"Oh, of course.  How many drops would make one drowsy, now?"

"Four or five, sir, I should think."

"Well, you must give me one of those little bottles full.  I want to
have some by me, to save trouble."

The chemist filled the bottle, and then said, "I'm afraid I'm out of my
poison labels, sir.  I'll just write a little ticket and tie it on."

"All right;" and putting it in his pocket, Bruce strolled away.

But how to see De Vayne again?  He thought over their common
acquaintances, and at last fixed on Kennedy as the likeliest man on whom
he could depend to secure another meeting.  Yet he hardly liked to
suggest that Kennedy should give a wine-party, and ask De Vayne and
himself; so that he was rather puzzled.

"I say, Brogten, how is it that we are always asking Kennedy to our
rooms, and he so very seldom asks us?"

"I suppose because he isn't over-partial to our company."

"Why not?" said Bruce, who considered himself very fascinating, and
quite a person whose society was to be courted; "and if so, why does he
come to our rooms?"

Brogten might, perhaps, have thrown light on the subject had he chosen.

"Well," he said, "I'll give him a hint."

"Do; and get him to ask De Vayne."

Brogten did so; Kennedy assented to asking Bruce, though he listened to
Brogten's hints, (which he instantly understood), with a sullenness
which but a short time before had no existence, not even a prototype, in
his bright and genial character.  But when it came to asking De Vayne,
he simply replied to Brogten's suggestion flatly:

"I will not."

"Won't you? but why?"

"Why? because I suspect you and that fellow Bruce of wishing to treat
him as you treated Hazlet."

"I've no designs against him whatever."

"Well, I won't ask him,--that's flat."

"Whew-ew-ew-ew-ew!"  Brogten began to whistle, and Kennedy relieved his
feelings by digging the poker into the fire.  And then there was a
pause.

"I want you to ask De Vayne."

"And I tell you I won't ask him."

"Whew-w-w-w!"  Another long whistle, during which Kennedy mashed and
battered the black lumps that smouldered in the grate.

"Whew-ew-ew-ew!  Oh, very well."  Brogten left the room.  At hall that
day, Brogten took care to sit near Kennedy again, and the old scene was
nearly re-enacted.  He turned the conversation to the Christmas
examination.  "I suppose you'll be very high again, Kennedy."

"No," said he, curtly.  "I've not read, and you know that as well as I
do."

"Oh, but you hadn't read much last time, and you may do some particular
paper very well, you know.  I wish there was an Aeschylus paper; you
might be first, you know, again."

Kennedy flung down his knife and fork with a curse, and left the hall.
Men began to see clearly that there must have been some mystery attached
to the Aeschylus paper, known to Brogten and Kennedy, and very
discomfiting to the latter.  But as _Kennedy_ was concerned, they did
not suspect the truth.

Brogten went straight from hall to Kennedy's rooms.  He found the door
sported, but knew as well as possible that Kennedy was in.  He hammered
and thumped at the door a long time with sundry imprecations, but
Kennedy, moodily resolute, heard all the noise inside, and would not
stir.  Then Brogten took out a card and wrote on the back, "I think
you'll ask De Vayne," and dropped it into the letter-box.

That evening he found in his own letter-box a slip of paper.  "De Vayne
is coming to wine with me to-morrow.  Come, and the foul fiend take you.
_I have filled my decanters half-full of water_, and won't bring out
more than one bottle.  E K."

Brogten read the note and chuckled,--partly with the thought of Kennedy,
partly of Bruce, partly of De Vayne.  Yet the chuckle ended in a very
heavy sigh.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

KENNEDY'S WINE-PARTY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

  "Et je n'ai moi
  Par la sang Dieu!
  Ni foi, ni loi,
  Ni jeu, ni lieu,
  Ni roi, ni Dieu."
  Victor Hugo, _Notre Dame de Paris_.

  "Nay, that's certain but yet the pity of it,
  Iago!--O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!"
  Othello, Act 4, Scene 1.

"Are you going to Kennedy's, Julian?" asked De Vayne.

"No."

"I wish he'd asked you."

Julian a little wondered why he had not, but remembered, with a sigh,
that there was _something_, he knew not what, between him and Kennedy.
Yet Kennedy was engaged to Violet!  The thought carried him back to the
beautiful memories of Grindelwald and Murrem,--perhaps of Eva Kennedy: I
will not say.

As De Vayne glanced round at the men assembled at Kennedy's rooms, he
felt a little vexation, and half wished he had not come.  Why on earth
did Kennedy see so much of these Bruces and Brogtens when he was so
thoroughly unlike them?  But De Vayne consoled himself with the
reflection that the evening could not fail to be pleasant, as Kennedy
was there; for he liked Kennedy both for Julian's sake and for his own.
Happily for him he did not know as yet that Kennedy was affianced to
Violet Home.

Kennedy sat at the end of the table with a gloomy cloud on his brow.
"Here, De Vayne," he said; "I'm so really glad to see you at last.  Sit
by me--here's a chair."

De Vayne took the proffered seat, and Bruce immediately seated himself
at his left hand.  At first, as the wine was passed round, there seemed
likely to be but little conversation, but suddenly some one started the
subject of a "_cause celebre_" which was then filling the papers, and
Kennedy began at once to discuss it with some interest with De Vayne,
who sat nearly facing him, almost with his back turned to Bruce, who did
not seem particularly anxious to attract De Vayne's attention.

"What execrable wash," said Brogten, emptying his glass.

De Vayne, surprised and disgusted at the rudeness of the remark, turned
hastily round, and, while Bruce as hastily withdrew his hand, raised the
wine-glass to his lips.

"Stop, stop, De Vayne," said Bruce eagerly; "there's a fly in your
glass."

"I see no fly," said De Vayne, glancing at it, and immediately draining
it, with the intention of saying something to smooth Kennedy's feelings,
which he supposed would have been hurt by Brogten's want of common
politeness.

"I think it very--" Why did his words fail, and what was the reason of
that scared look with which he regarded the blank faces of the other
undergraduates?  And what is the meaning of that gasp, and the rapid
dropping of the head upon the breast, and the deadly pallor that
suddenly put out the fair colour in his cheeks?  There was no fly--but,
good heavens! was there death in the glass?

The whole party leapt up from their places, and gathered round him.

"What is the matter, De Vayne?" said Kennedy tenderly, as he knelt down
and supported the young man in his arms.  But there was no answer.
"Here D'Acres, or somebody, for heaven's sake fetch a doctor; he must
have been seized with a fit."

"_What have you been doing, Bruce_?" thundered Brogten.

"Bruce doing!" said Kennedy wildly, as he sprang to his feet.  "By the
God above us, if I thought this was any of your devilish machinations, I
would strike you to the earth!"

"Doing?  I?" stammered Bruce.  "What do you mean?"  He trembled in every
limb, and his face was as pale as that of his victim; yet, though
perhaps De Vayne's life depended on it, the young wretch would not say
what he had done.  He had meant but to put four or five drops into his
glass, but De Vayne had turned round suddenly and startled him in the
very act, and in the hurried agitation of the moment, his hand had
slipped, and he had poured in all the contents of the bottle, with
barely time to hurry it empty into his pocket, or to prevent the
consequences of what he had done, when De Vayne lifted the glass to his
lips.

The men all stood round De Vayne and Kennedy in a helpless crowd, and
Kennedy said, "Here, fetch a doctor, somebody, and let all go except
D'Acres; so many are only in the way."

The little group dispersed, and two of them ran off to find a doctor;
but Bruce stood there still with open mouth, and a countenance as pale
in its horror as that of the fainting viscount.  He was anxious to tell
the truth about the matter in order to avert worse consequences, and yet
he dared not--the words died away upon his lips.

"Don't stand like that, Bruce," said Brogten indignantly, "the least you
can do is to make yourself useful.  Go and get the key of De Vayne's
rooms from the porter's lodge.  Stop, though! it will probably be in his
pocket.  Yes, here it is.  Run and unlock his door, while we carry him
to bed."

Bruce took the key with trembling hand, and shook so violently with
nervous agitation that he could hardly make his way across the court.
The others carried De Vayne to his bedroom as quickly as they could, and
anxiously awaited the doctor's arrival.  The livid face, with the dry
foam upon the lips, filled them with alarm, but they had not any
conception what to do, and fancied that De Vayne was in a fit.

It took Dr Masham a very short time to see that his patient was
suffering from the influence of some poison, and when he discovered
this, he cleared the room, and at once applied the proper remedies.  But
time had been lost already, and he was the less able to set to work at
first from his complete ignorance of what had happened.  He sat up all
night with his patient, but was more than doubtful whether it was not
too late to save his life.

The news that De Vayne had been seized with a fit at Kennedy's rooms
soon changed into a darker rumour.  Men had not forgotten the affair of
Hazlet, and they suspected that some foul play had been practised on one
whom all who knew him loved, and whom all, though personally
unacquainted with him, heartily respected.  That this was really the
fact soon ceased to be a secret; but who was guilty, and what had been
the manner or motives of the crime remained unknown, and this
uncertainty left room for the wildest surmises.

The dons were not slow to hear of what had happened, and they regarded
the matter in so serious a light, that they summoned a Seniority for its
immediate investigation.  Kennedy was obviously the first person of whom
to make inquiries, and he told them exactly what had occurred, viz, that
De Vayne after drinking a single glass of wine, fell back in his chair
in the condition wherein he still continued.  "Was anything the matter
with the wine, Mr Kennedy?" asked Mr Norton, who, as one of the
tutors, had a seat on the board.

"Nothing, sir; it was the same which we were all drinking."

"And without any bad effects?"

"Yes, sir."

"But, Mr Kennedy, there seems strong reason to believe that some one
drugged Lord De Vayne's wine.  Were you privy to any such plan?"

"No, sir--not exactly," said Kennedy slowly, and with hesitation.

"Really, sir," said the Master of Saint Werner's, "such an answer is
grossly to your discredit.  Favour us by being more explicit; what do
you mean by `not exactly'?"

Kennedy's passionate and fiery pride, which had recently increased with
the troubles and self-reprobation of his life, could ill brook such
questioning as this, and he answered haughtily:

"I was not aware that anything of _this_ kind was intended."

"Anything of _this_ kind; you _did_ then expect something to take
place?"

"I thought I had taken sufficient precautions against it."

"Against _it_; against _what_?" asked Mr Norton.

Kennedy looked up at his questioner, as though he read in his face the
decision as to whether he should speak or not.  He would hardly have
answered the Master or any of the others, but Mr Norton was his friend,
and there was something so manly and noble about his look and character,
that Kennedy was encouraged to proceed, and he said slowly:

"I suspected, sir, that there was some intention of attempting to make
De Vayne drunk."

"You suspected that," said Mr Norton with astonishment and scorn, "and
yet you lent _your_ rooms for such a purpose.  I am ashamed of you,
Kennedy; heartily, and utterly ashamed."

Kennedy's spirit was roused by this bitter and public apostrophe.  "I
lent my rooms for no such purpose; on the contrary, if it existed, I did
my best to defeat it."

"What made you suspect it?" asked Dr Rhodes, the Master.

"Because a similar attempt was practised on another."

"At which it seems that you were present?"

"I was not."  Kennedy was too fiercely angry to answer in more words
than were absolutely required.

"I am sorry to say, Mr Kennedy, you have not cleared yourself from the
great disgrace of giving an invitation, though you supposed that it
would be made the opportunity for perpetrating an infamous piece of
mischief.  Can you throw no more light on the subject?"

"None."

"Will you bring the decanter out of which Lord De Vayne drank?" said one
of the seniors after a pause, and with an intense belief in the
acuteness of the suggestion.

"I don't see what good it will do, but I will order my gyp to carry it
here if you wish."

"Do so, sir.  And let me add," said the Master, "that a little more
respectfulness of manner would be becoming in your present position."

Kennedy's lip curled, and without answer he left the room to fetch the
wine, grimly chuckling at the effect which the mixture would produce on
Mr Norton's fastidious taste.  When he reached his rooms, he stumbled
against the table in his hurry, and upset a little glass dish which held
his pencils, one of which rolled away under the fender.  In lifting the
fender to pick it up, a piece of paper caught his eye, which the
bedmaker in cleaning the room had swept out of sight in the morning.  He
looked at it, and saw in legible characters, "Laudanum, Poison."  It was
the label which had been loosely tied on Bruce's phial, and which had
slipped off as he hurried it into his pocket.

He read it, and as the horrid truth flashed across his mind, stood for a
moment stupefied and dumb.  His plan was instantly formed.  Instead of
returning to the conclave of Seniors he ran straight off to the
chemist's, which was close by Saint Werner's.

"Do you know anything of this label?" he said, thrusting it into the
chemist's hands.

"Yes," said the man, after looking at it for a moment; "it is the label
of a bottle of laudanum which I sold yesterday morning to Mr Bruce of
Saint Werner's."

Without a word, Kennedy snatched it from him, and rushed back to the
Seniority, who were already beginning to wonder at his long absence.  He
threw down the piece of paper before.  Mr Norton, who handed it to the
Master.

"I found that, sir, on the floor of my room."

"And you know nothing of it?"

"Yes.  It belongs to a bottle purchased yesterday by Bruce."

Amazement and horror seemed to struggle in the minds of the old
clergymen and lecturers as they sat at the table.

"We must send instantly for this young man," said Mr Norton; and in ten
minutes Bruce entered, pale indeed, but in a faultless costume, with a
bow of easy grace, and a smile of polite recognition towards such of the
board as he personally knew.  He was totally unaware of what had been
going on during Kennedy's cross-examination.

"Mr Bruce," said Mr Norton, to whom they all seemed gladly to resign
the task of discovering the truth, "do you know anything of the cause of
Lord De Vayne's sudden attack of illness last night?"

"I, sir?  Certainly not."

"He sat next to you, did he not?"

"He did, I believe.  Yes.  I can't be quite sure--but I think he did."

"You know he did as well as I do," said Kennedy.

"Mr Kennedy, let me request you to be silent.  Mr Bruce, had you any
designs against Lord De Vayne?"

"Designs, sir?  Excuse me, but I am at a loss to understand your
meaning."

"You had no intention then of making him drunk?"

"Really, sir, you astonish me by such coarse imputations.  Is it you,"
he said, turning angrily to Kennedy, "who have been saying such things
of me?"

Kennedy deigned no reply.

"I should think the testimony of a man who doesn't scruple secretly to
read examination-papers before they are set, ought not to stand for
much."  Brogten, as we have already mentioned, had revealed to him the
secret of Kennedy's dishonour.  This remark fell quite dead: Kennedy sat
unmoved, and Mr Norton replied--

"Pray don't introduce your personal altercations here, Mr Bruce, on
irrelevant topics.  Mr Bruce," he continued, suddenly giving him the
label, "have you ever seen that before?"

With a cry of agony, Bruce saw the paper, and struck his forehead with
his hand.  The sudden blow of shameful detection with all its train of
consequences utterly unmanned him, and falling on his knees, he cried
incoherently--

"Oh!  I did it, I did it.  I didn't mean to; my hand slipped: indeed,
indeed it did.  For God's sake forgive me, and let this not be known.  I
will give you thousands to hush it up--"

A general exclamation of indignation and disgust stopped his prayers,
and the Master gave orders that he should be removed and watched.  He
was dragged away, tearing his hair and sobbing like a child.  Kennedy,
too, was ordered to retire.

It took the Seniors but a short time to deliberate, and then Bruce was
summoned.  He would have spoken, but the Master sternly ordered him to
be silent, and said to him:

"Vyvyan Bruce, you are convicted by your own confession, extorted after
deliberate falsehood, of having wished to drug the wine of a
fellow-student for the purpose of entrapping him into a sin, to which
you would otherwise have failed to tempt him.  What fearful results may
follow from your wickedness we cannot yet know, and you may have to
answer for this crime before another tribunal.  Be that as it may, it is
hardly necessary to tell you that your time as a student at Saint
Werner's has ended.  You are expelled, and I now proceed to erase your
name from the books."  (Here the Master ran his pen two or three times
through Bruce's signature in the college register).  "Your rooms must be
finally vacated to-morrow.  You need say nothing in self-defence, and
may go."  As Bruce seemed determined to plead his own cause, they
ordered the attendant to remove him immediately.

Kennedy was then sent for, and they could not help pitying him, for he
was a favourite with them all.

"Mr Kennedy," said the senior Dean, "the Master desires me to admonish
you for your very culpable connivance--for I have no other name for it--
in the great folly and wickedness of which Bruce has been convicted--"

"I did _not_ connive," said Kennedy.

"Silence, sir!"

"But I will _not_ keep silence; you accuse me falsely."

"We shall be obliged to take further measures, Mr Kennedy, if you
behave in this refractory way."

"I don't care what measures you take.  I cannot listen in silence to an
accusation which I loathe--of a crime of which I am wholly innocent."

"Why, sir, you confessed that you suspected some unfair design."

"But not this design.  Proceed, sir; I will not interrupt you again; but
let me say that I am totally indifferent to any blame which you throw on
me for a brutality of which the whole responsibility rests on others."

The thread of the Dean's oration was quite broken by Kennedy's impetuous
interruption, and he merely added--"Well, Mr Kennedy, I am sorry to see
you so little penitent for the position in which you have placed
yourself.  You have disappointed the expectation of all your friends,
and however you may brazen it out, your character has contracted a
stain."

"You can say so, sir, if you choose," said Kennedy; and he left the room
with a formal bow.

A few days after, Mr Grayson asked him to what Bruce had alluded in his
insinuation about an examination-paper.

"He alludes, sir, to an event which happened some time ago."

Further questions were useless; nevertheless Kennedy saw that his
tutor's suspicions were not only aroused, but that they had taken the
true direction.  Mr Grayson despised him, and in Saint Werner's he had
lost caste.

That evening Bruce vanished from Camford, with the regrets of few except
his tailors and his duns.  To this day he has not paid his college debts
or discharged the bill for the gorgeous furniture of his rooms.  But we
shall hear of him again.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

DE VAYNE'S CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

  "He that for love hath undergone
  The worst that can befall,
  Is happier thousandfold than one
  Who never loved at all.

  "A grace within his soul hath reigned,
  Which nothing else can bring;
  Thank God for all that I have gained
  By that high suffering."
  Moncton Manes.

For many days Lord De Vayne seemed to be hovering between life and
death.  The depression of his spirits weighed upon his frame, and
greatly retarded his recovery.  That he, unconscious as he was of ever
having made an enemy--good and gentle to all--with no desire but to love
his neighbour as himself, and to devote such talents and such
opportunities as had been vouchsafed him to God's glory and man's
benefit;--that _he_ should have been made the subject of a disgraceful
wager, and the butt of an infamous experiment; that in endeavouring to
carry out this nefarious plan, any one should have been so wickedly
reckless, so criminally thoughtless;--this knowledge lay on his
imagination with a depression as of coming death.  De Vayne had been but
little in Saint Werner's society, and had rarely seen any but his few
chosen friends; and that such a calamity should have happened in the
rooms and at the table of one of those friends,--that Kennedy, whom he
so much loved and admired, should be suspected of being privy to it;--
this fact was one which made De Vayne's heart sink within him with
anguish and horror, and a weariness of life.

And in those troubled waters of painful thought floated the broken
gleams of a golden phantasy, the rainbow-coloured memories of a secret
love.  They came like a light upon the darkened waves, yet a light too
feeble to dissipate the under gloom.  Like the phosphorescent flashes in
the sea at midnight, which the lonely voyager, watching with interest as
they glow in the white wake of the keel, guesses that they may be the
heralds of a storm,--so these bright reminiscences of happier days only
gave a weird beauty to the tumult of the sick boy's mind; and the
mother, as she sat by him night and day during the crisis of his
suffering, listened with a deeper anxiety for future trouble to the
delirious revelations of his love.

For Lady De Vayne had come from Other Hall to nurse her sick son.  She
slept on a sofa in his sitting-room, and nursed him with such tenderness
as only a mother can.  There was no immediate possibility of removing
him; deep, unbroken quiet was his only chance of life.  The silence of
his sick-room was undisturbed save by the softest whispers and the
lightest footfalls, and the very undergraduates hushed their voices, and
checked their hasty steps as they passed in the echoing cloisters
underneath, and remembered that the flame of life was flickering low in
the golden vase.

De Vayne was much beloved, and nothing could exceed the delicacy of the
attention shown him.  Choice conservatory flowers were left almost daily
at his door, and men procured rare and rich fruits from home or from
London, not because De Vayne needed any such luxuries, which were easily
at his command, but that they might show him their sympathy and
distress.  Several ladies more or less connected with Saint Werner's
offered their services to Lady De Vayne, but she would not leave her
son, in whose welfare and recovery her whole thoughts were absorbed.

And so, gloomily for the son and mother, the Christmas holidays came on,
and Saint Werner's was deserted.  Scarcely even a stray undergraduate
lingered in the courts, and the chapel was closed; no sound of choir or
organ came sweetly across the lawns at morning or evening; the ceaseless
melancholy plash of the great fountain was almost the only sound that
broke the stillness.  Julian, Lillyston, and Owen had all gone down for
the holidays, full of grief at the thought of leaving their friend in
such a precarious state, but as yet not permitted to see or serve him.
Lady De Vayne promised to write to Julian regular accounts of Arthur's
health, and told him how often her son spoke of him, both in his
wanderings, and in his clearer moments.

It was touching to see the stately and beautiful lady walking alone at
evening about the deserted college, to gain a breath of the keen winter
air, while her son had sunk for a few moments to fitful rest.  She was
pale with long watchings and deep anxiety, and in her whole countenance,
and in her deep and often uplifted eyes, was that look of prayerfulness
and holy communion with an unseen world which they acquire whose abode
has long been in the house of mourning, and removed from the follies and
frivolities of life.

Well-loved grounds of Saint Werner's by the quiet waves of the sedgy
Iscam, with smooth green grass sloping down to the edge, and trim quaint
gardens, and long avenues of chestnut and ancient limes!  Though winter
had long whirled away the last red and golden leaf, there was pleasure
in the air of quiet and repose, which is always to be found in those
memory-hallowed walks; and while Lady De Vayne could pace among them in
solitude, she needed no other change, nor any rest from thinking over
her sick son.

She was surprised one evening, very soon after the men had gone down, to
see an undergraduate slowly approaching her down the long and silent
avenue.  He was tall and well made, and his face would have been a
pleasant one, but for the deep look of sadness which clouded it.  He
hesitated and took off his cap as she came near, and returning his
salute, she would have passed him, but he stopped her and said:

"Lady De Vayne."

Full of surprise she looked at him, and with his eyes fixed on the
ground he continued, "You do not know my name; if I tell you, I fear you
will hate me, because I fear you will have heard calumnies about me.
But may I speak to you?"

"You are not Mr Bruce?" she said with a slight shudder.

"No; my name is Edward Kennedy.  Ah, madam! do not look at me so
reproachfully, I cannot endure it.  Believe me, I would have died--I
would indeed--rather than that this should have happened to Lord De
Vayne."

"Nay, Mr Kennedy, I cannot believe that you were more than thoughtless.
I have very often heard Julian Home speak of you, and I cannot believe
that his chosen friend could be so vile as some reports would make you."

"They are false as calumny itself," he said passionately.  "Oh, Lady De
Vayne, none could have honoured and loved your son more than I did; I
cannot explain to you the long story of my exculpation, but I implore
you to believe my innocence."

"I forgive you, Mr Kennedy," she said, touched with pity, "if there be
anything to forgive; and so will Arthur.  A more forgiving spirit than
his never filled any one I think.  Excuse me, it is time for me to
return to him."

"But will you not let me see him, and help you in nursing him?  It was
for this purpose alone that I stayed here when all the others went.  Let
me at least be near him, that I may feel myself to be making such poor
reparation as my heedlessness requires."

She could hardly resist his earnest entreaty, and besides, she was won
by compassion for his evident distress.

"You may come, Mr Kennedy, as often as you like; whenever Arthur is
capable of seeing you, you shall visit his sick-room."

"Thank you," he said, and she perceived the tremble of deep emotion in
his voice.

He came the next morning, and she allowed him to see De Vayne.  He
entered noiselessly, and gazed for a moment as he stood at the door on
the pale wasted face, looking still paler in contrast with the long dark
hair that flowed over the pillow.  He was awake, but there was no
consciousness in his dark dreamy eyes.

As De Vayne murmured to himself in low sentences, Kennedy heard
repeatedly the name of Violet, and once of Violet Home.  He sat still as
death, and soon gathered from the young lord's broken words, his love,
his deep love for Julian's sister.

And when Kennedy first recognised this fact, which had hitherto been
quite unknown to him, for a moment a flood of jealousy and bitter envy
filled his heart.  What if Violet should give up her troth in favour of
a wealthier, perhaps worthier lover?  What if her family should think
his own poor claims no barrier to the hope that Violet should one day
wear a coronet?  The image of Julian and Violet rose in his fancy, and
with one more pang of self-reproach, he grew ashamed of his unworthy
suspicions.

Yet the thought that De Vayne, too, had fixed his affections on Violet
filled him with uneasiness and foreboding, and he determined, on some
future occasion, to save pain to all parties, by getting Julian to break
to De Vayne the secret of his sister's betrothal.

For several days he came to the sick-room, and a woman could hardly have
been more thoughtful and tender than he was to his friend.  It was on
about the fourth evening that De Vayne awoke to complete consciousness.
He became aware that some one besides his mother was seated in the room,
and without asking he seemed slowly to recognise that it was Kennedy.

"Is that Kennedy?" he asked, in a weak voice.

"It is I," said Kennedy, but the patient did not answer, and seemed
restless and uneasy and complained of cold.

When Kennedy went, De Vayne whispered to his mother, "Mother, I am very
weak and foolish, but it troubles me somehow to see Kennedy sitting
there; it shocks my nerves, and fills me with images of something
dreadful happening.  I had rather not see him, mother, till I am well."

"Very well, Arthur.  Don't talk so much, love; I alone will nurse you.
Soon I hope you will be able to return to Other."

"And leave this dreadful place," he said, "for ever."

"Hush, my boy; try to sleep again."

He soon slept, and then Lady De Vayne wrote to Kennedy a short note, in
which she explained as kindly and considerately as she could, that
Arthur was not yet strong enough to allow of any more visits to his
sick-room.

"He shuns me," thought Kennedy, with a sigh, and packing up some books
and clothes, he prepared to go home.

Of course he was to spend part of the vacation at Ildown.  Violet
wondered that he did not come at once; she was not exactly jealous of
him, but she thought that he might have been more eager for her company
than he seemed to be, and she would have liked it better had he come
earlier.  Poor Kennedy! his very self-denials turned against him for the
sole reason why he kept away from Ildown was, that he feared to disturb
the freedom of Frank and Cyril by the presence of a stranger all the
time of their holidays, and he hesitated to intrude on the united
happiness which always characterised the Ildown circle.

Eva, too, was invited, and the brother and sister arrived at Ildown by a
late train, and drove to the house.  What a glowing welcome they
received!  Julian introduced them to Mrs Home, and Kennedy kissed
affectionately the hand of his future mother.  Frank and Cyril had gone
to bed, but Frank was so determined to see Violet's lover that night,
that he made Julian bring him into their bedroom, and he was more than
satisfied with the first glimpse.

"And where is Violet?" asked Kennedy, in a matter-of-fact tone, for he
well knew that she would not choose to meet him in the presence of
others.

"In her own little room," said Julian, smiling; "I will show you the
way."  He led Kennedy up-stairs, and left him at the door; he well knew
that her heart would be fluttering as much as his.

A light knock at the door, and a moment after they saw each other again.

She sat on the sofa, and the firelight flickered on the amethyst--his
gift--which she wore on her white neck; and her bright eyes danced with
tears and laughter, and her bosom heaved and fell as he clasped her to
his breast and printed a long, long kiss upon her cheek.

In silence, more exquisite than speech, they gazed on each other; and as
though her beauty were reflected on his own face, all trace of sorrow
and shame fled like a cloud from his forehead; and who would not have
said, looking upon the pair, that he was worthy of her, as she of him?

"My own Violet," he said, "you are beautiful as a vision to-night."

"Hush, flatterer!" and she placed her little hand upon his mouth:--no
wonder that he seized and kissed it.

"And what a thrice-charming dress."

"Ah, I _meant_ you to admire it," she said, laughing.

  "`And thinking, _this_ will please him best,
  She takes a ribbon or a rose,'"

he whispered to her.

"Come," she replied, "no ill-omened words, Edward.  You know the sad
context of those lines."

"No! no sadness to-night, my own Violet, my beautiful, beautiful Violet;
you quite dazzle me, my child.  I really can't sit by your side; come,
let me sit on your foot-stool here, and look up in your face."

"Silly boy," she said, "come along, we shall keep them all waiting for
supper."

While poor De Vayne languished on the bed of sickness, his sufferings
were almost the only shadow which chequered the brightness of those
weeks at Ildown.  In the morning, Julian and Kennedy worked steadily;
the afternoon and evening they devoted to amusement and social life.
The Kennedys soon became great favourites among the Ildown people, and
went out to many cheery Christmas parties; but they enjoyed more the
quiet evenings at home when they all sat and talked after dinner round
the dining-room fire, and while the two boys played at chess, and Violet
and Eva worked or sketched, Julian and Kennedy would read aloud to them
in turns.  How often those evenings recurred to all their memories in
future days.

Soon after the Kennedys had come, Julian received from Camford the
Christmas college-list.  He had again won a first class, but Kennedy's
name, much to his vexation, appeared only in the third.

"How is it that Edward is only in the third class?" asked Violet of
Julian--for, of course, she had seen the list.  "He is very clever--is
he not?"

"Very; one of the cleverest fellows in Saint Werner's."

"Then is he idle?"

"I'm afraid so, Vi.  You must get him to work more."

So when he was seated by her on the sofa in her little boudoir, she
said, "You must work more, Edward, at Camford, to please me."

"Ah, do not talk to me of Camford," he said, with a heavy sigh.  "Let me
enjoy unbroken happiness for a time, and leave the bitter future to
itself."

"Bitter, Edward? but why bitter?  Julian always seems to me so happy at
Camford."

"Yes, _Julian_ is, and so are all who deserve to be."

"Then you must be happy too, Edward."

His only answer was a sigh.  "Ah, Violet, pray talk to me of anything
but Camford."

The visit came to an end, as all things, whether happy or unhappy, must;
and Julian rejoiced that confidence seemed restored between him and
Kennedy once more.  Of course, he told Violet none of the follies which
had cost poor Kennedy the loss both of popularity and self-respect.
Soon afterwards Lord De Vayne was brought back to Other Hall, and Violet
and Julian were invited, with their mother, to stay there till the
Camford term commenced.  The boys had returned to school, so that they
all acceded to Lady De Vayne's earnest request that they would come.

It was astonishing how rapidly the young viscount recovered when once
Violet had come to Other Hall.  Her presence seemed to fill him with
fresh life, and he soon began to get down-stairs, and even to venture on
a short walk in the park.  His constitution had suffered a serious and
permanent injury, but he was pronounced convalescent before the Homes
finished their visit.

The last evening before their departure, he was seated with Violet on a
rustic seat on the terrace, looking at the sun as it set behind the
distant elms of the park, and at the deer as they grazed in lovely
groups on the rich undulating slopes that swept down from the slight
eminence on which his house was built.  He felt that the time had come
to speak his love.

"Violet," he said, as he looked earnestly at her, and took her hand,
"you have, doubtless, seen that I love you.  Can you ever return my
love?  I am ready to live and die for you, and to give you my whole
affection."  His voice was still low and weak through illness, and he
could hardly speak the sentences which were to win for him a decision of
his fate.

Violet was taken by surprise; she had known Lord De Vayne so long and so
intimately, and their stations were so different, that the thought of
his loving her had never entered her head.  She regarded him familiarly
as her brother's friend.

"Dear De Vayne," she said, "I shall always love you as a friend, as a
brother.  But did you not know that I have been for some months
engaged?"

"Engaged?" he said, turning very pale.

"I am betrothed," she answered, "to Edward Kennedy.  Nay, Arthur, dear
Arthur," she continued, as he nearly fainted at her feet, "you must not
suffer this disappointment to overcome you.  Love me still as a sister;
regard me as though I were married already, and let us enjoy a happy
friendship for many years."

He was too weak to bear up, too weak to talk; only the tears coursed
each other fast down his cheeks as he murmured, "Oh, forgive me, forgive
me, Violet."

"Forgive you," she said kindly; "nay, you honour me too much.  Marry one
of your own high rank, and not the orphan of a poor clergyman.  I am
sure you will not yield to this sorrow, and suffer it to make you ill.
Bear up, Arthur, for your mother's sake--for _my_ sake; and let us be as
if these words had never passed between us."

She lent him her arm as he walked faintly to his room, and as he turned
round and stooped to kiss her hand, she felt it wet with many tears.

They went home next day, and soon after received a note from Lady De
Vayne, informing them that Arthur was worse, and that they intended
removing for some time to a seat of his in Scotland; after which they
meant to travel on the Continent for another year, if his health
permitted it.  "But," she said, "I fear he has had a relapse, and his
state is very precarious.  Dear friends, think of us sometimes, and let
us hope to meet again in happier days."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MEMORY THE BOOK OF GOD.

  "At Trompyngtoun, nat fer fra Cantebrigg,
  Ther goth a brook, and over that a brigge,
  Upon the whiche brook then stant a melle;
  _And this is verray sothe that I you telle_."
  Chaucer, _The Reeve's Tale_.

There is little which admits of external record in Julian's life at this
period of his university career.  It was the usual uneventful, quiet
life of a studious Camford undergraduate.  Happy it was beyond any other
time, except perhaps a few vernal days of boyhood, but it was unmarked
by any incidents.  He read, and rowed, and went to lectures, and worked
at classics, mathematics, and philosophy, and dropped in sometimes to a
debate or a private-business squabble at the Union, and played racquets,
fives, and football, and talked eagerly in hall and men's rooms over the
exciting topics of the day, and occasionally went to wine or to
breakfast with a don, and, (absorbed in some grand old poet or
historian), lingered by his lamp over the lettered page from chapel-time
till the grey dawn, when he would retire to pure and refreshful sleep,
humming a tune out of very cheerfulness.

Happy days, happy friendships, happy study, happy recreation, happy
exemption from the cares of life!  The bright visions of a scholar, the
bright hilarity of a youth, the bright acquaintanceship with many united
by a brotherly bond within those grey walls, were so many mingled
influences that ran together "like warp and woof" in the web of a
singularly enviable life.  And every day he felt that he was knowing
more, and acquiring a strength and power which should fit him hereafter
for the more toilsome business and sterner struggles of common life.
Well may old Cowley exclaim--

  "O pulerae sine luxes aedes, vitaeque decore
  Splendida paupertas ingenuusque pudor!"

All the reading men of his year were now anxiously occupied in working
for the Saint Werner's scholarships.  They were the blue ribbon of the
place.  In value they were not much more than 50 pounds a year, but as
the scholars had an honourable distinctive seat both in hall and chapel,
and as from _their_ ranks alone the Fellows were selected, all the most
intelligent and earnest men used their best efforts to obtain them on
the earliest possible occasion.  At the scholars' table were generally
to be found the most distinguished among the alumni of Saint Werner's.

Julian still moved chiefly among his old friends, although he had a
large acquaintance, and by no means confined himself to the society of
particular classes.  But De Vayne's illness made a sad gap in the circle
of his most intimate associates, and he was not yet sufficiently
recovered to attempt a correspondence.  Among the dons, Julian began to
like Mr Admer more and more, and found that his cynicism of manner was
but the result of disappointed ambition and unsteady aims, while his
heart was sound and right.

Kennedy, as well as Julian, had always hoped to gain a scholarship at
his first trial, but now, with only one term left him to read in, his
chance seemed to fade away to nothing.  Poor fellow, he had returned
with the strongest possible intention of working, and of abandoning at
once and for ever all objectionable acquaintances and all dangerous
ways.  Hourly the sweet face of Violet looked in upon his silent
thoughts, and filled him with shame as he thought of lost opportunities
and wasted hours.

"Kennedy," said Mr Admer, "how can you be so intolerably idle?  I saw
some of your Christmas papers, and they were wholly unworthy of your
abilities."

"I know it well.  But what could you expect?  The Pindar I had read once
over with a crib; the morality I had not looked at; the mathematics I
did not touch."

"But what excuse have you?  I really feel quite angry with you.  You are
wholly throwing away everything.  What have you to show for your time
and money?  Only think, my dear fellow, that an opportunity like this
comes only once in life, and soon your college days will be over with
nothing to remember."

"True, too true."

"Well, I am glad that you see and own it.  I began to fear that you were
one of that contemptible would-be fine gentleman class that affects
forsooth to despise work as a thing unworthy of their eminence."

"No, Mr Admer," said Kennedy, "my idleness springs from very different
causes."

"And then these Brogtens and people, whom you are so often seen with;
which of them do you think understands you, or can teach you anything
worth knowing? and which of them do you think you will ever care to look
back to as acquaintances in after days?"

"Not one of them.  I hate the whole set."

"And then, my dear Kennedy--for I speak to you out of real good-will--I
would say it with the utmost delicacy, but you must know that your name
has suffered from the company you frequent."

"Can I not see it to be so?" he answered moodily; "no need to tell me
that, when I read it in the faces of nearly every man I see.  The men
have not yet forgiven me De Vayne's absence, though really and truly
that sin does not lie at my door.  Except Julian and Lillyston there is
hardly a man I respect, who does not look at me with averted eyes.  Of
course Grayson and the dons detest me to a man; but I don't care for
them."

"Then, you mysterious fellow, seeing all this so clearly, why do you
suffer it to be so?"

Kennedy only shook his head; already there had begun to creep over him a
feeling of despair; already it seemed to him as though the gate of
heaven were a lion-haunted portal guarded by a fiery sword.

For he had soon found that his intense resolutions to do right met with
formidable checks.  There are two stern facts--facts which it does us
all good to remember--which generally lie in the path of repentance, and
look like crouching lions to the remorseful soul.  First, the fact that
we become so entangled by habit and circumstance, so enslaved by
association and custom, that the very atmosphere around us seems to have
become impregnated with a poison which we cannot cease to breathe;
secondly, the fact that "_in the physical world there is no forgiveness
of sins_;" to abandon our evil courses is not to escape the punishment
of them, and although we may have relinquished them wholly in the
present, we cannot escape the consequences of the past.  Remission of
sin is _not_ the remission of their results.  The very monsters we
dread, and the dread of which terrifies us into the consideration of our
ways, glare upon us out of the future darkness, as large, as terrible,
as irresistible, whether we approach them on the road to ruin, or
whether we seem to fly from them through the hardly attained and narrow
wicket of genuine repentance.

Both these difficulties acted with their full force on the mind of
Kennedy.  His error was its own punishment, and its heaviest punishment.
The hours he had lost were lost so utterly, that he could never hope to
recover them; the undesirable acquaintances he had formed were so far
ripe as to render it no light task to abandon them; and above all, the
fleck on his character, the connection of his name with the outrage on
De Vayne, had injured his reputation in a manner which he never hoped,
by future endeavours, to obviate or remove.

For instance, there was at once an objection to his dropping the society
of the set to which Bruce and Brogten had introduced him.  He owed them
money, which at present he could not pay; his undischarged "debts of
honour" hung like a millstone round his neck.  To pay these seemed a
necessary preliminary even to the possibility of commencing a new
career.

But how to get the money? ah me! new temptations seemed springing up
around like the crop of armed men from the furrows sown with the
dragon's teeth.

There was but one way which suggested itself to his mind, by which he
would be able at once to deliver himself in part by meeting the most
exigent demands.  Let me hurry over the struggle which it cost him, but
finally he adopted it.  It was this.

Mr Kennedy was most liberal in allowing his son everything which could
possibly further his university studies, and the most important item in
his quarterly expenses was the charge for private tuition.  This sum was
always paid by Kennedy himself, and it amounted at least to seven pounds
a term.  Now, what if he should not only ask his father to allow him
this term a classical and a mathematical tutor, but also request
permission to read double with them both _i e_, to go for an hour _every
day_ instead of every other day?  This would at once procure him from
his father the sum of twenty-eight pounds, and by means of this he
could, with great economy, clear off all the most pressing of those
pecuniary obligations which bound him to company, which he longed to
shun, and exposed him to dangers which he had learnt to fear.  Of course
he would be obliged to forego all assistance from private tutors, and
simply to appropriate the money, without his father's knowledge, to
other ends.  In a high point of view, it was simple embezzlement; it was
little better than a form of swindling.  But in this gross and repulsive
shape, it never suggested itself to poor Kennedy's imagination.  Somehow
one's own sins never look so bad in our eyes as the same sins when
committed by another.  He argued that he would really be applying the
money as his father intended, viz, to such purposes as should most
advance the objects of his university career.  He was committing a sin
to save himself from temptation.

The near approach of the scholarship examination, and Kennedy's failure
at Christmas, made his father all the more ready to give him every
possible advantage that money could procure.  Ignorant of the fact that
to "read double" with a tutor was almost a thing unprecedented at
Camford, and that to do so, _both_ in classics and mathematics, was a
thing wholly unknown, and indeed practically impossible, Mr Kennedy was
only delighted at Edward's letter, as conveying a proof of his extreme
and laudable eagerness to recover lost ground, and do his best.  He very
readily wrote the cheque for the sum required, and praised his son
liberally for these indications of effort.  How those praises cut
Kennedy to the heart.

But he at once spent the money in the way which he had devised, and
added thereby a new load of mental bitterness to the heavy weight which
already oppressed him.  The sum thus appropriated greatly lightened,
although it did not remove, the pecuniary obligations which he had
contracted at cards or in other ways to his set of "fast" companions;
but it was at the cost of his peace of mind.

Externally he profited by the transaction.  He was enabled in great
measure, without the charge of meanness, to drop the most undesirable of
his acquaintances, and awaking eagerly to the hope of at once redeeming
his reputation and lessening his difficulties by gaining a scholarship,
he began, for the first time since he had entered Saint Werner's, to
work steadily with all his might.

He seemed to be living two lives in one, and often asked himself whether
there was in his character some deeply-rooted hypocrisy.  With Julian
and Owen, and the men who resembled them, he could talk nobly of all
that was honourable, and he powerfully upheld a chivalrous ideal of duty
and virtue.  And as his face lighted up, and the thoughts flowed in the
full stream of eloquent language in reprobation of some mean act, or in
glowing eulogium of some recorded heroism for the performance of what
was right, who would have fancied, who would have believed, that
Kennedy's own life had failed so egregiously in the commonest
requirements of steadfastness and honesty?

None rejoiced more in the outward change of life than Julian Home; for
Violet's sake now, as well as for Kennedy's, he felt a keen and
brotherly interest in the progress and estimation of his friend.  Once
more they were to be found together as often as they had been in their
freshman's year, and it was Julian's countenance and affection that
tended more than anything else to repair Kennedy's damaged popularity,
and remove the tarnish attaching to his name.

One evening they were taking the usual two-hours' constitutional--which
is often the poor substitute for exercise in the case of reading men--
and discussing together the chances of the coming scholarship
examination, when they found themselves near a place called Gower's
Mill, and heard a sudden cry for help.  Pressing forwards they saw a
boat floating upside down, and whirling about tumultuously in the racing
and rain-swollen eddies of the mill-dam.  A floating straw hat was
already being sucked in by the gurgling rush of water that roared under
the mighty circumference of the wheel, and for a moment they saw nothing
more.  But as they ran up, a black spot emerged from the stream, only a
few yards from the mill, and they saw a man, evidently in the last stage
of exhaustion, struggling feebly in the white and boiling waves.

The position was agonising.  The man's utmost efforts only served to
keep him stationary, and it was clear, from the frantic violence of his
exertion, that he could not last an instant longer.  Indeed, as they
reached the bank, he began to sink and disappear--disappear as it seemed
to the certainty of a most horrid death.

In one instant--without considering the danger and apparent hopelessness
of the attempt, without looking at the wild force of the water, and the
grinding roll of the big wheel, without even waiting to fling off their
coats--Julian and Kennedy, actuated by the strong instinct to save a
fellow-creature's life, had both plunged into the mill-dam, and at the
same moment struck out for the sinking figure.  It was not till then
that they felt their terrific danger; in the swirl of those spumy and
hissing waves it was all but impossible for them to make head against
the current, and they felt it carry them nearer and nearer to the black,
dripping mass, one blow of which would stun them, and one revolution of
it mangle them with horrible mutilation.  They reached the drowning
wretch, and each seizing him by the arm, shouted for assistance, and
buffeted gallantly with the headstrong stream.  The senseless burden
which they supported clogged their efforts, and as they felt themselves
gradually swept nearer, nearer, nearer to destruction, the passionate
desire of self-preservation woke in both of them in all its wild
agony;--yet they would not attempt to preserve themselves by letting go
the man to save whose life they had so terribly endangered their own.

Meanwhile their repeated shouts and those of the swimmer, which had
first attracted their own attention, had aroused the miller, who
instantly, on hearing them, ran down with a rope to the water's side.
He threw it skilfully; with a wild clutch Kennedy caught it, and in
another moment, as from the very jaws of death, when they were almost
touching the fatal wheel, they were drawn to shore, still carrying, or
rather dragging, with them their insensible companion.

After a word of hurried thanks to the miller for saving their lives,
they began to turn their whole attention to the half-drowned man, and to
apply the well-known remedies for restoring extinct animation.

"Good heavens," said Julian, "it is Brogten!"

"Brogten?" said Kennedy; he looked on the face, and whispered
half-aloud, "Thank God!"

They carried him into the mill, put him between the blankets in a warm
bed, chafed his numb limbs, and sent off for the nearest doctor.  Very
soon he began to revive, and recovered his consciousness; immediately
this was the case, Julian and Kennedy ran home as quickly as they could
to change their wet clothes.

The next day the doctor ordered Brogten to lie in bed till after
mid-day, and then allowed him, now thoroughly well and rested, to walk
home to Saint Werner's.  He had not yet learnt the names of his
deliverers.

He reached the college in the evening, and after changing his boating
dress, his first care was to try and learn to whom he was indebted for
his life.  Almost the first man he met told him that the men who had
risked their safety for his were Home and Kennedy.

Home and Kennedy!  Home, to whom he had caused the bitterest
disappointment and done the most malicious injury which had ever
happened to him in his life; Kennedy, whom he had tried but too
successfully to corrupt and ruin, tempt from duty, and push from his
good name!

Deeply, very deeply, was Brogten humiliated; he felt that his enemies
had indeed heaped coals of fire upon his head.

He determined, as his first duty, to go and thank them both--Kennedy
first, as the one against whom he had most wilfully sinned.

He found Kennedy sitting down to tea, and Julian, Owen, and Suton were
with him.

"Kennedy," he said, "I have come to thank you and Home for a very
gallant deed; I need not say how much I feel indebted to you for the
risk you ran in saving my life."

Genuine tears rushed into his dark eyes as he spoke, and cordially
grasped the hands which, without a word, they proffered.  Community of
danger, consciousness of obligation, blotted out all evil memories; and
to have stood side by side together on the very brink of the precipice
of death was a bond of union which could not be ignored or set aside.
That night, in spite of bygones, the feeling of those three young men
for each other was of the kindliest cast.

"Won't you stay to tea, Brogten?" said Kennedy.

He looked round, as though uncertain whether the others would like his
company, but as they all seconded Kennedy's request, he gladly stayed.
It was the first evening that he had regularly spent in the society of
reading men, and he was both delighted and surprised at the rare
pleasure he received from the vigour and liveliness of their
conversation.  These were the men whom he had despised as slow, yet what
a contrast between their way of talking and the inanities of Fitzurse or
the shallow flippancy of Bruce.  As he sat there and listened, his very
face became softer in its lines from the expression of a real and
intelligent interest, and they all thought that he was a better fellow,
on closer acquaintance, than they had been accustomed to suppose.  Ah
me! how often one remains unaware of the good side of those whom we
dislike.

Oh, those Camford conversations--how impetuous, how interesting, how
thoroughly hearty and unconventional they were!  How utterly presumption
and ignorance were scouted in them, and how completely they were free
from the least shadow of insincerity or ennui.  If I could but transfer
to my page a true and vivid picture of one such evening, spent in the
society of Saint Werner's friends--if I could write down but one such
conversation, and at all express its vivacity, its quick flashes of
thought and logic, its real desire for truth and knowledge, its friendly
fearlessness, its felicitous illustrations, its unpremeditated wit, such
a record, taken fresh from the life, would be worth all that I shall
ever write.  But youth flies, and as she flies all the bright colours
fade from the wings of thought, and the bloom vanishes from the earnest
eloquence of speech.

Yet, as I write, let me call to mind, if but for a moment, the
remembrance of those happy evenings, when we would meet to read
Shakespeare or the Poets in each other's rooms, and pleasant sympathies
and pleasant differences of opinion freely discussed, called into genial
life, friendships which we once hoped and believed would never have
grown cold.  Let the image of that bright social circle, picturesquely
scattered in armchairs round the winter fire, rise up before my fancy
once more, and let me recall what can never be again.  Of the honoured
and well-loved few who one night recorded their names and thoughts in
one precious little book, two are dead though it is but five years back;
C E B---is dead; and R H P---is dead; C E B---the chivalrous and
gallant-hearted, the champion of the past, the "Tory whom Liberals
loved;" and R H P---, the honest and noble, the eloquent speaker, and
the brave actor, and the fearless thinker--he, too, is dead, nobly
volunteering in works of danger and difficulty during the Indian Mutiny;
but L---, and B---, and M---, and others are living yet, and to them I
consecrate this page _they_ will forgive the digression, and for their
sakes I will venture to let it pass.  We are scattered now, and our
friendship is a silent one, but yet I know that to them, at least,
changed or unchanged, my words will recall the fading memory of glorious
days.

The conversation, (but do not suppose that I shall attempt, after what I
have said, to reproduce it), happened to turn that evening on the
phenomena of memory.  It started thus:--They had been discussing some
subject of the day, when Owen observed to Julian--

"Why, how grave you look, Julian."

"Do I?  I was thinking of something odd.  While you were talking--
without the faintest apparent reason that I can discover, (and I was
trying to hit upon one when you spoke)--a fact started up in my mind,
which had no connection whatever with the subject, and yet which forced
itself quite strongly and obtrusively on my notice."

"Just as one catches sight suddenly of some stray bit of seaweed
floating in a great world of waters, which seems to have no business
there," said Kennedy.

"Yes.  But there _must_ have been _some_ reason for my thinking of it
just then."

"The law of association, depend upon it," said Owen, "even if the
connecting links were so subtle and swiftly moved that you failed to
detect their presence."

"Are you of the Materialist school, Owen, about memory?" said Julian,
"_i e_, do you go with Hobbes and Condillac, and make it a decaying
sense or a transformed sensation?"

"Not a bit; I believe it to be a spiritual faculty, entirely independent
of mere physical organisation."

"Wo-ho!" said Kennedy; "the physiologists will join issue with you
there.  How for instance do you account for such stories as that of the
groom, who, getting a kick on a particular part of the head from a
vicious horse, suffered no harm except in forgetting everything which
had happened _up to that time_?"

"It isn't a bit conclusive.  I don't say that the conscious exercise of
memory mayn't be temporarily dependent on organisation, but I do believe
that every fact ever imprinted on the memory, however long it may be
latent, is of its very nature imperishable."

"Yes," said Suton.  "Memory is the book of God.  Did you see that story
of the shipwreck the other day?  One of the survivors, while floating
alone on the dark midnight sea, suddenly heard a voice saying to him
distinctly, `Johnny, did you eat sister's grapes?'  It was the revived
memory of a long-forgotten childish theft.  What have the
Pineal-Gland-olaters to say to that?"

"What a profound touch that was of Themistocles," said Kennedy, "who
rejected the offer of a Memoria Technicha, with the aspiration that some
one could _teach him to forget_.  Lethe is the grandest of rivers after
all."

"I can illustrate what you are saying," said Brogten, "and I believe it
to be true that _nothing can be utterly forgotten_.  Yesterday when you
saw me I had sunk twice, and when you rescued me I was insensible.
Strange things happened to my memory then!"

"Tell us," said all of them eagerly.

"Well, I believe it's an old story, but I'll tell you.  When the first
agony of fear, and the sort of gulp of asphyxia was over, I felt as if I
was sinking into a pleasant sleep, surrounded by the light of green
fields--"

"Because the veins of the eye were bloodshot, and green is the
complementary colour," interpolated Kennedy, whereat Owen gave a little
incredulous guffaw; and Brogten continued--

"Well, _then_, it was that all my past life flashed before me, from the
least forgotten venial fault of infancy to the worst passion of youth,--
only they came to me clear and vivid, in _retrograde_ order.  The lies I
told when I was a little boy, the wicked words I spoke, the cruel things
I did, the first taint that polluted my mind, the faces of
school-fellows whom I had irreparably injured, the stolen waters of
manhood--all were dashed into my remorseful recollection; they started
up like buried, menacing ghosts, without, or even against my will.  I
felt convinced that they were _indestructible_."

"That strain I heard was of a higher mood!" thought the auditors, for it
was quite a new thing to hear Brogten talk like this, and in such a
solemn, manly, sober voice.

"Fancy," said Kennedy, sighing, "_an everlasting memory_!"

The others went away, but Brogten still lingered in Kennedy's rooms,
and, rising, took him by the hand.  They both remembered another scene
in these rooms, when they two were together,--the torturer and the
tortured; but it was different now.

"The worst thing that haunted me, Kennedy, when you were saving my life,
was the thought of my wickedness to you.  I fear it can never be
repaired; yet believe me, that from this day forth I have vowed before
God to turn over a new leaf, and my whole effort will be to do all for
you that ever may be in my power!  Do you forgive me?"

"As I hope to be forgiven," he replied.

Yet it was part of Brogten's punishment in after days to remember that
_his_ hand had set the stone moving on the steep hill-side, which
afterwards he had no power to stay.  It would not come back to him for a
wish, but leapt, and rushed, and bounded forward, splintering and
splintered by the obstacles in its course, till at last--Could it be
saved from being dashed to shivers among the smooth rocks of the valley
and the brook?



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HAZLET'S VISION.

  "And ride on his breast, and trouble his rest
  In the shape of his deadliest sin."
  Anon.

Before the scholarship, came the Little-go, so called in the language of
men, but known to the gods as the Previous Examination.  As it is an
examination which all must pass, the standard required is of course very
low, and the subjects are merely Paley's Evidences, a little Greek
Testament, some easy classic, Scripture History, and a sprinkling of
arithmetic and algebra.

The reading men simply regard it as a nuisance, interrupting their
reading and wasting their time, _i e_, until the wisdom of maturer years
shows them its necessity and use.  But to the idle and the stupid, the
name Little-go is fraught with terror.  It begins to loom upon them from
the commencement of their second year, and all their efforts must be
concentrated to avoid the disgrace and hindrance of a pluck.  There are
regular tutors to cram Poll men for this necessary ordeal, and the
processes applied to introduce the smallest possible modicum of
information into the heads of the victims, the surgical operations
necessary to inculcate into them the simplest facts, would, if narrated,
form a curious chapter in morbid psychology.  I suggest this merely as a
pregnant hint for the future historian of Camford; personally I am only
acquainted by report with the system resorted to.

Hazlet began to be in a fright about the Little-go from the very
commencement of his second October.  His mother well knew that the
examination was approaching, and thought it quite impossible that her
ingenuous and right-minded son could fall a victim to the malice of
examiners.  Hazlet was not so sure of this himself, and as the days had
passed by when he could speak of the classics with a holy indignation
against their vices and idolatry, he was wrought up by dread of the
coming papers into a high state of nervous excitement.

I will not betray the mistakes he made, or dish up in this place the
"crambe repetita" of those Little-go anecdotes, which at this period of
the year awaken the laughter of combination-rooms, and dissipate the
dulness of Camford life.  Suffice it to say that Hazlet displayed an
ignorance at once egregious and astounding; the ingenious perversity of
his mistakes, the fatuous absurdity of his confusions, would be
inconceivable to any who do not know by experience the extraordinary
combinations of ignorance and conceit.  The examiners were very lenient
and forbearing, but Hazlet was plucked; plucked too in Scripture
History, which astonished everybody, until it became known that he had
attributed John the Baptist's death to his having "danced with
Herodias's daughter"--traced a connection between the Old and New
Testaments in the fact of Saint Peter's having cut off the ear of
Malachi the last of the prophets--and stated that the substance of Saint
Paul's sermon at Athens, was "crying vehemently about the space of two
hours, Great is Diana of the Ephesians!"

It is a sad pity that such ludicrous associations should centre round
the word "pluck."  It is anything but a laughing matter to those who
undergo the process; they have tried hard and worked diligently perhaps
to pass the examination, and if they fail they see before them another
long period of weary and dissatisfied effort, with the same probability
of failure again and again repeated: for until the barrier of the
Little-go is passed they can advance no further, and must simply stay at
Camford until in some way or other they can succeed in getting up the
requisite minimum of information.  I have seen a strong man in the
senate-house turn as white as a sheet, when a paper which he was unable
to answer was placed before him.  I fancy I see him now, and distinctly
remember my strong feeling of compassion for his distress, and my
earnest hope that he would not be "floored."

There was a general laugh in Saint Werner's when it was announced that
Hazlet was plucked; and in Scripture History too!  His follies and
inconsistencies had unhappily made him a butt, but men little knew how
heavily the misfortune would weigh upon him.

He happened at this time to be living on the same stair-case with
Lillyston, and Lillyston, who was in the rooms below him, was quite
amazed at the sounds which he heard proceeding from his rooms.  For a
long time there was a series of boo-hoos, long, loud, and wailing as of
some animal in distress, and then there was an uproar as of some one
running violently about, and throwing the furniture out of his way.
Lillyston was just on the point of going to see what was the matter when
the breathless bedmaker appeared at the door, and said--"Oh, Mr
Lillyston, sir, do go and look at Mr Hazlet, sir; he's took very bad,
he is."

"Took very bad--how do you mean?"

"Why, sir, it's the Little-go, sir, as done it.  He's plucked, sir, and
it's upset him like.  So, when I asked him if he'd a-tea'd, and if I
should take away the things, he begins a banging his chairs about, you
see, sir, quite uncomfortable."

Lillyston immediately ran up-stairs.  The violent fit seemed to have
subsided, for Hazlet, peering out of a corner, with wandering,
spectacled eyes, quite cowered when he saw him.  Lillyston was shocked
at the spectacle he presented.  Hazlet was but half dressed, his hands
kept up an uneasy and vague motion, his face was blank, and his whole
appearance resembled that of an idiot.

"Why, Hazlet, my man, what's the matter with you?" said Lillyston,
cheerily.

Hazlet trembled, and muttered something about a dog.  It happened that
just before coming back from the senate-house, a large Newfoundland had
run against him, and his excited imagination had mingled this most
recent impression with the vagaries of a temporary madness.

"The dog, my dear fellow; why, there's no dog here."

Hazlet only cowered farther into the corner.

"Here, won't you have some tea?" said Lillyston; "I'll make it for you.
Come and help me."

He began to busy himself about setting the tea-things, and cutting the
bread, while he occupied Hazlet in pouring out the water and attending
to the kettle.  Hazlet started violently every now and then, and looked
with a terrified side-glance at Lillyston, as though apprehensive of
some wrong.

At last Lillyston got him to sit down quietly, and gave him a cup of tea
and some bread.  He ate it in silence, except that every now and then he
uttered a sort of wail, and looked up at Lillyston.  The look didn't
seem to satisfy him, for, after a few minutes, he seized his knife, and
said, "I shall cut off your whiskers."

What put the grotesque fancy into his head, Lillyston did not know;
probably some faint reminiscence of having been forced to shave after
the trick which Bruce had played on him by painting his face with
lamp-black and ochre.

Lillyston decidedly declined the proposition, and they both started up
from their seats--Hazlet brandishing his knife with determined purpose,
and looking at his companion with a strange savage glare under his
spectacles.

After darting round the room once or twice to escape his attack,
Lillyston managed with wonderful skill to clutch the wrist of Hazlet's
right hand, and, being very strong, he held him with the grasp of a
vice, while with his left hand he forced the knife out of his clutch,
and dropped it on the floor.  He held him tight for a minute or two,
although Hazlet struggled so fiercely that it was no easy task, and then
quietly forced him into a chair, and spoke to him in a firm
authoritative voice--

"No mischief, Hazlet; we shan't allow it.  Now listen to me: you must go
to bed."

The tone of voice and the strength of will which characterised
Lillyston's proceedings, awed Hazlet into submission.  He cried a
little, and then suffered Lillyston to see him into his rooms, and to
put him into a fair way towards going to bed.  Taking the precaution to
remove his razor, Lillyston locked the door upon him, and determined at
once to get medical advice.  The doctor, however, could give very little
help; it was, he said, a short fit of temporary madness, for which quiet
and change of air were the only effectual remedies.  He did not
anticipate that there would be any other outbreak of violence, or
anything more than a partial imbecility.

"Do come and help me to manage Hazlet," said Lillyston to Julian next
morning; "his head has been turned by being plucked for the Little-go,
and he's as mad as Hercules Furens."

Julian went, and they stayed in Hazlet's room till he had quietly
breakfasted.  He then appeared to be so calm that Lillyston agreed to
leave Julian there for the morning, and to take the charge of Hazlet for
the afternoon and evening.  It seemed absolutely necessary that someone
should take charge of him, and they thought it best to divide the
labour.

Julian sorely felt the loss of time.  He had a great deal to get through
before the all-important scholarship examination, and the loss of every
available hour fretted him, for since he had failed in the Clerkland, he
was doubly anxious to gain a Saint Werner's scholarship at his first
time of trial.  Still he never wavered for a moment in the determination
to fulfil the duty of taking care of his Ildown acquaintance, and he
spent the whole tedious morning in trying to amuse him.

Hazlet's ceaseless allusions to "the dog," and the feeble terror which
it seemed to cause him, made it necessary to talk to him incessantly,
and to turn his attention, as far as possible, to other things.  He had
to be managed like a very wilful and stupid child, and when one of the
five hours which Julian had to spend with him was finished, he was worn
out with anxiety and fatigue.  It is a dreadful thing to be alone in
charge of a human being--a being in human shape, who is, either by
accident or constitution, incapable alike of responsibility and thought.
Hazlet had been able to play draughts pretty well, so Julian got out a
board and challenged him to a game, but instead of playing, Hazlet only
scrabbled on the board, and pushed the pieces about in a meaningless
confusion, while every now and then the sullen glare came into his eye
which showed Julian the necessity of being on his guard if self-defence
should be needed.  Then Julian tried to get him to draw, and showing him
a picture, sketched a few strokes of outline, and said--

"Now, Hazlet, finish copying this picture for me."

Hazlet took the pencil between his unsteady fingers, and let it make
futile scratches on the paper, and, when Julian repeated his words,
wrote down in a slow painful hand--

"Finish copying pict-ure pict-."

What was to be done in such a case as this?  Julian suggested a turn in
the grounds, but Hazlet betrayed such dread at the thought of leaving
his rooms, and encountering "the dog," that Julian was afraid, if he
persisted, of driving him into a fit.

Just as the dilemma was becoming seriously unpleasant, Brogten came up
to the rooms, and begged Julian to intrust Hazlet to his charge.

"_Your_ time is valuable, Home--particularly just now.  Mine is all but
worthless.  At any rate I have no _special_ work as you have, and I can
take care of poor Hazlet very well."

"Oh, no," said Julian; "I mustn't shrink from the duty I have
undertaken, and besides you'll find it very dull and unpleasant work."

"Never mind that.  I once had an idiot brother--dead now--and I
understand well how to manage any one in a case like this.  Besides,
Hazlet is one of the many I have injured.  Let me stay."

"I really am afraid you won't like it."

"Nonsense, Home; I won't give in, depend upon it.  I am quite in
earnest, and am besides most anxious that you should get a scholarship
this time.  Don't refuse me the privilege of helping you."

Julian could refuse no longer, and went back to his rooms with perfect
confidence that Brogten would do his work willingly and well.  He looked
in about mid-day to see how things were going on, and found that, after
thoroughly succeeding in amusing his patient, Brogten had persuaded him
to go to sleep, in the conviction that by the time he awoke he would be
nearly well.  Nor was he mistaken.  The next day Hazlet was sufficiently
recovered to go home for the Easter vacation.

It was a very bitter and humiliating trial to him; but misfortune,
however frequently it causes reformation, is not invariably successful
in changing a man's heart and life.  Hazlet came back after the Easter
vacation with recovered health, but damaged constitution, and in no
respect either better or wiser for the misfortune he had undergone.

One peculiarity of his recent attack was a strong nervous excitability,
which was induced by very slight causes, and Hazlet had not long
returned to Saint Werner's when the dissipation of his life began once
more to tell perniciously upon his state of health.  It must not be
imagined that because he was the easiest possible victim of temptation,
he suffered no upbraidings of a terrified and remorseful conscience.
Many a time they overwhelmed him with agony and a dread of the future,
mingling with his slavish terrors of a material Gehenna, and stirring up
his turbid thoughts until they drove him to the verge of madness.  But
the inward chimera of riotous passions was too fierce for the weak human
reason, and while he hated himself he continued still to sin.

Late one night he was returning to his rooms from the foul haunts of
squalid dissipation and living death, when the thought of his own
intolerable condition pressed on him with a heavier than usual weight.
It was a very cloudy night, and he had long exceeded the usual college
hours.  The wind tossed about his clothes, and dashed in his face a keen
impalpable sleet, while nothing dispelled the darkness except the
occasional gleam of a lamp struggling fitfully with the driving mist.
Hazlet reached Saint Werner's wet and miserable; in returning he had
lost his way, and wandered into the most disreputable and
poverty-stricken streets, the very homes of thievery and dirt, where he
seriously feared for his personal safety.  By the time he got to the
college gates he was drenched through and through, and while his body
shivered with the cold air, the condition of his mind was agitated and
terrified, and the sudden blaze of light that fell on him from the large
college lamp, as the gates opened, dazzled his unaccustomed eyes.

Hastily running across the court to his own rooms, he groped his way--
giddy and crapulous--giddy and crapulous--up the dark and narrow
stair-case, and after some fumbling with his key opened the door.

Lillyston, who was just going to bed after a long evening of hard work,
heard his footstep on the stairs, and thought with sorrow that he had
not mended his old bad ways.  He heard him open the door, and then a
long wild shriek, followed by the sound of some one falling, rang
through the buildings.

In an instant, Lillyston had darted up-stairs, and the other men who
"kept" on the stair-case, jumped out of bed hastily, thrust on their
slippers, and also ran out to see what was the matter.  As Lillyston
reached the threshold of Hazlet's rooms, he stumbled against something,
and stooping down found that it was the senseless body of Hazlet himself
stretched at full length upon the floor.

He looked up, but saw nothing to explain the mystery; the rooms were in
darkness, except that a dull, blue flame, flickering over the black and
red relics of the fire, threw fantastic gleams across the furniture and
ceiling, and gave an odd, wild appearance to the cap and gown that hung
beside the door.

Lillyston was filled with surprise, and lit the candle on the table.
Lifting Hazlet on the sofa, he carefully looked at him to see if he was
correct in his first surmise, that the unhappy man had swallowed poison,
or committed suicide in some other way.  But there was no trace of
anything of the kind, and Hazlet merely appeared to have fainted and
fallen suddenly.

Aided by Noel, one of those who had been alarmed by that piercing
shriek, Lillyston took the proper means to revive Hazlet from his
fainting fit, and put him to bed.  He rapidly recovered his
consciousness, but earnestly begged them not to press him on the subject
of his alarm, respecting which he was unable or unwilling to give them
any information.

The next morning he was very ill; excitement and anxiety brought on a
brain fever, which kept him for many weary weeks in his sick-room, and
from which he had not fully recovered until after a long stay at Ildown.
As he lost, in consequence of this attack, the whole of the ensuing
term, he was obliged to degrade, as it is called, _i e_ to place his
name on the list of the year below; and he did not return to Camford
till the following October, where his somewhat insignificant
individuality had been almost forgotten.

Let us anticipate a little to throw light on what we have narrated.

When Hazlet _did_ come back to undergraduate life, he at once sought the
alienated friends from whom he had been separated ever since the
disastrous period of his acquaintanceship with Bruce.  He came back to
them penitent and humble, with those convictions now existing in his
mind in their reality and genuineness, which before he had only
simulated so successfully as to deceive himself.  I will not say that he
did not continue ignorant and bigoted, but he was no longer conceited
and malicious.  I will not say that he never showed himself dogmatic and
ill-informed, but he was no longer obtrusive and uncharitable.  His life
was better than his dogmas, and the sincerity of his good intentions
counteracted and nullified the ill effects of a narrow and unwholesome
creed.  There were no farther inconsistencies in his conduct, and he
showed firmly, yet modestly, the line he meant to follow, and the side
he meant to take.  As his conscience had become scrupulous, and his life
irreproachable, it mattered comparatively little that his intellectual
character was tainted with fanaticism and gloom.

I would not be mistaken to mean that he found his penitence easy, or
that he was, like Saint Paul, transformed as it were by a lightning
flash--"a fusile Christian."  I say, there were--after his two
sicknesses and long suffering, and experiences bitter as wormwood--there
were, I say, no more _outward_ inconsistencies in his life; but I do not
say that _within_ there were no fierce, fearful struggles, so wearisome
at times that it almost seemed better to yield than to feel the
continued anguish of such mighty temptations.  All this the man must
always go through who has warmed in his bosom the viper whose poisoned
fang has sent infection into his blood.  But through God's grace Hazlet
was victorious: and as, when the civilisation of some infant colony is
advancing on the confines of a desert, the wild beasts retire before it,
until they become rare, and their howling is only heard in the lonely
night, and then even that sign of their fury is but a strange
occurrence, until it is heard no more; so in Hazlet, the many-headed
monsters, which breed in the slime of a fallen human heart, were one by
one slain or driven backwards by watchfulness, and shame, and prayer.

Julian and Lillyston had never shunned his society, either when he
breathed the odour of sanctity, or when he sank into the slough of
wretchlessness.  Both of them were sufficiently conscious of the heart's
weakness to prevent them from the cold and melancholy presumption which
leads weak and sinful men to desert and denounce those whom the good
spirits have not yet deserted, and whom the good God has not finally
condemned.  As long as he sought their society, they were always open to
his company, however distasteful; and the advice they gave him was
tendered in simple good-will--not as though from the haughty
vantage-ground of a superior excellence.  Even when Hazlet was at the
worst--when to be seen with him, after the publicity of his vices,
involved something like a slur on a man's fair name--even in these his
worst days neither Julian nor Lillyston would have refused, had he so
desired it, to walk with him under the lime-tree avenue, or up and down
the cloisters of Warwick's Court.

But they naturally met him more often when his manner of life was
changed for the better, and were both glad to see that he had found the
jewel which adversity possessed.  It happened that he was with them one
evening when the conversation turned on supernatural appearances, the
possibility of which was maintained by Julian and Owen, while Lillyston
in his genial way was pooh-poohing them altogether.  Hazlet alone sat
silent, but at last he said--

"I have never yet mentioned to any living soul what once happened to me,
but I will do so now.  Lillyston, you remember the night when I aroused
you with a scream?"

"Well!" said Lillyston.

"That night I was returning in all the bitterness of remorse from places
where, but for God's blessing, I might have perished utterly"--and
Hazlet shuddered--"when from out of the storm and darkness I reached my
room door.  You know that a beam ran right across my ceiling.  When I
threw open the door to enter, I saw on that beam as clearly as I now see
you--no, _more clearly, far_ more clearly than I now see you, for your
presence makes no special impression on me, and this was burnt into my
very brain--I saw there written in letters of fire--

"`AND THIS IS HELL.'

"Struck dumb with horror, I stared at it; there could be no doubt about
it, the letters burned and glared and reddened before my very eyes, and
seemed to wave like the northern lights, and bicker into angrier flame
as I looked at them.  They fascinated me as I stood there dumb and
stupefied, when suddenly I saw the dark and massive form of a hand, over
which hung the skirt of a black robe, moving slowly away from the last
letter.  What more I _might_ have seen I cannot tell;--it was then that
I fell and fainted, and my shriek startled all the men on the
stair-case."

Hazlet told his story with such deep solemnity, and such hollow pauses
of emotion, that the listeners sat silent for a while.

"But yet," said Lillyston, "if you come to analyse this, it resolves
itself into nothing.  You were confessedly agitated, and almost
hysterical that night; your body was unstrung; you were wet through, and
it was doubtless the sudden passage from the darkness outside to the dim
and uncertain glimmer of your own room, which acted so powerfully on
your excited imagination, as to project your inward thoughts into a
shape which you mistook for an external appearance.  I remember noticing
the aspect of your rooms myself that evening; the mysterious shadows,
and the mingled effects of dull red firelight with black objects,
together with the rustle of the red curtain in front of your window
which you had left open, and the weird waving of your black gown in the
draught, made such an impression even on me merely in consequence of the
alarm your shriek had excited, that I could have fancied _anything_
myself, if I wasn't pretty strong-headed, and rather prosaic.  As it
was, I did half fancy an unknown Presence in the room."

"Yes, but you say _inward_ thoughts," replied Hazlet eagerly.  "Now
these _weren't_ my inward thoughts; on the contrary they flashed on me
like a revelation, and the strange word, `And,' (for I read distinctly,
`_And_ this is--') was to me like an awful copula connecting time and
eternity for ever.  I had always thought of quite another, quite a
different hell; but this showed me for the first time that the state of
sinfulness is _the_ hell of sin.  It was only the other day that I came
across those lines of Milton--oh, how true they are--

  "Which way I fly is hell, _myself am hell_,
  And in the lowest deep a lower deep
  Still gaping to devour me opens wide,
  To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven."

"It was the truth conveyed in those lines which I then first discovered,
and discovered, it seems to me, from without.  I know very very little--
I am shamefully ignorant, but I do think that the vision of that night
taught me more than a thousand volumes of scholastic theology.  And let
me say too," he continued humbly, "that by it I was plucked like a brand
from the burning; by it my conversion was brought about."

None of the others were in a mood to criticise the phraseology of
Hazlet's religious convictions, and he clearly desired that the subject
of his own immediate experiences, as being one full of awfulness for
him, might be dropped.

"Apropos of your argument, I care very little, Hugh," said Julian,
"whether you make supernatural appearances objective or subjective.  I
mean I don't care whether you regard the appearance as a mere deception
of the eye, wrought by the disordered workings of the brain, or as the
actual presence of a supernatural phenomenon.  The result, the effect,
the _reality_ of the appearance is just the same in either case.
Whether the end is produced by an illusion of the senses, or an appeal
to them, the end _is_ produced, and the senses _are_ impressed by
something which is not in the ordinary course of human events, just as
powerfully as if the ghost had flesh and blood, or the voice were a
veritable pulsation of articulated air.  The only thing that annoys me
is a contemptuous and supercilious denial of the _facts_."

"I hold with you, Julian," said Owen.  "Take for instance the
innumerable recorded instances where intimation has been given of a
friend's or relative's death by the simultaneous appearance of his image
to some one far absent, and unconscious even of his illness.  There are
four ways of treating such stories--the first is to deny their truth,
which is, to say the least, not only grossly uncharitable, but an absurd
and impertinent caprice adopted in order to reject unpleasant evidence;
the second is to account for them by an optical delusion, accidentally
synchronising with the event, which seems to me a most monstrous
ignoring of the law of chances; a third is to account for them by the
existence of some exquisite faculty, (existing in different degrees of
intensity, and in some people not existing at all), whereby physical
impressions are invisibly conveyed by some mysterious sympathy of
organisation a faculty of which it seems to me there are the most
abundant traces, however much it may be sneered and jeered at by those
shallow philosophers who believe nothing but what they can grasp with
both hands: and a fourth is to suppose that spirits can, of their own
will, or by superior permission, make themselves sometimes visible to
human eyes."

"Or," said Julian, "so affect the senses _as to produce the impression_
that they are present to human eyes."

"And to show you, Lillyston," said Owen, "how little I fear any natural
explanations, and how much I think them beside the point, I'll tell you
what happened to me only the other night, and which yet does not make me
at all inclined to rationalise Hazlet's story.  I had just put out the
candle in my bedroom, when over my head I saw a handwriting on the wall
in characters of light.  I started out of bed, and for a moment fancied
that I could read the words, and that somebody had been playing me a
trick with phosphorus.  But the next minute, I saw how it was; the
moonlight was shining in through the little muslin folds of the lower
blind, and as the folds were very symmetrical, the chequered reflection
on the wall looked exactly like a series of words."

"Well, now, that would have made a capital ghost story," said Lillyston,
"if you had been a little more imaginative and nervous.  And still more
if the illusion had only been partially optical, and partly the result
of excited feelings."

"It matters nothing to me," said Hazlet, rising, "whether the characters
I saw were written by the finger of a man's hand, or limned by spirits
on the sensorium of the brain.  All I know is that--thank God--_they
were there_."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

JULIAN AND KENNEDY.

  "But there where I have garnered up my heart,
  Where either I must live, or bear no life;
  The fountain from the which my current runs
  Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
  Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim!
  Aye there, look grim as hell!"
  Othello, Act 4, scene 2.

Saint Werner's clock, with "its male and female voice," has just told
the university that it is nine o'clock.

A little crowd of Saint Wernerians is standing before the chapel door,
and even the grass of the lawn in front of it is hardly sacred to-day
from common feet.  The throng composed of undergraduates, dons,
bedmakers, and gyps, is broken into knots of people, who are chatting
together according to their several kinds; but they are so quiet and
expectant that the very pigeons hardly notice them, but flutter about
and coo and peck up the scattered bread-crumbs, just as if nobody was
there.  If you look attentively round the court, you will see, too, that
many of the windows are open, and you may detect faces half concealed
among the window curtains.  Clearly everybody is on the look out for
something, though it is yet vacation time, and only a small section of
the men are up.

The door opens, and out sail the Seniors, more than ever conscious of
pride and power; they stream away in silk gowns, carrying on their faces
the smile of knowledge even into their isolation, where no one can see
it.  For some reason or other they always meet in chapel, or, for all I
know, it may be in the ante-chapel, to elect the Saint Werner's
scholars.

And now the much talked of, much thought of, anxiously expected list,
which is to make so many happy or miserable, is to be announced.  On
that little bit of paper, which the chapel-clerk holds in his hands as
he stands on the chapel steps, are the names which everybody has been
longing to conjecture.  He comes out and reads.  There are nine
scholarships vacant, of which five will be given to the Third-year men,
and four to Julian's year.

The five Third-year men are read first, and as each name is announced,
off darts some messenger from the crowd to carry the happy intelligence
to some expectant senior soph.  The heads of listeners lean farther and
farther out of the window, for the clerk speaks so loud as to make his
voice heard right across the court; and the wires of the telegraph are
instantly put into requisition to flash the news to many homes, which it
will fill either with rejoicing or with sorrow.

And now for the four Second-year scholars, who have gained the honour of
a scholarship their first time of trial, and whose success excites a
still keener interest.  They are read out in the accidental order of the
first entering of their names in the college books.

Silence! the Second-year scholars are--DUDLEY CHARLES OWEN, (for the
names are always read out at full length, Christian names and all);
JULIAN HOME; ALBERT HENRY SUTON; and it is a very astonishing fact, but
the fourth is Hugh James Lillyston.

Who would have believed it?  Everybody expected Owen and Home to get
scholarships their first time, and Suton was considered fairly safe of
one; but that Kennedy should _not_ have got one, and that Lillyston
should, were facts perfectly amazing to all who heard them.  Saint
Werner's was full of surprise.  But after all they might have expected
it; Kennedy had been grossly idle, and Lillyston, who had been
exceedingly industrious, was not only well-grounded at Harton in
classics, but had recently developed a real and promising proficiency in
mathematics; and it was this knowledge, joined to great good fortune in
the examination, which had won for him the much-envied success.

But not Kennedy?

No.  This result was enough most seriously to damp the intense delight
which Julian otherwise felt in his own success, and that of his three
friends.

Julian, half-expecting that he would be successful, had come up with
Owen early in the day, and received the news from the porter as he
entered the college.  Kennedy and Lillyston were not yet arrived, and
Julian went to meet the coach from Roysley, hoping to see one of them at
least for he was almost as anxious to break the disappointment gently to
Kennedy, as he was to be the first to bear to his oldest school friend
the surprising and delightful news of his success.

They were _both_ in the coach, and Julian was quite puzzled how to meet
them.  His vexation and delight alternated so rapidly as he looked from
one to the other, that he felt exceedingly awkward, and would very much
have preferred seeing either of them alone.  Lillyston was incredulous;
he insisted that there must be some mistake, until he actually saw the
list with his own eyes.  It was quite by accident, and not with any view
of being sworn in as a scholar the next morning, that he had returned to
Saint Werner's on that day at all.  Kennedy bore the bitter, but not
unexpected disappointment with silent stoicism, and showed an unaffected
joy at the happy result which had crowned the honest exertions of his
best-loved friends.

He bore it in stoical silence, until he reached his own rooms; and then,
do not blame him--my poor Kennedy--if he bowed his head upon his hands,
and cried like a little child.  There are times when the bravest man
feels quite like a boy--feels as if he were unchanged since the day when
he sorrowed for boyish trespasses, and was chidden for boyish faults.
Kennedy was very young, and he was eating the fruits of folly and
idleness in painful failure and hope deferred.  In public he never
showed the faintest signs of vexation, but in the loneliness of his
closet do not blame him if he wept--for Violet's sake as well as for his
own.

So once more he was separated from Julian and Lillyston in hall and
chapel, for they now sat at the scholars' table and in the scholars'
seats.

He was beginning to get over his feeling of sorrow when he received a
letter, which did not need the coronet on the seal to show him that his
correspondent was De Vayne.  He opened it with eagerness and curiosity,
and read--

  "_Eaglestower, April_ 30, 18--, _Argyllshire_.

  "My Dear Kennedy--How long it is since we saw or heard of each other!
  I am getting well now, slowly but surely, and as I am amusing my
  leisure by reviving my old correspondence with my friends, let me
  write to you whom I reckon and shall ever reckon among that honoured
  number.

  "I am afraid that you consider me to have been slightly alienated from
  you by the sad scene which your rooms witnessed when last we met in
  health, and by the connection into which your name was dragged, by
  popular rumour, with that unhappy affair.  If such a thought has ever
  troubled you, let me pray that you will banish it.  I have long since
  been sure that you would have been ready to suffer any calamity rather
  than expose me to the foreseen possibility of such an outrage.

  "No, believe me, dear Kennedy, I am as much now as I always have been
  since I knew you, your sincere and affectionate friend.  Nor will I
  conceal how deep an interest another circumstance has given me in your
  welfare.  You perhaps did not know that I too loved your affianced
  Violet; how long, how deeply I can never utter to any living soul.  I
  did not know that you had won her affections, and the information that
  such was the case, came on me like the death-knell of all my cherished
  hopes.  But I have schooled myself now to the calm contemplation of my
  failure, and I can rejoice without envy in the knowledge, that in you
  she has won a lover richly endowed with all the qualities on which
  future happiness can depend.

  "I write to you partly to say good-bye.  In a fortnight I am going
  abroad, and shall not return until I feel that I have conquered a
  hopeless passion, and regained a shattered health.  Farewell to dear
  Old Camford!  I little thought that my career there would terminate as
  it did, but I trust in the full persuasion that God worketh all things
  for good to them who love Him.

  "Once more good-bye.  When I return, I hope that I shall see leaning
  on your arm, a fair, a divine young bride.--Ever affectionately yours,
  De Vayne."

Kennedy had written home to announce that his name was _not_ to be found
in the list of Saint Werner's scholars.  The information had disgusted
his father exceedingly.  Mr Kennedy, himself an old Wernerian, loved
that royal foundation with an unchanging regard, and ever since that day
Edward had been playing in his hall a pretty boy, he determined that he
should be a Saint Werner's scholar at his first trial.  He knew his
son's abilities, and felt convinced that there must be some radical
fault in his Camford life to produce such a disastrous series of
failures and disgraces.  Unable to gain any real information on the
subject from Edward's letters, he determined to write up at once, and
ask the classical and mathematical tutors the points in which his son
was most deficient, and the reason of his continued want of success.

The classical tutor, Mr Dalton, wrote back that Kennedy's failure was
due solely to idleness; that his abilities were acknowledged to be
brilliant, but that at Camford as everywhere else, the notion of success
without industry, was a chimera invented by boastfulness and conceit.
"Le Genie c'est la Patience."

"You seem, however," continued Mr Dalton, "to be under the mistaken
impression that your son read with me last term, and even `read double.'
This is not the case, as he has ceased to read with me since the end of
the Christmas term: I was sorry that he did so; for if economy was an
object, I would gladly, merely for the sake of the interest I take in
him, have afforded gratuitous assistance to so clever and promising a
pupil."

The letter of Mr Baer, the mathematical tutor, was precisely to the
same effect.  "I can only speak," he said, "from what I observed of your
son previous to last Christmas; since then I have not had the pleasure
of numbering him among my pupils."

When Mr Dalton's letter came, Mr Kennedy was exceedingly perplexed to
understand what it meant, and assumed that there must be some
unaccountable mistake.  He simply could not believe that his son could
have asked him for the money on false pretences.  But when Mr Baer's
letter confirmed the fact that Kennedy had not been reading with a tutor
either in classics or mathematics during the previous quarter, it seemed
impossible for any one any longer to shut his eyes to the truth.

When the real state of the case forced itself on Mr Kennedy's
conviction, his affliction was so deep that no language can adequately
describe what he suffered.  In a few days his countenance became
sensibly older-looking, and his hair more grey.  His favourite and only
surviving son had proved unworthy and base.  Not only had he wasted time
in frivolous company, but clearly he must have sunk very low to be
guilty of a crime so heinous in itself, and so peculiarly wounding to a
father's heart, as the one which it was plain that he had committed.

At first Mr Kennedy could not trust himself to write, lest the anger
and indignation which usurped the place of sorrow should lead him into a
violence which might produce irreparable harm.  Meanwhile, he bore in
silence the blows which had fallen.  Not even to his daughter Eva did he
reveal the overwhelming secret of her brother's shame, but brooded in
loneliness over the fair promise of the past, blighted utterly in the
disgrace of the present.  Often when he had looked at his young son, and
seen how glorious and how happy his life might be, he had determined to
shelter him from all evil, and endow him with means and opportunities
for every success.  He had looked to him as a pride and stay in
declining manhood, and a comfort in old age.  Edward Kennedy had been "a
child whom every eye that looked on loved," and now he was--; Mr
Kennedy _could_ not apply to him the only name which at once sprang up
to his lips.  He wrote--

  "Dear Edward,--When I tell you that it costs me an _effort_, a
  _strong_ effort to call you `dear,' you may judge of the depth of my
  anger.  I cannot trust myself, nor will I condescend to say much to
  you.  Suffice it for you to know that your shameful transactions are
  detected, and that I am now aware of the means, the treacherous
  dishonest means you have adopted to procure money, which, since I give
  you an ample and liberal allowance, can only be wanted to pander to
  vice, idleness, and I know not what other forms of sin.

  "I tell you that I do not know what to say; if you can act as you have
  acted, you must be quite deaf to expostulation, and dead to shame.
  You have done all you can to cover me and yourself with dishonour, and
  to bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

  "Oh Edward, Edward! if I could have foreseen this in the days when you
  were yet a young and innocent and happy boy, I would have chosen
  rather that you should die.

  "It must be a long time before you see my face again.  I will not see
  you in the coming holidays, and I at once reduce your allowance to
  half of what it was.  I cannot, and will not supply money to be wasted
  in extravagance and folly, nor shall I again be deceived into granting
  it to you on false pretences--Your indignant, deeply-sorrowing father,
  T.  KENNEDY."

Kennedy read the letter, and re-read it, and laid it down on the table
beside his untouched breakfast.  There was but one expression in his
face, and that was misery, and in his soul no other feeling than that of
hopeless shame.

He did not, and could not write to his father.  What was to be said?  He
must bear his burden--the _burden of detection and of punishment_--
alone.

And the thought of Violet added keener poignancy to all his grief.  For
Kennedy could not but observe that her letters were not so fondly,
passionately loving as they once had been, and he knew that the fault
was his, because his own letters reflected, like a broken mirror, the
troubled images of his wandering heart.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

KENNEDY'S DESPAIR.

  "When all the blandishments from life are gone,
  The coward slinks to death;--the brave live on!"

Of all the sicknesses that can happen to the human soul, the deadliest
and the most incurable is the feeling of despair--and this was the
malady which now infected every vein of Kennedy's moral and intellectual
life.

Could he but have conquered his pride so far as to take but one person
into his confidence, all might have been well.  But Violet--could he
ever tell Violet of sins which her noble heart must render so
inconceivable as almost to make it impossible for her to sympathise with
one who committed them?  And Eva; could he ever wound the tender
affection of his sweet sister, by revealing to her the disgrace of the
brother whom, from her childhood, she had idolised?  He sometimes
thought that he would confess to Julian or Lillyston; but his courage
failed him when the time came, and he fed on his own heart in solitude,
avoiding the society of men.

The sore burden of a self-reproaching spirit wore him down.  He had
fallen so often now, and swerved so often from the path of temperance,
rectitude, and honour, that he began to regard himself as a hopeless
reprobate--as one who had been weighed and found wanting--tested of God,
and deliberately set aside.

And so step by step the devil thrust him into desperation, and strove
thereby to clinch the hopelessness of his estate.  With wild fierce
passion, Kennedy flung himself into sins he had never known before;
angrily he laid waste the beauty and glory of the vineyard whose hedge
had been broken down; a little entrance to the sanctuary had been opened
to evil thoughts, and they, when once admitted, soon flung back wider
and wider the golden gates, till the revelling band of worse
wickednesses rushed in and defiled the altar, and trampled on the virgin
floors, and defaced the cedarn walls with images of idolatry and
picturings of sin.  Because he had sunk into the slough of despond, he
would be heedless of the mud that gathered on his garments.  Was he not
ruined already?  Could anything much worse befall him than had befallen
him already?  No; he would sin on now and take his fill.

It was a short period of his life; but in no other period did he suffer
so much, or shake more fatally the foundations of all future happiness.
It was emphatically a sin against his own soul, and as such it affected
his very look.  Those blue laughing eyes were clouded over, and the
bloom died away from his cheeks, and the ingenuous beauty from his
countenance, as the light of the Shechinah grew pale and dim in the
inmost sanctuary.  Kennedy was not mastered by impulse, but driven by
despair.

Nor did he take any precaution to shield himself from punishment--the
punishment of outward circumstance and natural consequence--as his moral
abasement proceeded.  His acquaintances shunned him, his friends dropped
away from him, and the guiltiness of the present received a tinge of
deeper horror from the gloom of the future.

All that could be done, Julian did.  He warned, he expostulated, he
reminded of purer and happier--of pure and happy days.  But he did not
know the bitter fountain of despondency whence flowed those naphthaline
streams of passion.  At last he said--

"Kennedy, I have not often spoken to you of my dear sister; it is time
to speak of her now.  Your conduct proves to me that you do not and
cannot love her."

Kennedy listened in silence; his face bowed down upon his hands.  "You
_could_ not go on as you are doing if you loved her, for love allows no
meaner, no unhallowed fires to pollute her vestal flame.  Your love must
be a pretence--a thing of the past.  It was only possible, Kennedy, when
you were worthier than now you are."

He groaned deeply, but still said nothing.

"Kennedy," continued Julian, "I have loved you as a friend, as a
brother; I love you still most earnestly, and you must not be too much
pained at what I say; but I have come to a determination which I must
tell you, and by which I must abide.  Your engagement with Violet must
cease."

"Does SHE say so?" he asked in a hollow voice.

"No, she does not know, Kennedy, what I know of you; but she will trust
my deep affection, and know that I act solely for her good.  The blow
may almost kill her, but better that she should die than that her life
should be ever connected--oh, that you should have driven me to say it--
with one so stained as yours!"

"Aye!" said Kennedy bitterly, "stab hard, for the knife is in your hand.
Fling dust on those who are down already--it is the world's way.  I see
through it all, Julian Home; you would gladly get rid of me, that Violet
may wear a coronet.  No comparison between a penniless and ruined
undergraduate, and a handsome, rich young viscount."

"Unjust! ungenerous!" answered Julian, with indignation; "you have
poisoned your own true heart, Kennedy, or you would not utter the lie
which you must disbelieve.  Edward Kennedy, I will not attempt to rebut
your unworthy suspicions; you know neither my character nor Violet's, or
you would not have dared to utter them.  No--it is clearer to me than
ever that you are no fit suitor for my sister.  Passion and weakness
have dragged you very low.  I trust and pray that you may recover
yourself again."

A sudden rush of tears came to his eyes as he turned away to leave his
earliest and best-loved college friend.  But Kennedy stopped him, and
said wildly--

"Stop, Julian Home, you shall hear me speak.  I can hardly believe that
you do this of your own responsibility--without Violet's--nay, nay, I
must not call her so--without your sister's consent.  And if this be so,
hear me.  Tell her that I scorn the heart which would thus fling away
its plighted love: tell her that she has committed a great sin in thus
rejecting me: tell her that _she_ is now responsible for all my
future,--that whatever errors I may fall into, whatever sins I may
commit, whatever disgrace or ruin I may incur, _she_ is the author of
them.  Tell her that if I ever live to do ungenerous acts, or ever yield
to bursts of foolish passion, the acts are hers, not mine; _she_ will
have caused them; my life lies at her feet.  Tell her this before it is
too late.  What? you still wish to hurry away?  Go, then."  He almost
pushed Julian out, and banged the door after him.

Amazed at this paroxysm of wrath and madness, Julian went down-stairs
with a slow step and a heavy, heavy heart; above all, he dreaded the
necessity of breaking to Violet the heart-rending intelligence of his
decision, and the circumstances which caused it.  He trembled to do it,
for he knew not how crushing the weight might prove.  At last he
determined to write to his mother, and to beg her to bear for him the
pain of telling that which her womanly tact and maternal sympathy might
make less overwhelming to be borne.

But Kennedy, after Julian's words, rushed out of his rooms, and it was
night.  He left the college, and wandered into the fields--he knew not
whither, nor with what intent.

His brain was on fire.  The last gleam that lent brightness to his life
had been extinguished; the friend whom he loved best had cast him off;
his name was sullied; his love rejected.  It was not _thought_ which
kept him in a tumult, but only a physical consciousness of dreadful,
irremediable calamity; and but for the wind which blew so coldly and
savagely in his face, and the rain that soaked his clothes and cooled
the fever of his forehead, he feared that he might go mad.

He did not return to the college till long past midnight; and the old
porter, as he got out of bed to open the gate, could not help saying to
him in a tone of reproach--

"Oh, Mr Kennedy, sir--excuse me, sir--but these are bad ways."

The words were lost upon him: he went up to his room, and threw himself,
without taking off his clothes, upon his bed.  No sleep came to him, and
in the morning--damp, weary, and feverish as he had been--his look was
inexpressibly pitiable and haggard.

The imperious demands of health forced him to take some notice of his
condition; and he was about to put on clean clothes, and take some warm
tea about ten in the morning, when the Master's servant came to tell him
that the Seniority desired his presence.

He at once knew that it must be for his irregularity of the previous
night, which, in the agitation of other thoughts, had not occurred to
him before.  He remembered, too, that the Senior Dean had only recently
threatened him that, in consequence of his late misdoings, the next
offence would be visited with summary and final punishment.

Kennedy received rather hard treatment at the hand of the Senior Dean,
who was a very worthy and excellent man, but so firm and punctilious
that he could neither conceive nor tolerate the existence of beings less
precise in their nature than himself.  Kind and well-intentioned, he was
utterly unfit for the guidance of young men, because he was totally
deficient in those invaluable qualities--sympathy and tact.  He had
early taken a dislike to Kennedy, in consequence of some very harmless
frivolities of his freshman's year.  Kennedy, in his frolicsome and
happy moods, had, in ways, childish, perhaps, but completely harmless,
offended the sensitive dignity of the college official, and these
trivial eccentricities the Dean regarded as heinous faults--the symptoms
of a reckless and irreverent character.  There was one particular
transaction which gave him more than usual offence, in which Kennedy,
hearing a very absurd story at a don's party, while the Dean was
present, parodied it with such exquisite humour and such complete
command of countenance, that all the other men, in spite of the official
presence, had indecorously broken into fits of laughter.  It is a great
pity when rulers and teachers take such terrible fright at little
outbreaks of mere animal and boyish spirits.

The Dean was inclined therefore from the first to take the most serious
view of Kennedy's proceedings, even when they were not as questionable
as recently they had been.  Instead of trying to enter into a young
man's feelings and temptations with consideration and forbearance, the
Dean regarded them from a moral watchtower of unapproachable altitude,
and hence to him the errors which he was sometimes obliged to punish
were not regarded as human failings, but as monstrous and inexplicable
phenomena.  He could not in the least understand Kennedy; he only looked
at him as a wild, and objectionable, and irregular young man; while
Kennedy reciprocated his pity by a hardly-concealed contempt.

So, as Kennedy took cap and gown, and walked across the court to the
combination-room, he became pretty well aware that a very heavy sentence
was hanging over his head.  He cared little for it; nothing that Saint
Werner's or its authorities could do, would wound him half so deeply as
what he was already suffering, or cause the iron to rankle more
painfully in his soul.  He felt as a man who is in a dream.

He stood before them with a look of utter vacancy and listlessness, the
result partly of physical weariness, partly of complete indifference.
He was aware that the Dean, undisturbed this time, was haranguing him to
his heart's content, but he had very little notion of what he was
saying.  At last his ear caught the question--

"Have you any explanation to offer of your conduct, Mr Kennedy?"

He betrayed how little he had been attending by the reply--

"What conduct, sir?"

The Dean ruffled his plumage, and said with asperity--

"Your conduct last night, sir."

"I was wandering in the fields, sir."

"Wandering in the fields!"  In the Dean's formal and regular mind such a
proceeding was wholly unintelligible; fancy a sensible member of a
college wandering in the fields on a wet stormy night past twelve
o'clock!  "Really, Mr Kennedy, you must excuse us, but we can hardy
accept so fantastic an explanation; we can hardly believe that you had
no ulterior designs."

Kennedy was bothered and fretful; he was not thinking of Deans or
Seniors just then; his thoughts were reverting to his father's
implacable anger, and to Julian's forbidding him to hope for the love of
Violet Home.  Weary of the talking, and careless of explaining anything
to them, and with a short return of his old contempt, he wished to cut
short the discussion, and merely said--

"I can't help what you accept or what you believe."

The Seniors had a little discussion among themselves, in which the
opinion of Mr Norton appeared to be over-borne by the majority of
votes, and then the Senior Dean said shortly--

"Mr Kennedy, we have come to the decision that it is undesirable for
you to remain at Saint Werner's at present, until you have mended your
ways, and taken a different view of the duties and responsibilities of
college life.  You are rusticated for a year.  You must leave
to-morrow."

Kennedy bowed and left the room.  He, too, had been coming to a
decision, and one that rendered all minor ones a matter of no
consequence to him.  During all the wet, and feverish, and sleepless
night he had been determining what to do, and the event of this morning
confirmed him still further.  He was rusticated for a year; where could
he go?  Not to his father and his home, where every eye would look on
him as a disgraced and characterless man; not to any of his relations or
friends, who would regard him perhaps as a shame and burden;--no, there
was but one home for him, and that was the long home, undisturbed
beneath the covering of the grave.

The burden and mystery of life lay heavily on him--its lasting
calamities and vanishing joys, its trials and disappointments.  He would
try whether, in a new state of life, the same distorted individuality
was a necessary possession.  Would it be necessary there also to live
two lives in one, to have a soul, within whose precincts curse wrestled
with blessing, good with evil, and life with death?  As life went with
him then, he would rather escape from it even into annihilation; he
groaned under it, and in spite of all he had heard or read, he had no
fear whatever of the after-death.  If he had _any_ feeling about _that_,
it was a feeling of curiosity alone.  He could not wholly condemn
himself: he felt that however much evil might have mastered him good was
the truest and most distinctive element of his being.  He loved it even
when he abandoned it, and yielded himself to sin.  He could not believe
that for these frailties, he would be driven into an existence of
unmitigated pain.

He had no fear, no shadow of fear of the state of death, for he forgot
that he would carry himself, his unchanged being--Conscience, Habit and
Memory--into the other world.  What he dreaded was the spasm of dying--
the convulsion that was to snap the thousand silver strings in the harp
of life.  This he shuddered at, but he consoled himself that it would be
over in a moment.

He took no food that day, but wrote to his father, to Eva, to Julian,
Violet, and De Vayne.  He told them his purpose, and prayed their
forgiveness for all the wrongs he had done them.  And then there seemed
no more to do.  With weak unsteady steps he paced his room, and looked
at the old Swiss chamois-gun above the door.  He took it down and
handled it.  It was a coarse clumsy weapon, and he could not trust it to
effect his purpose.  Shunning observation, he walked by back streets and
passages until he came to a gunsmith's shop, where he bought a large
pistol, under pretence of wanting it for the purposes of travel.

He carried it home himself, but instead of returning straight to his
rooms, he was tempted to stroll for a last time about the grounds.  The
delightful softness of the darkening air on that spring evening, and the
cheerful gleam of lamps leaping up here and there between the trees, and
flickering on the quiet river, enticed him up the glorious old entwined
avenue into the shadow of the great oaks beyond, until he found himself
leaning between the weeping willows over the bridge of Merham Hall,
looking on the still grey poetic towers, and the three motionless
reposing swans, and the gloaming of the west.  And so, still thinking,
thinking, thinking, he slowly wandered home.

As he had determined to commit suicide that night, it mattered little to
him at what hour it was done, and opening the first book on the table,
he tried to kill time until it grew later and darker.  The book happened
to be a Bible, and conscious how much it jarred with his present frame
of mind, and his guilty purpose, he threw it down again; _but not until
his eye had caught the words_:--

"AND HE SAW THE ANGEL OF THE LORD STANDING IN THE WAY."

The verse haunted him against his will, till he half shuddered at the
dim light which the moon made, as it struggled through the curtains only
partially drawn, into the quaint old room.  He would delay no longer,
and loaded the pistol with a dreadful charge, which should not fail of
carrying death.

Some fancy seized him to put out the lights, and then with a violent
throbbing at the heart, and a wild prayer for God's mercy at that
terrible hour, he took the pistol in his hand.

At that very instant,--when there was hardly the motion of a hair's
breadth between him and fate,--what was it that startled his attention,
and caused his hand to drop, and fixed him there with open mouth and
wild gaze, and caused him to shiver like the leaves of the acacia in a
summer wind?

Right before him,--half hidden by the window curtains, and half drawing
them back,--clear and distinct he saw the spirit of his dead mother with
uplifted finger and sad reproachful eyes fixed upon her son.  The
countenance so sorrowfully beautiful, the long bright gleaming of the
white robe, the tresses floating down over the shoulders like a golden
veil, for one instant he saw them, not dim and shadowy like the fading
outlines of a dream, but with all the marked full character of living
vision.

"Oh mother, mother!" he whispered, as he stretched out his hands, and
sank trembling upon his knees, and bowed his head; but as he raised his
head again, there was nothing there; only the glimmer of lamps about the
court, and the pale moonlight streaming through the curtains, partly
drawn, into the quaint old room.

Unable to trust himself with the murderous weapon in his hand even for a
moment, yet swept from his evil purpose by the violent reflux of new and
better thoughts, he fired the pistol into the air.  The barrel,
enormously overloaded, burst in the discharge, and uttering a cry, he
fell fainting, with his right hand shattered, to the ground.

His cry and the loud report of the explosion raised the alarm, and as
the men rushed up and forced open the door of his room, they found him
weltering in his blood upon the floor.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

EVA ENTERS THE CHAPEL.

  "I took it for a faery vision
  Of some bright creatures of the element,
  That in the colours of the rainbow live
  And play i' the plighted clouds; I was awe-struck,
  And, as I passed, I worshipped."
  Comus.

The long, long illness that followed, and the weary time which it took
to heal the mutilated hand, proved the greatest blessings that could
have befallen the weak and erring heart of Edward Kennedy.  They spared
him the necessity of that heart-rending meeting with those whom he best
loved, the dread of which had been the most powerful incitement to urge
upon him the thought of suicide.  They gave him time to look before and
after--they relieved the painful tension of his overwrought mind--they
calmed him with the necessity for quiet thought and deep rest after the
anguish and turmoil of the bygone months.

When he awoke to consciousness, Eva was sitting by his bedside in the
sick-room.  Slowly the well-remembered objects and the beloved face
broke upon his recollection, but at first he could remember nothing
more, nor connect the strange present with the excited past.  Still more
slowly--as when one breaks the azure sleep of some unruffled mountain
mere by the skimming of a stone, and for a long time the clear images of
blue sky, and wreathing cloud, and green mountain-top, are shaken and
confused on the tremulous and twinkling wave, but unite together into
the old picture when the water has recovered its glassy smoothness--so
still more slowly did Kennedy's troubled memory reflect the incidents,
(alas! unbeautiful and threatening incidents), of the preceding days.
They came back to him as he lay there quite still; and then he groaned.

"Hush! dearest Edward," said Eva, who had watched his face, and guessed
from its expressive workings the progress of his thoughts; "hush, we are
with you, and all is going on well.  Your hand is healing."

He found that his right hand was tightly and firmly bandaged, and kept
still by a splint.

"Was it much hurt?  Shall I recover the use of it?"

"Yes, almost certainly, Dr Leesby says.  I will tell papa that you are
awake."

"Is he very, very angry?" asked poor Kennedy.

"He has forgiven all, dear," she said, kissing his forehead.  "It was
all very dreadful,"--and a cold shiver ran over her--"but none of us
will ever allude to it again.  Banish it from your thoughts, Eddy; we
will leave Camford as soon as you can be moved."

She went to fetch her father, and as he came in and leant fondly over
his son's sick-bed, and grasped warmly his unwounded hand, tears of
afflicting memory coursed each other fast down the old man's cheeks.  He
had been hard, too hard upon Edward; perhaps his severity had driven him
of late into such bad courses, and to the brink of such an awful and
disgraceful end; perhaps if he had been kinder, gentler, more
sympathising for this first offence, he might have been saved the
anguish of driving his poor boy to lower and wilder depths of sin and
sorrow.  It was all over now; and amid the apparent wreck of all his
hopes, even after the death-blows which recent events had dealt to his
old pride in his noble child, he yet regarded him as he lay there--
wounded and in such a way--with all the pity of a Christian's
forgiveness, with all the fondness of a father's love.

"Oh, father, I have suffered unspeakably.  If God ever raises me to
health and strength again, I vow with all my heart to serve Him as I
have never done before."

"Yes, Edward, I trust and believe it; think no more of the past; let the
dead bury their dead.  The golden present is before you, and you will
have two friends who never desert the brave man--your Maker and
yourself."

A silence followed, and then Eva said, "I have just seen Dr Leesby,
Eddy, and he says that if you are now quite yourself, and the
light-headedness has ceased, you may be moved on Monday."

"And to-day is?--I have lost all count of time."

"To-day is Saturday.  Won't it be charming, dear, to find ourselves once
more at home; quietly at home, with no one but ourselves, and our own
love to make us happy."

"And what am I to do, Eva?"

"Hush, Eddy; sufficient for the day--"

"Does she know, Eva?  Do you ever hear from her now?"

"Yes, often--but do not think too much of those things just yet."

"And Julian?"

"He has often come to ask after you," she said blushing, "but he is
afraid to see you, lest it should do you harm just now."

"Perhaps he is right.  We are not all enemies, then?"

"Enemies with Julian and Violet?  _Oh no_."

Though the engagement of Kennedy with Violet had been broken off by the
common desire of Julian and Mr Kennedy, the two families still
continued their affectionate intercourse, and bewailed the sad necessity
which drove them to a step so painful, yet so unavoidably required by
the welfare of all concerned.  And from the first they hoped that all
might yet be well, while some among them began to fancy that if Kennedy
and Violet should ever be united, it would not be the only close bond
between hearts already full of mutual affection.

So Julian still came daily during Kennedy's illness to see Eva and Mr
Kennedy, and to inquire after the sufferer's health.  And sometimes he
took them for a walk in the grounds or the immediate neighbourhood of
Camford, a place which they had never visited before, and which to them
was full of interest.

Eva had often heard of the glories of Saint Werner's chapel, and on the
Sunday she asked Julian if it would be possible for her to go with her
father to the evening service there.

"Oh yes," said Julian; "certainly.  I will get one of the Fellows to
take you in.  It is a remarkable sight, and I think you ought to go."

The Sunday evening came, and Julian escorted them to the ante-chapel,
and showed them the various sculptures and memorials of mighty names.
They then waited by the door till some Fellow whom Julian knew should
pass into the chapel to escort them to a vacant place in the Fellows'
seats.

Saint Werner's Chapel consists of a single aisle, along the floor of
which are placed rows of benches for the undergraduates; raised above
these to a height of three steps are the long seats appropriated to the
scholars and the Bachelors of Arts; and again, two steps above these are
the seats of the Fellows and Masters of Arts, together with room for
such casual strangers as may chance to be admitted.  In the centre of
these long rows, on either side, are the places for the choristers, men
and boys, and the lofty thrones whence the Deans "look down with
sleepless eyes upon the world."  By the door on either side are the
red-curtained and velvet-cushioned seats of the Master and Vice-master,
beyond whom sit the noblemen and fellow-commoners.  By the lectern and
reading-desk is a step of black and white marble, which extends to the
altar, on which are two candlesticks of massive silver; and over them
some beautiful carved oaken work covers a great painting, flanked on
either side by old gilded pictures of the Saviour and the Madonna.
Imagine this space all lighted from wall to wall by wax candles, and at
the end by large lamps which shed a brighter and softer light, and
imagine it filled, if you can, by five hundred men in snowy surplices,
and you have a faint fancy of the scene which broke on the eyes of Mr
Kennedy and Eva, as they passed between the statues of the ante-chapel,
and under the pealing organ into the inner sanctuary of Saint Werner's
chapel.

  "Could they behold--
  Who, less insensible than sodden clay
  In a sea river's bed at ebb of tide--
  Could have beheld with undelighted heart
  So many happy youths, so wide and fair
  A congregation in its budding-time
  Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once
  So many divers samples from the growth
  Of life's sweet season--could have seen unmoved
  That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers,
  Decking the matron temples of a place,
  So famous through the world?"

It was Mr Norton whom Julian caught hold of as an escort for his
friends into the chapel.  I well remember, (who that saw it does not?)
that entrance.  It was rather late; the organ was playing a grand
overture, the men were all in their seats, and the service just going to
begin, when Eva entered leaning on Mr Norton's arm, and followed by her
father and Julian.  Many of the Saint Werner's men had seen her walking
in the grounds the last day or two, and as Kennedy's sister a peculiar
interest attached to her just then.  But she needed no such accidental
source of interest to attract the liveliest attention of such keen and
warm enthusiasts for beauty as the Camford undergraduates.  Ladies are
comparatively rare apparitions in that semi-monastic body of scholars;
and ladies both young and lovely are rare indeed.  So as Eva entered, so
young and so fair, the bright and graceful and beautiful Eva--with that
exquisite rose-tinge which the air of Orton-on-the-Sea had given her,
and the folded softness of the tresses which flowed down beside her
perfect face, and the light of beaming eyes seen like jewels under her
long eyelashes as she bent her glance upon the ground--as Eva entered, I
say, leaning on Mr Norton's arm, and touched, with the floating of her
pale silk dress, the surplices of the Saint Werner's men as they sat on
either side down the narrow passage, it was no wonder that every single
eye from that of the Senior Dean [Pace Decani dixerim!] to that of the
little chorister boy was turned upon her for an instant, as she passed
up to the only vacant seats, and Mr Norton caused room to be made for
her beside the tutor's cushion by the chaplain's desk.  She was happily
unconscious of the admiration, and the perfect simplicity of her sweet
girlish unconsciousness added a fresh charm to the whole grace of her
manner and appearance.  Only by the slightest possible blush did she
show her sense of her unusual position as the cynosure for the admiring
gaze of five hundred English youths; and that too though the dark and
handsome countenance of Mr Norton glowed visibly with a brighter
colour, (as though he were conscious of the thought respecting him,
which darted across many an undergraduate's mind), and even the face of
Julian, as he walked to the scholars' seats among the familiar ranks of
his compeers, was flushed with the crimson of a sensitiveness which he
would fain have hidden.

And I cannot help it, if even during the noble service--even amid the
sound "Of solemn psalms and silver litanies," the eyes of many men
wandered towards a sweet face, and gazed upon it as they might have
gazed upon a flower, and if the thoughts of many men were absorbed
unwontedly in other emotions than those of prayer; nor can I help it if
Julian was one of those whose eyes and thoughts were so employed.

What an evening star she was!  And how her very presence filled all
hearts with a livelier sense of happiness and hope, and sweet pure
yearnings for wedded calm and bridal love!  But she--innocent young
Eva--little knew of the sensation she had caused by the rare beauty of
her blossoming womanhood.  _Her_ whole heart was in the act of worship,
except when it wandered for a moment to her poor sick Eddy, whom they
had left alone, or for another moment to one whom she could not but see
before her in the scholars' seats.  She did not know that men were
looking at her, as she raised her clear warbling voice amid the silvery
trebles of the choir, and uttered with all the expressiveness of genuine
emotion those strains of poetry and passion which thrilled from the
heart to the harp of the warrior-prophet and poet-king.  And never did
truer prayers come from a woman's lips than those which her heart
offered as her head was bowed that night.

The service was over, and the congregation streamed out.  That evening
the ante-chapel was fuller than usual of men, who stayed nominally to
hear the organ; but besides those musical souls, who always linger to
hear the voluntary, or to talk in little groups, there were others who,
on that pretence, waited to catch another glimpse--a last glimpse of
eyes whose deep and lovely colour had flowed into their souls.  They
were disappointed though, for Eva dropped her veil.  With a graceful bow
to Mr Norton, which he returned with courteous dignity, she took
Julian's proffered arm, and walked out into the court, her father
following.  A proud man was Julian that evening, and the subject of
kindly envy to not a few.

But that little incident--the many eyes that had seen his treasure--
determined Julian to take the step which he had long decided upon in his
secret heart.  He was half-jealous of the open, unconcealed admiration
which Eva had excited, and it made him fear lest another should approach
the object of his love, and occupy a place in the heart which he had not
even demanded as his own.  He was positively in a hurry.  What if some
undergraduate should get an introduction to Eva--some gay and handsome
Adonis--and should suddenly carry away her heart?

So when Mr Kennedy went into the sick-room to read to Edward the
lessons for the day, and Julian stayed with Eva in the sitting-room, he
drew his chair beside hers, and they began to talk about Saint Werner's.

"Do you think you shall ever be a Fellow, Julian?  I should so like you
to be?"

"And if I am, I shall hope very soon to exchange it for a happier
fellowship, Eva."

She wouldn't see what he meant, so he said, "Eva, shall I read to you?"

"Yes," she said, "I should like it so much; I used to enjoy so much the
poetry we read at Grindelwald."

He took down Coleridge's poems from the shelf, and read--

  "All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
  Are all but ministers of love,
  And feed his sacred flame."

He went on, watching her colour change with the musical variations of
his voice, until he came to the verse--

  "I told her how he pined,--and ah
  The deep, the low, the pleading tone
  In which I sang another's love
  Interpreted my own."

He saw her breast heaving with agitation, and throwing away the book, he
bent down beside her, and looked up into her deep eyes, and said, "Oh,
Eva, what need of concealment?  You have read it long ago, have you not?
I love you, Eva, love you so passionately--you cannot tell the depth of
my love.  Do you return it, Eva?" he said as he gained possession of her
hand.

She had won him then--the dream of her latter life.  This was the noble
Julian kneeling at her side.  She trembled for very joy, and
whispered--"Oh, Julian, Julian, do you not see that I loved you from the
first day we met?"  She regretted the speech the next moment, as though
it had been wanting in maidenly reserve, but it was the first warm
natural utterance of her heart; and Julian sprang up in an ecstasy of
joy, and as she rose he claimed as his due a lover's kiss.

She blushed crimson, but suffered him to sit down beside her; and they
sat, hardly knowing anything but the great fact that they loved each
other, till Mr Kennedy's voice had ceased in the adjoining room, and he
came in.

"Oh, there you are," he said.  "Edward is sinking to sleep.  How good of
you to be so quiet!"

They rose up, and Julian led her to him with her hand in his, and his
arm supporting her.  "Mr Kennedy," he said, "I am going to ask you for
the most priceless jewel you possess."

"What?  Is it indeed so?  Ah, you wicked Julian, do not rob me of Eva
yet.  She is too young; and now that Edward seems likely to be ill so
long--ah, me!  I am bereaved of my children.  Well, well, I suppose it
must be so.  Come here, darling, to the old father you are going to
desert; I daresay Julian won't grudge me one kiss."

He kissed her tenderly, and she clung about his neck as she whispered,
"But it will not be yet for a long long time, papa."

"What youth calls long, my Eva; but not long for those who are walking
into the shadow down the hill."

O happy, happy lovers! how gloriously that night did the stars shine out
for you in the deep, unfathomable galaxies of heaven, and the dew fall,
and the moon dawn into a sky yet flushed with the long-unfading purple
of the fading day!  Yet there was sadness mixed with their happiness as
they heard, until they parted, the plaintive murmurs of Kennedy's fitful
sleep, and thought of all the sufferings of their brother, and how
nearly, how very nearly, he had been hurried from the midst of them by
self-inflicted death.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

REPENTANCE.

  "This world will not believe a man repents,
  And this wise world of ours is mainly right
  For seldom does a man repent, and use
  Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch
  Of blood and nature wholly out of him,
  And make all clean, and plant himself afresh."
  Tennyson's _Idylls_.

Beautiful Orton-on-the-Sea!  Who that has been there does not long to
return there again and again, and gaze on the green and purple of its
broad bay, and its one little islet, and the golden sands that stretch
along its winding shore, and its glens clothed with fir trees and
musical with the voice of many rills?

It was there that Kennedy had lived from childhood, and it was there
that he now returned to spend at home the year of his rustication.  They
arrived at home on the Monday evening, and from that time forward
Kennedy rapidly gained health and strength, and was able to move about
again, though his hand healed but slowly, and it took months to enable
him to use it without pain.

On that little islet of the bay was Kennedy's favourite haunt.  It was a
place where the top of a low cliff was sheltered by a clump of trees
which formed a natural bower, from whence he would gaze untired for
hours on the rising and falling of the tide.  A little orphan cousin
whom Mr Kennedy had adopted, used to row him over to this retirement,
and while the boy stayed in their little boat, and fished, or hunted for
seabirds' nests in the undisturbed creeks and inlets, Kennedy with some
volume of the poets in his hand, would rest under the waving branches,
and gaze upon the glancing waves.

And at times, when, like a great glowing globe, the sun sank, after the
fiery heat of some burning summer day, into the crimsoned waters, and
filled the earth, and the heavens, and the sea with silent splendours, a
deep feeling of solemnity, such as he had never before experienced,
would steal over Kennedy's mind.  He could not but remember, that, but
for God's special grace thwarting the nearly-accomplished purpose of his
sin, the eyes which were filled with such indescribable visions of
glory, would have been closed in death, and the brow on which the
sea-wind was beating in such cool and refreshful perfume would have been
crumbling under the clammy sod.  Surely it must be for some great thing
that his life had been saved: it was his own no longer; it must be
devoted to mighty purposes of love and toil.  Kennedy began to long for
some work of danger and suffering as his portion upon earth: he longed
ambitiously for the wanderings of the apostle and the crown of the
martyr.  The good deeds of a conventional piety, the quiet routine of a
commonplace benevolence seemed no meet or adequate employment for his
highly-wrought mind.  No, he would sail to another world; there he would
join a new colony in clearing away the primeval depths of some virgin
forest, and tilling the glebes of a rich and untried soil; and, living
among them, he would make that place a centre for wide evangelisation--
the home of religious enthusiasms and equal laws; or he would go as a
missionary to the savage and the cannibal, and, sailing from reef to
reef, where the coral-islands of the Pacific mirror in the deep waters
of their calm lagoon the reed-huts of the savage, and the feathery
coronal of tropic trees, he would devote his life to reclaiming from
ignorance and barbarism the waste places of a degraded humanity.

Such were the visions and purposes that floated through his mind--partly
the fantastic fancies of dreamy hours, partly the unconscious desire to
fly from a land which reminded him too painfully of vanished hopes, and
from a scene which had been the witness of his error and disgrace.
Perhaps, most of all, he was influenced by the desire to escape from a
house which constantly recalled the image of a lost love--a lost love
that he never hoped to regain; for Kennedy thought--though but little
had been said about it--that Violet had deliberately and finally
rejected him in scorn for the courses he had followed.

But he wished, before he quite made up his mind as to his future career,
to see Violet once more, and bid her a last farewell.  Not daring to
write and announce his intention lest she should refuse to meet him
again, and unwilling to trust his secret to any of her family, he
determined to see her by surprise, and enjoy for one last hour the
unspeakable happiness of sitting by her side.

"Father," he said, "I am well now, or nearly well will you let me go on
a little journey?"

"A journey?--where?  We will all go together, Edward, if you want any
change of air and scene."

He shook his head.  "You can guess," he said, "where I wish to go for
the last time."

"But do you think you can travel alone, Eddy, with your poor wounded
hand?" asked Eva.

"Oh yes; the splints keep it safe, and I shall only be two days or so
away."

They suffered him to fulfil his whim, although they felt that if he saw
Violet, the meeting could hardly fail to be full of pain.

It was deep in autumn when he started, and arriving at Ildown, took up
his abode in the little village inn.  He kept himself as free from
observation as he could, and begged the landlady, who recognised him,
not to mention his arrival to any one.  She had seen him on his former
visit, and remembered favourably his genial good-humour and affable
bearing.  He told her frankly that he had come to say good-bye to Miss
Home, whom he might not see again; but he did not wish to go to the
house--could the landlady tell him anything about their movements?

"Why, yes; I do happen to know," she said, "and I suppose there can't be
no harm in telling you, for I heard Master Cyril say as how they were
all a-going a-gipseying to-morrow in the wood near the King's Oak."

"And when do you think they will start?"

"Oh, they'll start at ten, sir, in the morning, for I'm a-going to lend
'em my little trap to carry the perwisions in, and that."

This would suit Kennedy capitally, and musing on the meeting of the
morrow, he sank into a doze in the armchair.  A whispering awoke him,
and he was far from reassured by overhearing the following colloquy:--

"Who be that in the parlour?" asked a rustic.

"Oh, that's the young gentleman as wer' Miss Violet's sweetheart," said
the barmaid confidentially; "nobody don't know of it, but I heard the
Missus a-saying so."

"Why bean't he at the house then?"

"Oh, ye know, he ain't her sweetheart no longer; there's been a muddle
somehow, and they do say as how he shot hisself, but he don't seem to be
shot much now, to look at 'im.  He's as likely and proper a young
gentleman as I've seen for a long time."

Taking his candle wearily, Kennedy listened to no more of the
conversation, and went to bed.  His bedroom window looked towards the
pleasant house and garden of Mrs Home, and he did not lie down till he
had seen the light extinguished in the embowered window of Violet's
room.  Next morning he got up betimes, and after dressing himself with
the utmost pain and difficulty, for he did not like to ask for the
assistance which he always had at home since his illness, he went down
to breakfast.  Hardly touching the dainties which the hospitable old
landlady had provided, he strolled off to the wood, almost before Ildown
was a-stir, and sat down in a place, not far from the King's Oak, in a
green hollow, where he was sheltered from sight by the broad tree
trunks, and the tall and graceful ferns.

He had not long to wait, and the time so spent would have been happy if
agitation had not prevented him from enjoying the glories of the scene.
Nowhere was "the gorgeous and melancholy beauty of the sunlit autumnal
landscape more bounteously displayed."  The grand old trees all round
him were burning themselves away in many-coloured flames, and the green
leaves that still lingered amid the rich hues of beautiful decay,
suggested, in their contrasting harmony with their withered brethren,
many a deep moral to the thoughtful mind: and everything that the
thoughts could shape received a deeper emphasis from the unbroken
silence of the wood.

The occupation of his mind made the time pass quickly, and it seemed but
a few minutes when he saw the Homes approaching the King's Oak.  The
boys laid on the greensward the materials for the picnic, and then,
while Violet and Mrs Home seated themselves on a fallen trunk and took
out their work, Julian read to them, and Cyril and Frank walked through
the wood in search of exercise and amusement.

As they passed near the spot where Kennedy was seated, they caught sight
of a squirrel's nest, and Frank was instantly on the alert to reach the
spoil.  While he was scrambling with difficulty up the tall fir, Cyril
stayed at the foot, and Kennedy determined to call him.  Cyril had grown
into a tall handsome boy of seventeen, and Kennedy knew that he could be
trusted to help him, for he had won the boy's affection thoroughly when
they were together in Switzerland.

"Cyril!"

The sound of a voice in that quiet place, out of earshot of his friends,
startled Cyril, and he turned hastily round.

"Who's there?"

"Edward Kennedy.  Come here, Cyril, and let me speak to you; Frank does
not notice us."

"Edward--you here?" said Cyril.  "Why don't you come and see mother?"--
he was going to say Violet, but he checked himself.

"I want to see, not Mrs Home, but Violet," said Kennedy; "you know our
engagement is broken off, Cyril; I have only come to say farewell,
before I leave England, perhaps for ever.  Call Violet here alone."

Cyril, who had heard of Kennedy's wild ways at college, and of the
dreadful story that had raised against him the suspicion of intended
suicide, hesitated a moment, as though he were half-afraid or unwilling
to fulfil the commission.  But Kennedy said to him sorrowfully--"You
need not fear, Cyril, that you will be doing wrong.  Tell Frank first,
and then you can stay near, while I speak for a few minutes to your
sister."

Cyril called down his brother from the tree, and told him that Kennedy
was there.  "Stay here, Frankie, while I fetch Violet; Edward wants to
bid her good-bye."

He ran off, and said--"Come here, Vi; Frank and I have something to show
you."

"Is it anything very particular?" said Violet, "for I shall disturb
Julian's reading if I go away."

"Yes, something very particular."

"Won't you tell me what?"

"Why, a squirrel's nest for one thing, which Frank has found.  Do come."

"You imperious boys, at home for your holidays!" she said, smiling;
"Punch hasn't half cured you of your tyranny to us poor sisters."  She
rose to follow him, and when they had gone a few steps, he said--

"Vi, Edward Kennedy is in that little dell there, behind the trees; he
has come, he says, to bid you good-bye."

The sudden announcement startled her, but she only leaned on Cyril's
shoulder, and walked on, while he almost heard the beating of her heart.

"We will stay here, Violet; you see him there."  Cyril pointed to a
tree, against whose trunk Kennedy was leaning, with his eyes bent upon
the ground, looking at the red splashes on the withered leaves, and the
golden buds embroidered on "elf-needled mat of moss."  Hearing the sound
of footsteps he raised his head, and a moment after he was by Violet's
side.

Taking her hand without a word, while her bosom shook with deep sobs as
she saw his pale face and maimed hand, he led her to the gnarled and
serpentine roots of a great oak, and seated her there, while he sat
lowly at her feet upon the red ground, "With beddings of the pining
umbrage tinged."

How was it that she did not shrink from him?  How was it that she seemed
content to rest close beside him, and suffered her hand to rest upon his
shoulder as he stooped?  Did she love him still after all?  Had Julian
deceived him with the assertion of her acquiescence in the termination
of their engagement?  A strange rush of new hope filled his heart.  He
would test the true state of her affections.

"I have come," he said, in that tone of voice which was so dear to her
remembrance--"I have come, Violet, to bid you farewell for ever.  Since
you have rejected me, I have neither heart nor hope, and I shall leave
England as soon as I may go."

The tears were falling fast from her blue eyes.  "Oh, Edward," she said,
"why do you bid me farewell?  Do you not think that I love you still?"

"Still, Violet?  You love _me_, the ruined, dishonourable, disgraced--
the--" She would not hear the dreadful word, but laid her finger on his
lip.

"Oh, hush, Edward!  Those words are not for you.  You may have sinned;
they tell me you _have_ sinned.  But have you not repented too, Edward?
Have the lessons of sickness and anguish taught you nothing?  I am sure
they have.  I could not wed one who was living an evil life, but now I
see your true self once more."

"Then you love me still?"  The words were uttered in astonishment, and
the emotions of unexpected joy almost overpowered him.

"I never ceased to love you, Edward.  Do you think that I am one to
trifle with your heart, or to use it as a plaything for me to triumph
by?  Never, never.  Had you died, or worse still, had you continued in
sinful ways, I could not even then have ceased to love you, though we
might have been separated until death.  But now I read other things in
your face, Edward, and I will be yours--your betrothed--again.  Come,
let us join the rest.  There is not one of us but will welcome you with
joy."

"Nay, nay, let us stay here for a moment," he cried, as she rose up;
"let me realise the joyful sensation which your words have given me; let
me sit here, Violet, a few moments at your feet, and feel the touch of
your hand in mine, and look at your face, that I may recover strength
again."

They sat there in silence, and the thoughts of both recurred to that
other scene where they had sat on the great boulder under the shadow of
the Alps, and watched the rose-film steal over their white summits on
the golden summer eve.  It was the same love that still filled their
souls--the same love, but more sober, more quiet, more like the love of
maturer years, less like the passionate love of boy and girl.  It was
more of an autumnal love than of old; and if the departing summer had
flung new hues over the forest and the glen, they were the duller hues
that recalled to mind the greater glory of the past.  It was round a
dying year that Autumn was "folding his jewelled arms."  Yet they were
happy--very happy, and they felt that, come what might, nothing on earth
could part them now.

When Kennedy had grown more calm, Violet called for Cyril, and bade him
break the fact of Edward's presence to her mother and Julian.  The boy
bounded off to do her bidding, and in a few moments Kennedy was seated
among the Homes as one of them.  They received him with no simulated
affection; Frank and Cyril helped to take away all awkwardness from the
meeting by their high spirits, and when they all sat down on the velvet
mosses to their rural meal, every one of them had banished the painful
hauntings of the past.  Of course Kennedy accompanied them home; they
drove back in the quiet evening, and Kennedy sat by Violet's side.

He stayed at Ildown till Julian returned to Saint Werner's, and, as was
natural, he revolved in his mind continually his future course.  At last
he determined to talk it over with Violet, and told her of all his
heroic longings for a life of toil and endeavour, if need were, even of
banishment and death--all the high thoughts that had filled his heart as
he sat alone in the island by Orton-on-the-Sea.

"Let us wait," she said, "Edward.  God will decide all this for us in
time, and if duty seems to call you to the hard life of missionary or
colonist, I am ready to go with you."

"But don't you feel yourself, Violet, a kind of commonplace-ness about
English life; a silver-slippered religion, a pettiness that does not
satisfy, a sense of comfort incompatible with the strong desire to do
the work which others will not do in the neglected corners of the
vineyard?"

"No," she answered, smiling, "I am content:--

  "`The trivial round, the common task
  Should furnish all we ought to ask;
  Room to deny ourselves--a road
  To bring us daily nearer God.'"

"True," he said; "well, I must try not to carry ambition into my
religion."

"Of course you return to Saint Werner's next autumn?"

He mused long.  "Ah, Violet, you cannot conceive how awful to my
imagination that place has grown.  And to return after rustication, and
live among men who will regard me with galling curiosity, and dons who
will look at me sideways with suspicion--can I ever bear it?"

"Why not, Edward?  They cannot affect _you_ by their opinion.  I heard
you say the other day that your heart was becoming an island, and the
waters round it broadening every day.  If the island itself be beautiful
and happy, it need not reck of the outer world."

"You are right, Violet.  I will return if need be, and bear all meekly
which I have deserved to bear.  The one sorrow will be gone," he said,
as he drew her nearer to his side, "that drove me into--Yes, you are
right.  I will go away home to-morrow, when Julian starts, and begin
from the very first day to read with all my might.  Hitherto I have had
only the bitter lessons of Camford; let us see if I cannot gain some of
her honours too."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

BRUCE IN TROUBLE.

  "Nuda nec arva placent, umbrasque negantia molles,
  Nec dudum vetiti me laris augit amor."
  Milton.

Bruce, when expelled from Saint Werner's, thought very little of his
disgrace.  It hardly ruffled the calm stream of his self-complacency,
and, for some reasons, he was rather glad that it had happened.  He did
not like Camford; he had never taken to reading, and being thus debarred
from all intellectual pleasures, he had grown thoroughly tired of late
breakfasts, boating on the muddy Iscam, noisy wines, and interminable
whist parties.  Moreover, he had made far less sensation at Camford than
he had expected.  Somehow or other he had a dim consciousness that men
saw through him; that his cleverness did not conceal his superficiality,
nor his easy manners blind men's eyes to his ungenerous and selfish
heart.  Even his late phase of popular scepticism was less successful at
Camford than it would have been at places of less steady diligence and
less sound acquirements.  In fact, Bruce imagined that he was by no mean
appreciated.  The sphere was too narrow for him; he was quite sure that
in the arena of London society and political life he was qualified to
play a far more conspicuous part.

Nor did he believe that Sir Rollo Bruce would care for his expulsion any
more than he did himself; he fancied that his father was quite above the
middle-class prejudices of respect and reverence for pedantry and
pedagogues, and was too much a man of the world to be disturbed by a
slight contretemps like this.  He wrote home a careless note to mention
the fact that his Saint Werner's career was ended, and attributed this
result to a mere escapade at a wine-party, which had been distorted by
rumour, and exaggerated by malice into a serious offence.

So when Vyvyan gaily entered his father's house, he felt rather
light-hearted than otherwise.  He expected that very likely some party
would be going on, and quite looked forward to an agreeable dance.  When
he arrived, however, Vyvyan House was quite silent; a dim light came
from a single window, but that was all.

"Sir Rollo and my mother not at home, I suppose," he said to the plushed
and powdered footman.

"Yes, sir, they're in the library."

He entered; they were sitting on opposite sides of the fire, with a
single lamp between them.  They were not doing anything, and Lady Bruce
appeared to have been crying; but neither of them took any notice of his
entrance beyond turning their heads.

"How do you do?" he said, advancing gracefully; but not a little
surprised at so silent and moody a greeting.

"How do you do?" was his father's cold reply.

"Dear me--I quite expected to find a party going on, but you seem quite
gloomy.  Is anything the matter?"

"Matter, sir!" exclaimed Sir Rollo, starting up vehemently from his
chair, and angrily pacing the room.  "Matter!  Upon my word, Vyvyan,
your impudence is sublime."

"You surprise me.  What have I done?"

"Done!" retorted his father, with intense scorn.  "You have been
expelled from College; you have wasted your whole opportunities of
education; you have thrown away the boundless sums which I have spent in
your interest; you have lived the life of a puppy and a fool, and now
you come back in the uttermost disgrace, with your name involved in I
know not what infamy, and are as cool about it as if you returned to
announce a triumph."

Not deigning a word more, Sir Rollo turned indignantly on his heel and
left Bruce as much astounded by so unexpected a reception as if he had
suddenly trodden on a snake.  He relapsed into uncommon sheepishness,
and hardly knew how to address his mother, who sat sobbing in her
armchair.

"My dear mother," he said at last, "what can be the matter that I am met
by such tornados as my welcome on returning?"

"Don't ask me, Vyvyan.  Your father is naturally angry at your
expulsion, and you have grieved us both.  But, dear Vyvyan, do not put
on such an impertinent and indifferent manner; it annoys Sir Rollo
exceedingly.  Do submit yourself, my dear boy, and he will soon recover
his usual suavity."

"But I never saw him like this before."

"No; these violent fits of temper have only come over him of late, and I
am afraid that there must be some cause for them of which I am unaware."

Bruce sat silent and unhappy.  Expelled from college, and insulted, (as
he called it), at home, he felt truly alone and miserable.  He went up
to his own room, supped there, and coming down next morning to the
awkward meeting with his parents, spoke a few words of regret about his
position.  Sir Rollo barely listened to them, breakfasted in silence,
and immediately afterwards set out for his office.  He did not return
till late in the evening, and continued for some time to spend the days
in this manner, seeing next to nothing of his wife and son, but sternly
forbidding any festivities or balls.

One morning he called Vyvyan into his study before starting.  Bruce laid
aside his novel, yawned, and followed.

"Pray, sir, do you intend to spend _all_ your time in reading novels?"
said Sir Rollo.

"There's nothing else for me to do that I see."

"Very well.  If you suppose that you are going to spend your days in
idleness, you are mistaken.  I give you a week to choose some occupation
that will not involve me in further outlay."

Bruce took out his embroidered pocket-handkerchief, redolent with scent,
and blew his nose affectedly.  On doing so, an unopened envelope dropped
on the floor, out of his pocket; picking it up, he glanced at it, tore
it across, and flung it into the fire.  Sir Rollo immediately picked up
the pieces with the tongs and opened it.

"I see that this is a bill, and I shall proceed to look at it."

"Yes, if you like," said Bruce, in an indifferent tone--"it's from a
dun."

It was a tailor's bill which had been sent after him, and it amounted to
150 pounds.

"And you suppose," said his father, "that I am going to pay these debts
for you?"

"I suppose so, certainly--some day.  Let the dogs wait."

Sir Rollo seemed on the point of a great burst of wrath; his lips
positively quivered and his eye flashed with passion.  He seemed,
however, to control himself,--darted at his son a look of wrath and
scorn, and left the room.  A note that evening informed Lady Bruce that
business detained him from home, and that he might not return for some
days.

A week after Bruce received a letter with foreign post-marks, to the
following effect:--

  DEAR VYVYAN--By the time you receive this, I shall be on the
  Continent, far beyond the reach of the law.

  "I have been living for the last ten years on the money I embezzled
  from the company whose affairs I managed.  The fraud cannot fail of
  being detected almost immediately.

  "I feel acutely the position in which I am forced to leave your
  mother.  I do _not_ pity _you_ in the least.  I gave you the amplest
  opportunity to save yourself from this ruin, if you had not been a
  fool.  You cared for nothing and for nobody but yourself.  You never
  worked hard, though you knew it to be my wish; you assumed an air of
  spurious independence, and affected the fine gentleman.  Your conceit
  and idleness will be their own punishment.  You have made your own
  bed; now you will have to lie in it.

  "ROLLO BRUCE."

The truth was soon known to the world.  Numberless executions were put
into Vyvyan House.  Every available fragment of property was seized by
Sir Rollo's creditors; and as Lady Bruce's private fortune had long been
spent, she and her son were left all but penniless.  The gay and gilded
friends of their summer hours were the first to desert them, and Sir
Rollo's wickedness had created such a gust of indignation, that few came
forward to lend his family the slightest assistance.

When Bruce found himself in this most distressing position--when he sat
with his mother in shame and retirement in obscure lodgings, which had
been taken for them by one of their former servants, and with no
immediate means of livelihood--then first the folly of his past career
revealed itself to his mind in its full proportions.  Lady Bruce's
health was dreadfully affected by the mental anguish through which she
had passed, and it became a positive necessity that Bruce should work
with his head or hands to earn their daily bread.

He found no difficulty in procuring a temporary post in a lawyer's
office as a clerk.  The drudgery was terrible.  Daily, from nine in the
morning to six in the evening, he found himself chained to the desk, and
obliged to go through the dullest and most mechanical routine, the only
respite being half an hour in the middle of the day, which he spent in
dining at an eating-house.  Nursed on the lap of luxury, habituated to
the choicest viands, and accustomed to find every whim fulfilled, this
kind of life was intolerable to him.  The steaming recesses of a squalid
eating-house gave him a sensation of loathing and sickness, and the want
of exercise made him look haggard and wan.  In vain he appealed to men
who had called themselves his father's friends; he found to his cost
that the son of a detected swindler has no friends, and more especially
if his own life have been tainted with suspicion or dishonour.  Poor
Bruce was driven to the very verge of despair.

He applied for a situation in a bank, but he was informed that it could
not be granted him unless he could obtain a certificate of good
character from his college, which, of course, was out of the question.
He tried writing for the press, but his shallow intellectual resources
soon ran dry.  The pittance he could thus earn did not remunerate him
for the toil and wasted health, and even this pittance was too often
cruelly held back.  He made applications in answer to all sorts of
advertisements, but one after another the replies were unfavourable,
until his whole heart died within him.  No intelligence could be
obtained of his father's hiding-place, and before a year had elapsed
since Sir Rollo's bankruptcy and felony had been made known, Lady Bruce
died at her son's lodgings, worn out with misery and shame.

This climax of the young man's misfortunes awoke at last the long
dormant sympathy in his favour.  An effort was made by his few remaining
and unalienated friends to provide for him the means of emigration,
which seemed the only course likely to give him once more a fair start
in life.  But to pay his passage, and provide him with the means of
settling in New Zealand required a considerable sum, and Bruce had to
suffer for weeks the agonies of hope deferred.  And when he glanced over
his past life, he found nothing to help him.  He could not look back
with any comfort; the past was haunted by the phantoms of regret.  His
violent and wilful infancy, his proud, passionate boyhood, his wandering
and wicked youth, afforded him few green spots whereon the eye of
retrospect could rest with calm.  As the wayworn traveller who on some
bright day sat down by the fringed bank of clear fountain or silver
lake, and while he leant to look into its waters, was suddenly dazzled
into madness by the flashing upwards upon him, from the unknown depths,
of some startling image; so Bruce, as he rested by the dusty wayside of
life, and gazed into the dark abysses of recollection, was startled and
horrified, with a more fearful nympholepsy, by the crowding images and
sullen glare of unforgotten and half-forgotten sins.

But in dwelling on his past life, Bruce bethought him that he might
still find friends at school; and not long after his mother's funeral,
he determined to call on his old masters, and get such pecuniary aid as
he could from them and his schoolboy friends.  To come to such a
resolution was the very bitterness of humiliation; but Bruce was now all
eagerness to escape from England, and recommence a new life in other
lands.

He took a third class ticket to Harton, and when he arrived there, was
so overcome with shame that he well-nigh determined to return by the
next train, and leave the town unvisited, at whatever cost; but on
inquiry he found that the next train would not start for some hours, and
meanwhile he fully expected to be seen and recognised by those whom he
had known before.  And yet it was not easy, in that stooping figure,
with the pale cheek and dimmed eye, to recognise the bright and
audacious Vyvyan Bruce, who had been captain of Harton barely three
years before.  Poverty, ruin, disappointment, confinement, guilt, and
sorrow had done their work with marvellous quickness.

Nerving himself to the effort, he turned his face towards Harton, and
walked slowly up the hill.  The reminiscences which the walk recalled
were not happy--rather, far from happy.  It was not because formerly
when he was a flattered, and rich, and handsome, and popular Harton boy,
all the prospects of his life had looked as bright as now they seemed
full of gloom; it was not that then both his parents were living, and
now one was dead, the other disgraced; it was not that then he was full
of health and vigour, and now was feeble and wearied; it was not that
then he seemed to have many friends, and now he hardly knew of one; no,
it was none of these things that affected him most deeply as he caught
sight of the well-known chapel, and strolled up the familiar hill; but
it was the thought, the bitter thought, the cursed thought that there,
as at Camford, _the voice of his brother's blood was crying against htm
from the ground_.

By the time he reached the school buildings, it happened to be just one
o'clock, and from the various school-rooms, the boys were pouring out in
gay and noisy throngs.  The faces were new to him for the most part, and
at first he began to fancy that he should recognise no one.  But at last
he observed a boy looking hard at him, who at length came up and shook
him warmly by the hand.

"How do you do, Bruce?  Ah, I see you don't remember me; true, I was
only in the Shell when you left, but you ought at least to remember your
old fags."

The change of countenance between fifteen and eighteen is however very
great, and it was not without an effort that Bruce recalled in the tall
strong fellow who was talking to him his quondam fag, little Walter
Thornley, now in his turn captain of the eleven, and Head of the school,
whose admiration of Bruce we have already recorded in the first chapter
of this eventful history.

"Where are you off to now?" said Thornley.

"To the Doctor's."

"Well, you'll come and see me afterwards?"

Bruce promised and then walked to see the Doctor, and his old tutor.  To
both he opened his piteous tale, and both of them gave him the most
generous and liberal assistance; they promised also to procure him such
other aid as might lie in their power.  A little lighter in heart, he
went to pay his visit to Thornley, whom he found occupying his old
rooms.  As Bruce recrossed the familiar threshold, the contrasts of past
and present were almost too much for him, and he found it difficult to
restrain his tears.  He stayed but a short time, and then returned to
London to his poor and lonely lodgings.

Walter Thornley heard his story from the tutor, and besides getting a
large subscription for him among his own friends, wrote to ask if Julian
could procure for the emigrant any assistance in Camford.  Julian
received the letter about the middle of the October term in his third
year, and it ran thus:--

  "DEAR HOME--Beyond knowing by rumour that I am head of the school, you
  will, I suppose, hardly remember a boy who was so low in the school as
  I was when you were monitor.  But though you will perhaps have
  forgotten me, I have not forgotten you, or the many kinds acts I
  experienced from you and Lillyston when I was a little new fellow.
  Remembering these, I am emboldened to write, and ask if you or any of
  the old Hartonians are willing to assist poor Bruce to settle in New
  Zealand, now that he has no chance of succeeding well in England?  I
  am sure that _you_ personally will be glad of any opportunity to help
  an old school-fellow in his distress and difficulty, for report tells
  me that Julian Home is as kind-hearted and generous as he was when he
  won the Newry scholarship at Harton.--Believe me to be, my dear Home,
  yours very truly,--WALTER THORNLEY."

Julian had almost forgotten the very existence of Thornley when this
letter recalled him to his mind; but it was one of the pleasures of
Julian's life constantly to receive letters of this kind from former
school-fellows, thanking him for past kindnesses of which he was wholly
unconscious from the simple and natural manner in which they had been
done.  It need hardly be said that he at once complied with the request
which the letter contained, and that, (next to De Vayne's), his own was
the largest contribution towards the handsome sum which the Hartonians
and other Saint Werner's men cheerfully subscribed to assist their
former comrade in his hour of need.

To avoid all unnecessary wounding of Bruce's feelings, the money thus
collected was transmitted to the Doctor to be placed at Bruce's
disposal.  It completed the sum requisite for his outfit, and there was
no longer any obstacle in the way of his immediate departure from
England.  He at once booked his passage by an emigrant ship, and sailed
from England.  The day after his departure, Julian received from him the
following letter:--

  "Dear Julian--Although you are one of those who would `do good by
  stealth, and blush to find it fame,' I am not ignorant of the debt of
  gratitude which I owe to you for providing me with the means of
  recovering my fortunes, and beginning life afresh in another
  hemisphere.

  "Our lots in life, since at Harton we ran a neck and neck race, have
  been widely different, and while the happy months have been rolling
  for _you_ on silver wheels, and the happy hours speeding by you with
  white feet, to me Time has been:--

  "`A maniac scattering dust,
  And Life a Fury slinging flame.'

  "How much I have gone through in the last year--the accumulated agony
  of remorse, bereavement, and ruin--no human soul can tell.  No wonder
  my bark was wrecked after such mad and careless navigation; but, thank
  God, the blow of the tempest that staggered and shattered it, and
  drove it on the reefs, has not sunk it utterly, and now, like a waif
  or stray, it is being carried to be refitted across a thousand leagues
  of sea.

  "I am not the Bruce you knew, but a wiser, sadder, and better man.  I
  have not yet lost all hope.  The old book of my life was so smutched
  and begrimed--torn, dogs-eared, and scrawled over--that it was
  scarcely worth while to turn over a new leaf.  I have rather began a
  new volume altogether, and trust, by God's blessing, that when `Finis'
  comes to be written in it, some few of the pages will bear re-perusal.

  "`De Vayne!' how that name haunts me; how full it is of horror--De
  Vayne and Hazlet; and yet I hear that both have contributed to my
  help.  It gives me new life to know that human hearts can be so full
  of forgiveness and of love.

  "Starting almost for another world--without fortune, without friends,
  with nothing but head and heart, the wreck of what I was--I sometimes
  feel so sad that I could wish myself out of the world altogether.
  Forgive me, then, for once more bringing before you a name which you
  can only connect with the most unpleasant and sombre thoughts, and
  pray for me that my efforts, (this time they are genuine and sincere),
  to improve my life, my talents, and my fortune, may be crowned with
  success.

  "We sail in an hour or sooner, for I hear them weighing anchor now.
  Good-bye.  Accept my warmest thanks for all your kindnesses, and my
  wishes, (ah! that they were worthier!) for your happiness in life, and
  believe me, my dear Julian, your sincere and grateful friend--

  "Vyvyan Bruce.

  "_P S_--I am positively alone; not one soul is here even to bid me
  good-bye.  Eheu! jam serus vitam ingemo relictam!"

Julian read the letter many times; he was touched by its delicate and
eloquent sorrow--its fine and chastened thoughtfulness.  He was no
longer in a mood to work, but closed his books, and watched the faces in
the fire.  One thought filled him with joy and thankfulness; it was the
thought that, though of his friends and acquaintances so many had gone
wrong, yet God was leading them back again, by rough and thorny roads it
might be, but still by sure roads to the right path once more.  Hazlet,
Bruce, Brogten--above all, his friend and brother Kennedy--were
returning to the fold they had deserted, were learning that for him who
has sinned and suffered, REPENTANCE IS THE WORK OF LIFE.  And as these
thoughts floated through Julian's mind, the words of an old prayer came
back upon his lips--"That it may please Thee to strengthen such as do
stand; and to _comfort and help the weak-hearted, and to raise up them
that fall_; and finally, to beat down Satan under our feet."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A QUIET PROSPECT.

  "Patet omnibus veritas; nondum est prorsus occupata."
  Seneca, Epistolae 33.

Julian's third year at Camford was by no means the happiest period of
his life there, because the sad absence of Kennedy and De Vayne made a
gap in his circle of friends which could not easily be filled up; but
this was the _annus mirabilis_ of his university career.  He gained
prize after prize; he was always first class in the college
examinations; he won the chancellor's medals for Latin and English
verse, and, indeed, almost divided with Owen the honours of the place.
To crown all, he gained the Ireford University scholarship, which Owen
had won the year before.

Of all the men of his year, he was the most honoured and respected; he
wore the weight both of his honours and his learning "lightly like a
flower," and there was a graceful humility, joined with his
self-dependence, which won every heart, and prevented that jealousy
which sometimes accompanies success.

The most important event in his intellectual progress was the attention
which he began to turn at this time to biblical and theological studies.
He was thankful in later years that he had deferred such inquiries to a
time when he was capacitated for them by a calm and sound judgment, and
a solid basis of linguistic and historical knowledge.  He had always
looked forward to holy orders, and regarding the life of a clergyman as
his appointed work, he considered that an honest, a critical, and an
impartial study of the Bible was his first duty.  In setting about it,
he came to it as a little child; all he sought for was the simple truth,
uncrushed by human traditions, unmingled with human dogmas, untrammelled
by human interpretations, unadulterated by human systems.  He found that
he had a vast amount to unlearn, and saw clearly that if he fearlessly
pursued his inquiries they would lead him so far from the belief of
popular ignorance, as very probably to bar all worldly success in the
sacred profession which he had chosen.  But he knew that the profession
_was_ sacred, and, fearless by nature, he determined to seek for truth
and truth only, honestly following the prayerful conclusions of his
clearest and most deliberate judgment.  Even in these early days the
freedom and honesty of his research drew on him slight sibilations of
those whose religion was shallow and sectarian; in after years they were
destined to bring on him open and positive persecution.

Not that Julian was ever in the least degree obtrusive in stating his
beliefs when they widely and materially differed from the expressed
opinions of the majority; except, indeed, in the cases when such
opinions appeared to him dishonest or dangerous.  He was scrupulously
careful not to wound the conscience of those who would have been unable
to understand the ground of his arguments, even when they could not
resist their logical statement; and in whom long custom was so
inveterate that the weed of system could not be torn out of their hearts
without endangering the flower of belief.  With men like Hazlet--I mean
the reformed and now sincere Hazlet--he either confined himself wholly
to subjects on which differences were impossible, or, if questioned,
stated his views with caution and consideration.  It was only with the
noisy and violent upholders of long-grounded error--error which they
were too feeble to maintain except by mean invective or ignorant
declamation--that Julian used the keen edge of his sarcasm, or the
weighty sword of his moral indignation.  He was not the man to bow down
before the fool's-cap of tyrannous and blatant ignorance.  If he could
have chosen one utterance from the holy Scriptures, which to him was
more precious in its full meaning than another, it was that promise,
rich with inexhaustible blessing, "And ye shall know the truth, and the
truth shall make you free."

Perhaps there is no greater want in this age than a full, fair,
_fearless_ religio clerici; the men who _could_ write it, dare not; and
the men who dare write it, cannot.  They say the age is not ripe for it;
and if they mean that it would cause violent offence to the potent
rulers of fashionable religious dogmatism, they are right.  But I wander
from my theme, and meddle with the subjects which this is not the place
to touch upon.

The close of Julian's undergraduate life was as honourable as its
promise had been.  He obtained a brilliant first class, and was
bracketed with Owen as the best classic of his year.  Lillyston also
distinguished himself, and all three determined to read for Fellowships,
which, before a year was over, they had the honour to obtain.

Meanwhile a circumstance had happened which changed the course of
Kennedy's intentions.  After his conversation with Violet, he had often
thought of his plans for the future, and written to her about them.
Reconciled to the plan, of returning to Camford after the year of his
rustication, he was now trying to settle his future profession.  His way
seemed by no means clear; he had never thought of being a clergyman, and
now, more than ever, deemed himself unfitted for such a life.  The long
tedious delay of the bar to a man without any special interest; the
sickness of hope deferred during the prime years of life the weariness
of a distasteful study, and the heavy trial of dusky chambers in a city
to a man who loved the sea and the country with a passionate love,
deterred him from choosing the law.  He had no liking for the army,
except in time of war; the life of the officers whom he knew was not
altogether to his mind, and he was neither inclined to gaiety nor fond
of an occupation which offered so many temptations to listlessness and
indolence.  There was no immediate necessity to decide finally, because
in any case he meant to take his degree, and looked forward with some
hope, after his year of unswerving diligence in the retirement of Orton,
to honours in the Tripos and the pleasant aid of a Saint Werner's
Fellowship as the crown of his career.  But on the whole, he began to
think that he might be both useful and successful as a physician.  He
had a deep reverence for this earthly tabernacle of the immortal soul,
and a hallowed and reverend curiosity about that "harp of a thousand
strings," which, if it be untuned by sickness, mars every other melody
of life.  Violet entered into all his views, and they determined to
leave the matter thus until Kennedy should have donned his B A gown.

But about this period that public step was taken of throwing open to
competition the Indian civil service appointments, which has been of
such enormous advantage to the "middle-classes" of England by offering
to them, as the reward of industry, the opportunity of a new and
honourable profession, and which seems likely to be prolific of good
results to the future of our Empire in the East.  Directly Kennedy saw
the announcement of the examination, he grasped with avidity the chance
of a provision for life which it afforded, and easily obtained the
assent both of his own and of Julian's family to offer himself as a
candidate.  Of course they contemplated with sorrow the prospect of so
long a separation as the plan involved, but they saw that he himself was
strongly desirous to win their approval of his proposition, and of
course his wishes were Violet's too.

So Kennedy went in for the civil service examination, and acquitted
himself so admirably that his name headed the list of successful
competitors, and he was told that he must prepare himself to leave
England in a year for the post to which they appointed him.

This happened about the time that Julian took his degree, and before the
year was over Julian had been elected a Fellow, and the living of Elstan
was offered to him.  Being of small value--200 pounds a year--it had
been rejected by all the Fellows of older standing, and had "come down"
to Julian, who, to the surprise of his friends, left Camford and
accepted it without hesitation.

"My dear fellow," said Mr Admer, "how in the world can you be so insane
as to bury yourself alive, at the age of twenty-two, in so obscure a
place as the vicarage of Elstan?"

"Oh, Elstan is a charming place," said Julian; "I visited it before
accepting it, and found it to be one of those dear little English
villages in the greenest fields of Wiltshire.  The house is a very
pretty one, and the parish is in perfect order.  My predecessor was an
excellent man: his population, of one thousand souls, were perhaps as
well attended to as any in all England."

"Yes, yes," said Mr Admer, impatiently, "I know all that; but who will
ever hear of you again if you go and become what Sydney Smith calls `a
kind of holy vegetable' in the cabbage-gardens of a Wiltshire hamlet?"

"Why, what would you have me do, Mr Admer?"

"Oh, I don't know; stay up here, edit a Greek play, or one of the
epistles; bestir yourself for some rising university member in a
contested election; set yourself to get a bishopric or a deanery; you
could easily do it if you tried.  I'll give you a receipt for it any day
you like.  Or go to some London church; with such sermons as you could
preach you might have London at your heels in no time, and as you would
superadd learning to effectiveness, your fortune would be made."

Julian was sorry to hear him talk like this; it was the language of a
disappointed and half-believing man.

"I don't care for such aims," he said.  "A _mere_ popular preacher I
would not be, and as for preferment it doesn't depend much on me, but
for the most part on purely accidental causes.  All I care for at
present is to be useful and happy.  Obscurity is no trial to me; neither
success nor failure can make me different from what I am."

"Well then, at least, write a book or something to keep yourself in
men's memory."

"I don't feel inclined.  There are too many books in the world, and I
have nothing particular to say.  Besides, the annoyance and spite to
which an author subjects himself are endless--to hear ignorant and often
malicious criticisms, to see his views misrepresented, his motives
calumniated, and his name aspersed.  No, for the present, I prefer the
peace and the dignity of silence."

"What on earth will you find to do, then, if you have no ambition?"

"Nay, I don't want you to think that I'm so virtuous or so phlegmatic as
to have no ambition.  I _have_ a passionate ambition, whether known or
unknown, so to live as to lead on the coming golden age, and prepare the
next generation to be truer and wiser than ours.  If it be my destiny
never to be called to a wider sphere of work than Elstan, I shall be
content to do it there."

"And how will you occupy your time?" asked Mr Admer, who had long loved
Julian too well even to smile at what were to himself mere
unintelligible enthusiasms.

"Oh, no fear on that score.  My profession will give me plenty of work;
besides, what is the use of education, if it be not to render it
_impossible_ for a man to know the meaning of the word ennui?  Put me
alone in the waiting-room of some little wayside station to wait three
hours for a train, and I should still be perfectly happy, even if there
were no such thing as a book to be got for miles."

"Well, well, if you must vanish to Elstan, do.  At any rate, remember
your old Camford friends, and let us hear of you sometimes?  I suppose
you'll keep on your Fellowship at least for a year?"

"Insidious questioner!" said Julian; "no, I hope to be married very
soon.  You shall come down and see love in a cottage."

"Aha, I see it all now," said Mr Admer, with a sigh.

"Nay, you mustn't sigh.  I expect to be congratulated, not pitied," said
Julian, gaily.  "A wife will sweeten all the cares and sorrows of life,
and instead of withering away my prime in selfish isolation, and
spending these still half-youthful years in loneliness, and without a
real home, I shall feel myself complete in the materials of happiness.
After all, ambition such as yours is a loveless bride."

So Julian accepted Elstan, and Lillyston went with him to London to help
him in selecting furniture for the vicarage which was so soon to receive
a bride.

"Are you really going to venture on matrimony with only 200 pounds a
year?" asked Lillyston.

"I have some more of my own, you know, Hugh; Mr Carden's legacy, you
remember; but even if I hadn't, I would still marry even on a hundred a
year if I wished and the lady consented."

"And repent at leisure."

"Not a bit of it.  If I were a man to whom lavender-coloured kid gloves
and unlimited eau-de-cologne were necessaries of life, it might be folly
to think of it.  But if a man be brave, and manly, and fearless of
convention, let him marry by all means, and not make his life bitter and
his love cold by long delay."

"But how about his children?"

"Well, it may be fanaticism, but I believe that God never sends a soul
into the world without providing ample means for its sustenance.  Of
course, such an assertion will set the tongues of our would-be
philosophers waggling in scornful cachinnation; but, in spite of that, I
do believe that if a man have faith, and a strong heart, and common
sense, he may depend upon it his children will not starve.  Some of the
very happiest people I know are to be found among the large families of
country clergymen.  Besides, very often the children succeed in life,
and improve their father's position.  I haven't the shadow of a doubt
that I am doing the right thing.  I only wish, Hugh, that you would
follow my example."

"Perhaps I shall, some day," said Lillyston.

"And meanwhile you will be my bridegroom's man, will you not?"

"Joyfully--if it be only to see Miss Kennedy's face again."

"And do you know that Kennedy is to be married to Violet the same day?"

"Is he? happy fellow!  As for me, I am going to resign my fellowship,
and to make myself useful at Lillyston Court.  When is the wedding to
be?"

"_Both_ weddings, you mean, Hugh.  On the tenth of next June at
Orton-on-the-Sea--the loveliest spot in the world, I think."

So in due time Julian packed up all his books and prizes, and bade
farewell to his friends, and turned his back on Camford.  It is as
impossible to leave one's college without emotion as it is to enter it,
and the tears often started to Julian's eyes as the train whirled him
off to Elstan.  He had cause, if any man ever had, to look back to
Camford with regret and love.  His course had been singularly
successful, singularly happy.  He had entered Saint Werner's as a sizar,
he left it as a Fellow, and not "With academic laurels unbestowed."

He had grown in calmness, in strength, in wisdom; he had learnt many
practical lessons of life; he had gained new friends, without losing the
old.  He had learnt to honour all men, and to be fearless for the truth.
His mind had become a well-managed instrument, which he could apply to
all purposes of discovery, research, and thought; he was wiser, better,
braver, nearer the light.  In a word, he had learnt the great purpose of
life--sympathy and love to further man's interest--faith and prayer to
live ever for God's glory.  And not a few of these lessons he owed to
his college, to its directing influence, its ennobling associations, its
studies--all bent towards that which is permanent and eternal, not to
the transitory and superficial.  To the latest day of his life, the name
of Saint Werner's remained to Julian Home an incentive to all that is
noble and manly in human effort.  He felt the same duty with regard to
it as the generous scion of an illustrious house feels towards the
ancient name which he has inherited, and the noble lineage whence he has
sprung.

The few months which were to elapse before his marriage, Julian spent in
preparing the vicarage for his young betrothed, and he stored it with
everything which could delight a simple yet refined and educated taste.
There was an indefinable charm about it--the charm of home.  You felt on
entering it that its owner destined it as the place around which his
fondest affections were to centre, and his work in life was to be done.
Julian had not the restless mind which sighs for continual change; happy
in himself and his own resources, and the honest endeavour to do good,
the glory of the green fields, the changes of the varying year supplied
him with a wealth of beauty which was sufficient for all his needs, and
when--after some long day's work amid the cottages, reading to the sick
at their lonely bedsides, listening to the prattle of the children in
the infant schools, talking to the labourers as they rested at their
work--he refreshed himself by a gallop across the free fresh downs, or a
quiet stroll under the rosy apple-blossoms of his orchard or garden,
Julian might have said with more truth than most men can, that he was a
happy and a contented man.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

FAREWELL.

  "Hear the mellow wedding bells,
  Golden bells!
  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
  What a gush of euphony voluminously swells!"
  Edgar Poe.

Merrily, merrily, rang out the sweet bells of Orton-on-the-Sea; more
merrily than they ever rang before; so merrily that it seemed as if they
would concentrate into every single clash and clang of their joyous peal
a tumult of inexpressible happiness greater than they would ever be able
to enjoy again.  If you look up at the belfry, you will see them swing
and dance in a very delirium of ecstasy, such as made everybody laugh
while he listened, and chased away the possibility of sorrow, and
thrilled the very atmosphere with an impression of hilarity and triumph.

All Orton is a-stir.  Mr Kennedy is the squire of the parish, and the
villagers may well love him as they do.  The son and daughter of the
squire are not often married on the same day; and besides the double
wedding with its promise of an evening banquet, and dance on the hall
lawn to all the people of Orton, Eva and Edward are known well to every
cottager, and loved as well as known.

The hall is quite full, and the village inn is quite full, and all the
neighbouring gentry who are invited, are hospitably entertaining such
members of the two families as can find room nowhere else.  Never had
Orton seen such grand doings; the very stables and coach-houses are
insufficient to receive the multitude of carriages.

Several Saint Wernerians are invited; and, (as both Julian and Kennedy
prefer to be alone on that morning), Lillyston, who has visited the
place before, is lionising them in the neighbourhood, and with Willie,
Kennedy's orphan cousin, rows them over to the little islet in the bay.
As they come back, the hour for the wedding approaches, and Lillyston
says to Owen--"How I wish De Vayne were here!"

"But he is in Florence, is he not?" says Owen.

They have hardly spoken when a carriage with a coronet on the panels
dashes up to the Lion Inn; a young man alights, hands out a lady, and
enters the inn.

"Surely that must be De Vayne himself," says Suton running forward.
Meanwhile the young man, after taking the lady into a private room, asks
if he may see Mr Home or Mr Kennedy, and is showed up to the parlour
in which they are sitting.

"De Vayne!" they both exclaim in surprise.

"Yes, Julian!" he answered cheerily; "I only returned from Florence two
days ago, heard of your marriage from the Ildown people, and determined
to come with my mother a self-invited guest."

"Don't fear for my feelings," he continued, turning to Kennedy.
"Nothing is so useless or dangerous as to nurse a hopeless love, like
the flame burning in the hearts of the banqueters, at the feast of
Eblis.  No, Kennedy, I love Violet, but only as a sister now, and you
must not be afraid if I claim one kiss after the marriage from the
bride.  You shall have the same privilege some day soon."

"Your coming is the completion of my happiness," said Kennedy, cordially
shaking his hand.  "I will run and tell Violet at once, lest she should
be alarmed by seeing you."

"Yes, and to show her why we may continue to have communion as friends,
tell her that there is a gentle Florentine girl, with dark eyes, and
dark hair, and a sweet voice, who, as my mother will bear witness, has
promised in a year's time to leave her Casa d'oro for Other Hall," he
said smiling.

They took him down to see the others, who rejoiced to see him nearly as
much as they did, and the time sped on for the wedding to be performed.
The carriages had already started to convey the bridegrooms and their
friends to church, when another carriage drove rapidly along the street,
carrying another most unexpected guest.

It had been arranged that Cyril and Frank should come down to Orton on
the morning of the ceremony, as there was a difficulty in finding room
for them.  It was very late, and they were beginning to be afraid that
the boys had missed a train, and would not arrive till after the
ceremony, when they made their triumphant entry into Orton in a carriage
by the side of--Lady Vinsear!

Only imagine!  Being left almost alone at Ildown while the others had
gone to Orton to make arrangements for the marriage, Cyril had
audaciously proposed to his brother that, as it was through them that
Lady Vinsear's wrath had been kindled against Julian, they should go
over and see whether the old lady would admit them into her presence or
in any way suffer herself to be pacified.  The proposal was quite a
sudden one, and the thought had only come into Cyril's head because he
had nothing else to do.  But he had no sooner thought of it than he
determined to carry it out.  He felt certain that Lady Vinsear could not
be so totally unlike his late father as to have become wholly
ill-natured and implacable, and he was sure that no harm could result
from his visit even if no good were done.

So the boys drove over in a pony-chaise to Lonstead Abbey, and knocking
at the door, asked if Lady Vinsear was at home.

"Yes," said the old servant, opening his eyes in astonishment at the
apparition of the two boys, whom he had only seen as children four years
before.

"Then, ask if she will see Mr Cyril and Master Frank Home.  Stop,
though; is Miss Sprong at home?"

"Oh, no, Master Cyril; bless you, Miss Sprong, sir, has gone and married
Farmer Jones this year gone."

"Has she indeed?  Oh, then, take my message, please, James."

They had come at the right moment.  In the large drawing-room of
Lonstead Abbey, Lady Vinsear was sitting with no companion but the
orphan girl of a villager, to whom she gave a home, and who was amusing
herself with a picture-book on a low stool by the fire; for though it
was summer, the fire was lighted to give cheerfulness to the room.  When
Miss Sprong married a neighbouring farmer, Lady Vinsear had given her a
handsome dowry, and refused ever to see her again, being in fact
heartily tired of her malice and sycophancy, and above all, resenting
the new breach which she had caused between herself and her brother's
family.  Ever since her quarrel with Julian, Lady Vinsear had bitterly
regretted the violence which had cut off from her that natural affection
to which she had looked as the stay of her declining years.  She had
grown sadder as she grew older, and the loneliness of her life weighed
heavily on her heart, yet in her obstinate pride she made an unutterable
resolve never to take the initiative in restoring Julian to her favour.

And as she sat there by the fire, longing in her secret soul for the
society and love of some young hearts of her own kith and kin, she
glanced away from the uninteresting little girl whom she had taken as a
protegee to the likeness of Julian's bright and thoughtful boyish
features, (which still, in spite of Miss Sprong, had retained a place
over the mantel-piece), and remembered the foolish little incident which
had led to her rejection of him as her heir.  The tears started to her
eyes as she thought of it, and wished with all her heart that the two
gay and merry boys whose frolic had caused the _fracas_ were with her
once more.  How much she should now enjoy the pleasant sound of their
young voices, and how gladly she would join in their unrestrained and
innocent laughter.

So when the bewildered James asked in his never-varying voice, "whether
Master Cyril and Frank Home might see her," Lady Vinsear fancied that
she was seeing in a dream the fulfilment of her unexpressed wishes, and
rubbed her eyes to see if she could really be wide awake.

"What's all this, James?--are you James, or am I in a dream?"

"James, your ladyship."

"And do you really mean to tell me that my nephews are outside?"

"Yes, please your ladyship."

"Well, then, don't keep them there a minute longer, James.  Run along,
Annie," she said to the little girl, "it is time for you to be in bed."

Annie had hardly retired, when--a little shyly--the boys entered,
uncertain of their reception.  But Lady Vinsear started from her seat,
and embraced them with the utmost affection.

"My dear Cyril," she said, kissing him again; "how tall and handsome you
have grown; and Frankie, too, you are the image of Julian when he was
your age."

The boys were amazed at the heartiness with which she welcomed them, as
though nothing had happened, and after she had given them a capital
supper, she said to them, "Now, boys, I see you are rather puzzled at
me.  Never mind that; don't think of what has happened.  We mean all to
be friends now.  And now tell me all about Julian."

They found, however, that Lady Vinsear knew a good deal about his
college career from her neighbour Lord De Vayne, who had kept her
acquainted with all his successes and honours up to the period when De
Vayne left Other Hall.  Since then she had not been able to gain much
information about him, and had not heard the news either of his
fellowship, his approaching marriage, or his acceptance of a college
living.

She listened eagerly to the intelligence, and finally asked if he knew
of their visit.

"No," said Cyril, laughing; "neither he nor any of them.  Now, Aunt
Vinsear, you really must do me a favour.  You know Vi is to be married
at Orton on the same day as Julian; won't you come with us to the
wedding, and surprise them all?  If you were to start by an early train,
and take the carriage with you, we should drive up in time for the
ceremony, and it would be such a happy joke for all concerned."

The old lady was delighted with the plan.  Meeting on such an occasion,
when the minds of all were so much occupied, would avert the necessity
of anything approaching to a scene, which of all things she most
dreaded.  She felt a flood of new interests, occupations, and hopes; she
made the boys stay with her until the appointed day, and looked forward
to Cyril's triumph with a delight which made her happier than she had
been for many a long year.

And thus it was that Cyril and Frank drove into the town in gallant
style, accompanied by Lady Vinsear!  They stopped at the door of the
Lion, and hearing that Julian had started, got white favours placed at
the horses' heads, and dashed on to the church.  The brides had not
arrived, but they were expected every moment; and Mr Vere, (who had
most kindly come to perform the ceremony), was putting on his surplice
in the vestry, while Julian and Kennedy, with Owen, Lillyston, and De
Vayne, were strolling up and down a pretty, retired laurel walk behind
the church.  Hearing where they were, the boys, accompanied by their
aunt, boldly invaded their privacy, and reached the end of the walk just
as the gentlemen were approaching to enter the church.

"Good gracious!  Lady Vinsear!" said De Vayne.

"Hush, hush!" she said.  "Come here, Julian, and kiss your old aunt, and
welcome her on your wedding-day, and don't think of bygones.  I am proud
to see you, my boy;" and he felt a tear on his cheek as the old lady
drew down his head to kiss him.

"And now," she said, "don't tell any of the rest that I have come till
after the marriage.  I hear the sound of wheels.  Put me in some pew
near the altar, Julian, that I may have a good long look at your bride,
and Violet's bridegroom."

They had just time to fulfil her wish when the carriages drove up, and
the bridal procession formed, and, followed by their bride's-maids,
Violet and Eva passed up the aisle, in all their loveliness, with
wreaths of myrtle and orange-flower round their fair foreheads, and
long, graceful veils, and simple ornaments of pearl.

Beautiful to see!  A bride always looks beautiful, but these two were
radiant and exquisite in their loveliness.  Which was the fairest?  I
cannot tell.  Most men would have given the golden apple to Eva, with
the sweet, tender grace that played about her young features, almost
infantile in their delicacy, and with those bright, beaming,
laughter-loving eyes, of which the light could not be hid though she
bent her face downwards to hide the bridal blush that tinged it; but yet
they would have doubted about the decision when they turned from her to
the full flower of Violet's beauty, and gazed on her perfect face, so
enchanting in its meekness, and on that one tress of golden hair that
played upon her neck.

De Vayne, as he looked on the perfect scene, took out a piece of paper,
and wrote on it Spenser's lines:--

  "Behold, while she before the altar stands,
  Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks
  And blesses her with his two happy hands,
  How the red roses flush up in her cheeks
  And the pure snow with golden vermeil stain,
  Like crimson dyed in grain."

He handed the lines to Lillyston and Owen, and they saw from the happy
smile upon his face that no touch of regret or envy marred his present
meditations.

Has life any pleasure--any deep, unspoken happiness--comparable to that
which fills a young's man whole soul when he stands beside the altar
with such a bride as Violet or Eva was?--when he thinks that the fair,
blushing girl, whose white hand trembles in his own, is to be the star
of his home, the mother of his children, the sunbeam shining steadily on
all his life?  Verily he who hath experienced such a joy has found a
jewel richer:

  "Than twenty seas though all their sands were pearl,
  Their waters crystal, and their rocks pure gold."

The service was over, and in those few moments, four young souls had
passed over the marble threshold of married life.  Violet felt that the
presence of De Vayne removed the only alloy to that deep happiness that
spoke in the eloquent lustre of her eye, and she told him so as he bent
to kiss her hand, and as Lady De Vayne clasped her to her heart with an
affectionate embrace.  All the people of the village awaited them at the
porch, and as they passed along the path, the village children, lining
the way, and standing heedless on the green mounds that covered the
crumbling relics of mortality, scattered under their happy feet a
thousand flowers.  One passing thought, perhaps, about the lesson which
those green mounds told, flitted through the minds of the bridal party
as they left the trodden blossoms to wither on the churchyard path, but
if so, it was but as the shadow of a summer cloud, and it vanished, as
with a sudden clash the bells rang out again, thrilling the tremulous
air with their enthusiasm of happy auguries, and the sailor boys of
Orton gave cheer on cheer while brides and bridegrooms entered their
carriages, and drove from under the umbrage of the churchyard yews to
the elms and oaks and lime-tree avenues of the hall.

Oh that happy day!  The wedding breakfast had been laid in a large tent
on the lawn, whence you could catch bright glimpses of the blue sea, and
the islet, and the passing ships, while on all sides around it the
garden glowed a paradise of blossom, and the fragrance of sweet flowers
floated to them through the golden air.  Rich fruits and gorgeous
bouquets covered the table, and the whole tent was gay with wreaths and
anadems.  And then, what ringing laughter, what merry jests, what
earnest happy talk!  Let us not linger there too long, and from this
scene I bid avaunt to the coarse cynical reader; who is too
strong-minded to believe in love.

Only let the _gentle_ reader fancy for himself how beautiful were the
few words with which Mr Vere proposed the health of the brides, and how
long they remembered his earnest wish, that though the truest love is
often that which has been sanctified by sorrow, yet that they might be
spared the sorrow, and enjoy the truest love.  And he will fancy how
admirably Julian and Kennedy replied--Julian in words of poetic feeling
and thoughtful power, Kennedy with quick flashes of picturesque
expression, both with the eloquence of sincere and deep emotion; and how
gracefully De Vayne proposed the health of the bridesmaids, for whom
Cyril and Lillyston replied.  Then, too quickly, came the hour of
separation; the old shoe was flung after the carriages, the bridal
couples departed for a tour among the lakes, and the villagers danced
and feasted till twilight on the lawn.

Six weeks are over since the marriage day, and there, in Southampton
harbour, lies the _Valleyfield_, which is to convey Kennedy and Violet
to Calcutta.  They have just spoken the last, long, lingering farewell
to Eva and Julian, who are standing in deep tearful silence on the pier,
and are watching the little boat which is conveying their only brother
and only sister to the ship.  The boat is but a few moments in reaching
the _Valleyfield_, and, when they are on board, the vessel weighs
anchor, and ruffles her white plumage, and flings her pennons to the
breeze, and begins to dash the blue water into foam about her prow.
Violet and her husband are standing at the stern, and as long as the
vessel is in sight they wave their hands in token of farewell.  It is
but a short time, and then the _Valleyfield_ grows into a mere dot on
the horizon, and Eva and Julian, heedless of the crowds around them, do
not check the tears as they flow, and speak to each other in voices
broken by sorrow as they slowly turn away.

That evening Violet and Kennedy knelt side by side in their little cabin
to join in common prayer, and Julian led his Eva over the threshold of
their quiet and holy home.

And their path thenceforth was "as the shining light, shining more and
more to the perfect day."

THE END.