university of Connecticut libraries X ro BRITL 823.8.H874TO c. 1 HUGHES # TOM BROWN AT OXFORD 3 T153 0Dlb7573 7 o 7) H O r m > < m I m en o m ) i ^ '2:Kii», i.-^' TOM BROWN AT OXFOBD. ^c-c<^ TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. BY THE AUTHOR OF "TOM BEOWN'S SCHOOL DAYS." KEW EDITION. WITH ILLVSTRATIONS BY SYDNEY P. HALL. NEW YORK MACMILLAN AND CO. 1888. si TO THE EEV. F. D. MAUEICi; IK MEMORY OP FOURTEEN YEAKS' FELLOW WORKf AND IN TESTIMONY OP TEVER INCREASING AFFECTION AND GRATITDDB THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOK P E E F A C E. Prefaces written to explain the objects or meaning of a book, or to make any appeal, ad misericordiam or other, in its favour, are, in my opinion, nuisances. Any book worth reading will explain its own objects aud meaning, and the more it is criticised and turned inside out, the better for it and its author. Of all books, too, it seems to me that novels require prefaces least — at any rate, on their first appearance. ]S"otwithstanding which behef, I must ask readers for three minutes' patience before they make trial of this book. The natural pleasure which I felt at the unlooked-for popularity of the first part of the present story, was much lessened by the pertinacity with which many persons, acquaint- ance as well as strangers, would insist (both in public and private) on identifying the hero and the author. On the appearance of the first few numbers of the present continua- tion in Macmillan's Magazine, the same thing occurred, and in fact, reached such a pitch, as to lead me to make some changes in the story. Sensitiveness on such a point may seem folly, but if readers had felt the sort ot loathing and Viii PREFAGE. disgust which one feels at the notion of painting u favourable likeness of oneself in a work of fictien, they would not wonder at it. So, now that this book is finished, and Tom Brown, &o far as I am concerned, is done with for ever, I must take this my first and last chance of saying, that he is not I, either as boy or man — in fact, not to beat about the bush, is a much braver, and nobler, and purer fellow than I ever was. When I first resolved to write the book, I tried to realize to myself what the commonest type of English boy of the upper middle class Aras, so far as my experience went ; and to that type I have thi'oughout adhered, trying simply to give a good specimen of the genus. I certainly have placed him in the country and scenes which I know best myself, for the simple reason, that I knew them better than any others, and therefore was less hkely to blunder in writing about them. As to the name, which has been, perhaps, the chief " cause of offence" in this matter, the simple facts are, that I chose the name " Brown," because it stood fii-st in the trio of " Brown, Jones, and Robinson," which has become a sort of synonym for the middle classes of Great Britain. It happens that my own name and that of Brown have no single letter in common. As to the Christian name of " Tom," having chosen Brown, I could hardly help taking it as the prefix. The two names have gone together in England for two hundred years, and the joint name has not enjoyed much of a reputation for respectability. This suited me exactly. I wanted the com- monest name I could get, and did not want any name which had the least heroic, or aristocratic, or even respectable savour about it. Therefore I had a natural leaning to the combina- tion which T found ready to my hand. Moreover, I Injlieved PREFACE. IX "Tom" to be a more specially English name than John, the only other as to which I felt the least doubt. Whether it he that Thomas a Beckett was for so long the favourite English saint, or from whatever other cause, it certainly seems to be the fact, that the name "Thomas" is much commoner in England than in any other country. The words " tom-fool," "tom-boy," &c. though, perhaps, not complimentary to the " Toms " Oi England, certainly show how large a family they must have been. These reasons decided me to keep the Christian name which had been always associated with " Brown ; " and I own, that the fact that it happened to be my own, never occurred to me as an objection, till the mischief was done, past recall. I have only, then, to say, that neither is the hero a portrait of myself, nor is there any other portrait in either of the books, except in the case of Dr. Arnold, where the true name is given. My deep feeling of gratitude to him, and reverence for his memory, emboldened me to risk the attempt at a por- trait in his case, so far as the character was necessary for the work. With these remarks, I leave this volume in the hands of readers. T. HUGHES. Lincoln's Inn, Odobvi, 18C1. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTORY 1 I.— ST. AMBROSE'S COLLEGE 2 II. — A ROW ON THE RIVER .....,,., 10 III. — A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S 21 IV. — THE ST. AMBROSE BOAT-CLUB : ITS MINISTRY AND THEIR BUDGET 32 V. — HARDY, THE SERVITOR ......... 41 VI.— HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING . , 60 VII.— AN EXPLOSION 65 7111.— hardy's HISTORY 71 IX. — ** A BROWN BAIT " 85 X. — SUMMER TERM » r . . , . . 92 XI. — MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY 107 XIL — TE.1L captain's NOTIONS 124 Xin. — THE FIRST BUMP 138 XIV.— ^A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 160 XV. — A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS ,161 XVI.— THE STORM RAGES 172 XVIL— NEW GROUND 182 XVni. — ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE 191 XIX. — A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER 206 XX. — THE RECONCILIATION 218 XXI. — CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE . 222 XXII. — DEPARTURES EXPECTED AND UTJEXPECTED . . . 231 XXIII. — THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE 243 XXIV. — THE SCHOOLS 255 XXV.— COMMEMORATION 267 XXVI. —THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS . . 278 XXVII. — LErxURING A LIONESS 293 XXV III • THE END OF THE FRESHMAN'S YEAR 804 %ja. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAOB XXIX. — THE LONG VACATION LETTEE-BAO 314 XXX.— AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR 328 XXXI. — BEHIND THE SCENES 334 XXXII.— A CRISIS 342 XXXIII. — BRoWN PATRONTJS 355 XXXIV.— MHAEN AFAN 378 XXXV.— SECOND YEAR 386 XXXVI —THE RIVER SIDE 398 XXXVIL— THE NIGHT WATCH 407 XXXVIII. — MARY IN MAYFAIR 417 XXXIX. — WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT WATCH 426 XL. — HUE AND CRY 437 XLI. — THE lieutenant' a SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS . 447 XLII.— THIRD YEAR 458 XLIII. — AFTERNOON VISITORS 470 XLIV. — THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG 48G XL v.— master's TERM 495 XLVI. — ^FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN 503 XLVIi. — THE WEDDING-DAY , . 511 XLVIII. — THE BEGINNING OF THE END 520 XLIX. — THE END , . , 529 L. — THE FOSTSOIUFT ..•••••«••.. 688 TOM BROWN AT OXFORDt TOM BROWN AT OXFORD, n^TKODUCTORY. In the Michaelmas term after leaving school, Tom Bro-\7ii received a summons from the authorities, and went up to matriculate at St. Ambrose's College, Oxford. He presented himself at the college one afternoon, and was examined by one of the tutors, who carried him, and several other youths in like predicament, up to the Senate House the next morn- ing. Here they went through the usual forms cf subscribing to the Articles, and otherwise testifying their loyalty to the established order of things, without much thought perhaps, but in very good faith nevertheless. Having completed the ceremony, by paying his fees, our hero hurried back home, without making any stay in Oxford. He had often passed through it, so that the city had not the charm of novelty for him, and he was anxious to get home ; where, as he had never spent an autumn away from school till now, for the first time in his life he was having his fill of hunting and shooting. He had left school in June, and did not go up to reside at Oxford till the end of the following January. Seven good months ; during a part of which he had indeed read for four hours or so a week with the curate of the parish, but the residue had been exclusively devoted to cricket and field sports. Kow, admirable as these mstitutions are, and bene- ficial as is their influence on the youth of Britain, it is possible for a youngster to get too much of them. So it had fallen out with our hero. He was a better horseman and shot, but the total relaxation of all the healthy discipline of school, the regular hours and regular work to which he had been used for so many years, had certainly thrown him back in oth^ B 2 TOM BK0\7N AT OXFORD. ways. The whole man liad not grown ; so that we must not be surprised to find liim quite as boyish, now that we fall in with him again, marching down to St. Ambrose's with a porter wheeling his luggage after hirh on a truck, as when we left him at the end of his school career. Tom was in truth beginning to feel that it was high time for him to be getting to regular work again of some sort. A landing place is a famous thing, but it is only enjoyable for a time by any mortal who deserves one at all. So it was with a feeling of unmixed pleasure that he turned in at the St. Ambrose gates, and inquired of the porter what rooms had been allotted to him witliin those venerable walls. While the porter consulted his list, the great coUege sun- dial, over the lodge, which had lately been renovated, caught Tom's eye. The motto underneath, " Pereunt et imputantur," stood out, proud of its new gilding, in the bright afternoon sun of a frosty January day : which motto was raising sundry thoughts iji his brain, when the porter came upon the right place in his list, and directed him to the end of his journey : No. 5 staircase, second quadrangle, three-pair back. In which new home we shall leave him to instal himself, while we endeavour to give the reader some notion of the college itsell CHAPTER 1. 3T. Ambrose's college. St. Ambrose's College was a moderate-sized one. There might have been some seventy or eighty undergraduates in residence, when our hero appeared there as a fresh mam Of these, unfortunately for the college, there were a very large proportion of gentlemen-commoners ; enough, in fact, with the other men whom they drew round them, and who lived pretty much as they did, to form the largest and leading set in the college. So the college was decidedly fast. The chief characteristic of this set was the most reckless extravagance of every kind. London wine merchants fur- nished them with liqueurs at a guinea a bottle, and wine at five guineas a dozen ; Oxford and London tailors vied with, one another in providing them with unheard-of quantities of the most gorgeous clothing. They drove tandems in all direc- tions, scattering their am})le allowances, which they treated as poclcet money, about roadside inns and Oxford taverna with open hand, and "going tick " for everytiiing which ST. AMBROSES COLLEGE. 8 could by possibility be booked. Their cigai-s cost two gtdneas a pound ; their furniture was the best that could be bought ; pine-apples, forced fi-uit, and the most rare preserves figured at their wine parties ; they hunted, rode steeple-chases by day, played billiards until the gates closed, and then were ready for vmgt-et-une, unlimited loo, and hot drink in their own rooms, as long as any one could be got to sit up and play. The fast set then swamped, and gave the tone to, the college • at which fact no persons were more astonished and horrified than the authorities of St. Ambrose. That they of all bodies in tlic world should be fairly run away with by a set of reckless, louse young spendthrifts, was indeed a melancholy and unprecedented fact ; for the body of fellows of St. Ambrose was as distinguished for learning, morality, and respectability, as any in the University. The foundation was not indeed actually an open one. Oriel at that time alone enjoyed this distinction ; but there were a large number of open fellowships, and the income of the college was large, and the livings belonging to it numerous ] so that the best men from other colleges were constantly coming in. Some of these of a former generation had been eminently successful in their management of the college. The St. Ambrose undergraduates at one time had carried oil almost all the university prizes, and filled the class lists, while maintaining at the same time the highest character for manli- ness and gentlemanly conduct. This had lasted long enough to establish the fame of the college, and gi-eat lords and Btatcsmen had sent their sons there ; head-masters had struggled to get the names of their best pupils on the books : in short, every one who had a son, ward, or pupil, whom he wanted to push forward in tlie world — who was meant to cut a figure, and take the lead among men — left no stone unturned to get him into St. Ambrose's ; and thought the first, and a very long, step gained when he had succeeded. But the governing bodies of colleges are always on the change, and in the course of things men of other ideas came to rule at St. Ambrose — shrewd men of the world ; men of business some of tliem, with good ideas of making the most of their advantages ; who said, " Go to : why should we not make the public pay f »r the great benefits we confer on lihem ] Have we not the very best article in the educational market to supply — almost a monopoly of it — and shall we not get the highest price for it 1 " So by degrees they altered many things in the college. In the first place, under their auspices, gentlemen-commonei"s increased and multiplied ; in fact, the b2 4 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. eldest sons of baronets, even of squires, were scarcely admitted on any other footing. As these yoang gentlemen paid double fees to the college, and had great expectations of all sorts, it could not be expected that they should be subject to quite the same discipline as the common run of men, who would have to make their own way in the world. So the rules as to attendance at chapel and lectures, though nominally the same for them as for commoners, were in practice relaxed in their favour ; and, that they might find all things suitable to persjons in their position, the kitchen and buttery were worked up to a high state of perfection, and St. Ambrose, from having been one of the most reasonable, had come to be about the most expensive college in the university. These changes worlied as their promoters probably desired that they should work, and the college was full of rich men, and commanded in the university the sort of respect which riches bring with them. But the old reputation, though still strong out of doors, was beginning sadly to wane within the university precincts. Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men appeared in the class lists, or amongst the prize-men. They no longer led the debates at the Union ; the boat lost place after place on the river ; the eleven got beaten in all their matches. The inaugurators of these changes had passed away in their turn, and at last a reaction had commenced. The fellows recently elected, and who were in residence at the time we \vrite of, were for the most part men cf great attainments, all of them men who had taken very high honours. The electors natu- rally enough had chosen them as the most likely persons to restore, as tutors, the golden days of the college ; and they had been careful in the selection to confine themselves to very quiet and studious men, such as were likely to remain up at Oxford, passing over men of more popular manners and active spirits, who would be sure to flit soon into the world, and be of little more service to St. Ambrose. But these were not the men to get any hold on the fast set who were now in the ascendant. It was not in the nature of things that they should understand each other ; in fact, they were hopelessly at war, and the college was getting more and more out of gear in consequence. What they could do, however, they were doing ; and under their fostering care were growing up a small set, including most of the scholars, who were likely, as far as they were con- cerned, to retrieve the college character in the schools. But they were too much like their tutors, men who did little else but read. They neither wished for, nor were likely to gain, the slightest influence on the fast set. The beat men amongst ST. AJVIBROSE'S COLLEGE. £ them, too, were diligent readers of the Tracts fo->^ tlie Times. and followers of the able leaders of the Iligh-church party, which was then a growing one ; and this led them also tc form such friendships as they made amongst ou<--rollege men of their own way of thinking — with high churchmen, rather than St. Ambrose men. So they lived very much to themselves, and scarcely interfered with the dominant party. Lastly, there was the boating set, which was beginning to revive in the college, partly from the natural disgust of any body of young Englishmen, at finding themselves distanced in an exercise requhing strength and pluck, and partly from the fact, that the captain for the time being was one of the best oars in the University boat, and also a deservedly popular character. He was now in his third year of residence, had won the pair-oar race, and had pulled seven in the great yearly match with Cambridge, and by constant hard work had managed to carry the St. Ambrose boat up to the fifth place on the river. He will be introduced to you, gentle reader, when the proper time comes ; at present, we are only con- cerned with a bird's-eye view of the college, that you may feel more or less at home in it. The boating set was not 60 separate or marked as the reading set, melting on one side into, and keeping up more or less connexion with, the fast set, and also commanding a sort of half alle- giance from most of the men who belonged to neither of the other sets. The minor divisions, of which of course there were many, need not be particularized, as the abo^e general classification will be enough for the purposes of this history. Our hero, on leaving school, had bound himself solemnly to write all his doings and thoughts to the friend whom he had left behind him : distance and separation were to make no diflerence whatever in their friendship. This compact had been made on one of their last evenings at Eugby. They were sitting together in the six-form room, Tom splicing the handle of a favourite cricket bat, and Arthur reading a volume of Ealeigh's works. The Doctor had lately been alluding to the " History of the World," and had excited the curiosity of the active-minded amongst his pupils about the great navigator, statesman, soldier, author, the fine gentleman. So Raleigh's works were seized on by various voracious young readt^^s, and carried out of the school library ; and Arthur was now deep in a volume of the " Miscellanies," curled up on a corner of the sofa. Presently, Tom heard something between a groan and a protest, and, looking up, demanded 6 TOM B_ROWX AT OXFORD. explanations ; in answer to which, Arthur, in a voice half furious and half fearful, read out : — "And be sure of this, thou shalt never find a friend in thy young years whose conditions and qualities will please thee after thou comest to more discretion and judgment; and then all thou givest is lost, and all wherein thou shalt trust such a one will be discovered." '•You don't mean that's Ealeigh's ?" "Yes — here it is, in his first letter to his son." ""VYhat a coldblooded old Philistine," said Tom. "But it can't be true, do you think ?" said Arthur. And, in short, after some personal reflections on Sir Walter, they then and there resolved that, so far as they were con- cerned, it was not, could not, and should not be true ; that they would remain faithful, the same to each other, and the greatest friends in the world, though I know not what separa- tions, trials, and catastrophes. And for the better insuring this result, a correspondence, regular as the recurring months, was to be maintained. It had already lasted through the long vacation and up to Christmas without sensibly dragging, though Tom's letters had been something of the shortest in November, when he had had lots of shooting, and two days a week with the hounds. Now, however, having fairly got to Oxford, he determined to make up for all short-comings. His first letter from college, taken in connexion with the previous sketch of the place, will probably accomplish the work of in- troduction better than any detailed account by a third party ; and it is therefore given here verbatim : — "St Ambrose, Oxford, "February, 184 — . "Mr DEAR Geordie, " According to promise, I write to tell you how I get on up here, and what sort of a place Oxford is. Of course, I don't know much about it yet, having been only up some two weeks ; but you shall have my first impressions. "Well, first and foremost, it's an awfully idle place; at any rate, for us freshmen. Fancy now. I am in twelve lectures a wef'k of an hour each — Greek Testament, first book of Herodotus, second ^neid, and first book of Euclid! There's a treat! Two hours a day; all over by twelve, or one at latest; and no extra work at all, in the shape of copies of verses, themes, or other exercises. "I think sometimes I'm back in the lower fifth; foi v/e don't get through more than we used to do there ; and if you were to hear the men construe, it would make your hair stami on end. Where on earth can they have come from 1 unlesa ST. AMBROSE S COLLEGE. 7 they blunder on purpose, as I often think. Of course, I never look at a lecture before I go iu, I know it all nearly by heart, so it would be sheer waste of time. I hope I shall take to reading something or other by myself ; but you know I never was much of a harid at sapping, and, for the pi?esent, the light work suits me well enough, for there's plenty to see and learn about in this place. " We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel every morning at eight, and evening at seven. You must attend once a day, and twice on Sundays — at least, that's the rule of our college — and be in gates by twelve o'clock at night. Besides which, if you're a decently steady fellow, you ought to dine in hall perhaps four days a week. Hall is at five o'clock. And now you have the sum total. All the rest of your time you may just do what you like with. " So much for our work and hours. Is^ow for the place. Well, it's a grand old place, certainly; and I dare say, if a fellow goes straight in it, and gets creditably through his three 3'ears, he may end by lovmg it as much as we do the old school-house and quadrangle at Ttugby. Our college is a fair specimen : a venerable old front of crumbling stone fronting the street, into which two or three other colleges look also. Over the gateway is a large room, where the college examina- tions go on, when there are any ; and, as you enter, you pass the porter's lodge, where resides our janitor, a bustling little man, with a pot belly, whose business it is to put down the time at which the men come in at night, and to keep all dis- commonsed tradesmen, stray dogs, and bad characters generally, out of the college. " The large quadrangle into which you come first, is bigger tlian ours at Rugb}', and a much more solemn and sleepy sort of a place, with its gables and old mullioned windows. One side is occupied by the hall and chapel ; the principal's house takes up half another side ; and the rest is divided into stair- cases, on each of which are six or eight sets of rooms, inhabited by us undergraduates, with here and there a tutor or fellow dropped down amongst us (in the first-fioor rooms, of course), not exactly to keep order, but to act as a sort of ballast. This quadrangle is the show part of the college, and is generally respectable and quiet, which is a good deal more than can be said for the inner quadrangle, wliich you get at through a passage leading out of the other. The rooms ain't half so large or good in the inner quad ; and here's where all we fresh- men live, besides a lot of the older undergraduates who don't cai-e to change their rooms. Only one tutor has rooms here ] and I should think, if he's a reading man, it won't be long 8 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. before he clears out ; for all sorts of liigh jinks go on on the gi'ass-plot, and the row on the staircases is often as bad, and not half so respectable, as it used to be in the middle passage in the last week of the half-year. " My rooms are what they call garrets, right up in the roof, with a commanding view of college tiles and chimney pots, and of houses at the back. . No end of cats, both college Toms and strangers, haunt the neighbourhood, and I am rapidly learning cat-talking from them ; but I'm not going to stand it — I don't want to know cat-talk. The college Toms are pro- tected by the statutes, I believe ; but I'm going to buy an air-gun for the benefit of the strangers. My rooms are pleasant enough, at the top of the kitchen staircase, and separated from aU mankind by a great, iron-clamped, outer door, my oak, which I sport when I go out or want to be quiet ; sitting- room eighteen by twelve, bed-room twelve by eight, and a little cupboard for the scout. " Ah, Geordie, the scout is an institution ! Fancy me waited upon and valeted by a stout party in black, of quiet, gentle- manly manners, like the benevolent father in a comedy. He takes the deepest interest in all my possessions and proceedings, and is evidently used to good society, to judge by the amount of crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocery, which he thinks indispensable for my due establishment. He has also been good enough to recommend to me many tradesmen who are ready to supply these articles in any quantities ; each of whom has been here already a dozen times, cap in hand, and vowing that it is quite immaterial when I pay — which is very kind of them ; but, with the highest respect for friend Perkins (my scout) and his obliging friends, I shall make some in- quiries before " letting in " with any of them. He waits on me in hall, where we go in full fig of cap and gown at five, and get very good dinners, and cheap enough. It is rather a fine old room, with a good, arched, black oak ceiling and high panelling, hung round with pictures of old swells, bishops and lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in some way, or at least have fed here in times gone by, and for whom, " cseterisque benefactoribus nostris," we daily give thanks in a long Latin grace, which one of the undergraduates (I think it must be) goes and rattles out at the end of the high table, and then comes down again from the dais to his own place. No one feeds at the high table except the dons and the gentlemen-commoners, who are undergraduates in velvet caps and silk gowns. Why they wear these instead of cloth and serge I haven't yet made out — I believe it is because they pay double fees ; but they seem uncommonly wretched up at the ST. AMBROSES COLLEGE. S high tatle, and I should think would sooner pay double tc come to the other end of the hall. " The chapel is a quaint little place, about the size of the chancel of Luttenvorth Church. It just holds us all com- fortably. The attendance is regular enough, but I don't think the men care about it a bit in general. Several I can see bring in Euclids, and other lecture books, and the service is gone through at a great pace. I couldn't think at first why some of the men seemed so uncomfortable and stiff about the legs at the morning service, but I find that they are the hunting set, and come in with pea-coats over their pinks, and trousers over their leather breeches and top-boots ; which accounts for it. Tliere are a few others who seem very devout, and bow a good deal, and turn towards the altar at difierent parts of the ser\dce. These are of the Oxford High-church school, I believe ; but I shall soon find out more about them. On the whole, I feel less at home at present, I am sorry to say, in the chapel, than any^'here else. '* I was very nearly forgetting a great institution of tha college, which is the buttery-hatch, just opposite the hall- door. Here abides the fat old butler (all the servants at St. Ambrose's are portly), and serves out limited bread, butter, and cheese, and unlimited beer brewed by himself, for an hour in the morning, at noon, and again at supper-time. Your Bcout always fetches you a pint or so on each occasion, in case you should want it, and if you don't, it falls to him ; but I can't say that my fellow gets much, for I am naturally a thirsty soul, and cannot often resist the malt myself, coming up, as it does, fresh and cool, in one of the silver tankards, of which we seem to have an endless supply. " I spent a day or two in the first week, before I got shaken down into my place here, in going round and seeing the other colleges, and finding out what great men had been at each (one got a taste for that sort of work from the Doctor, and Id nothing else to do). Well, I never was more interested : fancy ferreting out Wycliffe, tlie Black Prince, our friend Sir Walter Raleigh, Pym, Hampden, Laud, Ireton, Butler, and Addison, in one afternoon. I walked about two inches taller In my trencher cap after it. Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of England. AVhy shouldn't 1 1 There must have been freshmen once who were chums of AVyclifi"e of Queen's, or Raleigh of Oriel. I mooned up and down the High-street, staring at all the young faces in caps, and wondering which of them would turn out great generals, or statesmen, or poets. Some of there will, of course, for there must be a dozen at least, I shoikid 10 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. think, in every generation of undergraduates, wlio will have a good deal to say to the ruling and guiding of the British nation before they die. " But, after all, the river is the feature of Oxford, to my mind ; a glorious stream, not five minutes' walk from the colleges, broad enough in most places for three boats to row abreast. I expect I shall take to boating furiously : I have been dowm the river three or four times already with some other freshmen, and it is glorious exercise ; that I can sec, though we bungle and cut crabs desperately at present. ** Here's a long yarn I'm spinning for you ; and I dare say after all you'll say it tells you nothing, and you'd rather have twenty lines about the men, and what they're thinking about, and the meaning and inner life of the place, and all that. Patience, patience ! I don't know anything about it mysell yet, and have only had time to look at the shell, which is a very handsome and stately affair ; you shall have the kernel, if I ever get at it, in due time. " And now write me a long letter directly, and tell me about the Doctor, and who are in the Sixth, and how the house goes on, and w^hat sort of an eleven there'll be, and what you are all doing and thinking about. Come up here and try for a scholarship ; I'll take you in and show you the lions. Remember me to all old friends. — Ever yours affectiuaately, T. B." CHAPTER 11. A ROW ON THE RIVER WiTHi N a day or two of the penning of this celebrated epistle, which created quite a sensation in the sixth-form room as it went the round after tea, Tom realised one of the objects oi his yoang Oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking on the ri\'er in a skiff by himself, with such results as are now to be described. lie had aheady been down several times in pair-oar and four-oar boats, with an old oar to puU stroke, and another to steer and coach the young idea, but he was not salislied with these essays. He could not believe that he was such a bad oar as the old hands made him out to be, and thought that it must be the fault of the other freshmen who were leai-ning with him that the boat made so little way and rolled so much, lie had been such a proficient in all the A ROW ON THE RIVER. 11 Rugby games, that he couldn't realize the fact of his unreadinesg in a boat. Pulling looked a simple thing enough — much easier than tennis ; and he had made a capital start at the latter game, and been highly complimented V)y the marker after his first hour in the little court. He forgot that cricket and fives are cdpital training for tennis, but that rowing is a speciality, of the rudiments of which he was wholly ignorant. And so, in full confidence that, if he could only have a turn or two alone, lie should not only satisfy himself, but everybody else, that he was a heaven-born oar, he refused all offers of com- panionship, and started on the afternoon of a fine February day down to the boats for his trial trip, lie had watched his regular companions well out of college, and gave them enougli start to make sure that they would he off before he himself could arrive at the St. Ambrose's dressing-room at Hall's, and chuckled, as he came within sight of the river, to see the freshmen's boat in which he generally performed, go plunging away past tlie University barge, keeping three different times with four oars, and otherwise demeaning itself so as to become an object of mirthful admiration to all beholders. Tom was punted across to Hall's in a state of great content, which increased when, in answer to his casual inquiry, the managing man informed him that not a man to linish with ; but Drysdaie was not an ordinary man, as yoi felt in a moment when you went to breakfast with him for the first time. The staircase on which he lived was inhabited, except in the garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a breakfast-club, in v/hich, thanks to Drysdale's genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultivated. Every morning the boy from the Weirs arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then an eel or trout, which the scouts on the staircase had learnt to fry delicately in oil. Fresh watercresses came in the same basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchcocked chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. In the season there were plover's eggs ; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette ; and a distant baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent in the bread — the common domestic college loaf being of course out of the question for any one with the slightest pretensions to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts. Then there would be a deep Yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a piece de 7'esista7ice, and three or four sorts of preserves ; and a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or soda-water and maraschino for a change. Tea and coffee were there indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast-eaters of J^To. 3 staircase. Pleasant young gentlemen they were on Xo. 3 staircase ; I mean the ground and first-floor men who formed the breakfast-club, for tha garrets were nobodies. Three out of the four were gentlemen- 22 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. commoners, with allowances of 500/. a year at least each ; and, as they treated their allowances as pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted hippopotamus foi breakfast if they had chosen to order it, which they would most likely have done if they had thought of it. Two out of the three were the sons of rich men who had made their own fortunes, and sent their sons to St. Ambrose's because it was very desirable that the young gentlemen should make good connexions. In fact, the fathers looked upon the University as a good investment, and gloried much in. hearing their sons talk familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends Lord Harry Tliis and Sir George That. Drysdale, the third of the set, was the heir of an old as well as of a rich family, and consequently, having his con- nexion ready made to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and wines. His whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as possible ; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but tlie fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and done credit to himself and his college. The fourth man of the breakfast-club, the Hon. Piers St. Cloud, was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-connected young man. His allowance was small for the set he lived with, but he never wanted for anything. He didn't entertain much, certainly, but when he did, everything was in the best possible style. He was very exclusive, and knew no man in college out of the fast set ; and of these he addicted himself chiefly to the society of the rich freshmen, for somehow the men of his own standing seemed a little shy of him. But with the freshmen he was always hand and glove, hved in their rooms, and used their wines, horses, and other movable property as his own. Being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad jockey, he managed in one way or another to make his young friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance; as, indeed, why should they not, at least those of them who came to college to form eligible connexions ; for had not his remote lineal ancestor come over in the same ship with William the Conqueror? were not all his relations about the Court, as lords and ladies in waiting, white sticks or black rods, and in the innermost of all possible circles of the great world ; and was there a better coat of arms than he bore in all Burke's Peerage 1 Our hero had met Drysdale at a house in the country shortly before the beginning of his first term, and they had A BREAKFAST AT DKYSDALE'S. 23 rather taken to one another. Drysdale had been amongst his tirst callers ; and, as he came out of chapel one morning shortly after his arrival, Drysdale's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast. So he went to his own rooms, or- dered his commons to be taken across to No. 3, and followed himself a few minutes afterwards. No one was in the rooms when he arrived, for none of the club had finished their toilettes. Morning chapel was not meant for, or cultivated by, gentlemen-commoners ; they paid double chapel fees, in considenition of which, probably, they were not expected to attend so often as the rest of the undergraduates ; at any rate, they didn't, and no harm came to them in consequence of their absence. As Tom entered, a great splashing in an inner room stopped for a moment, and Drysdale's voice shouted out that he was in his tub, but would be with him in a minute. So Tom gave himself up to the contemplatioji of the rooms in which his fortunate acquaintance dwelt ; and very pleasant rooms thej were. The large room, in which the breakfast-table was laid for five, was lofty and well-propor- tioned, and panelled with old oak, and the furniture waa handsome and solid, and in keeping with the room. There were four deep windows, high up in the wall, with cushioned seats under them, two looking into the large quad- rangle, and two into the inner one. Outside these windows, Drysdale had rigged up hanging gardens, which were kept full of flowers by tho first nurseryman in Oxford all the year round ; so that even on this February morning, the scent of gardania and violets pervaded the room, and strove for mastery with the smell of stale tobacco, which hung about the curtains and sofas. There was a large glass in an oak frame over the mantelpiece, which was loaded with choice pipes and cigar cases, and quaint receptacles for tobacco ; and by the side of the glass hung small carved oak frames, containing lists of the meets of the lleythrop, the Old Berkshire, and Drake's hounds, for the current week. There was a queer assortment of well-framed paintings and engravings on the walls ; some of considerable merit, especially some water-colour sea-piecea and engravings from Landseer's pictures, mingled with which hung Taglioni and Cerito, in short petticoats and impossible attitudes ; Phosphorus winning the Derby ; the Deatli of Grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse — not poor old Joe) ; an American Trotting Match, and Jem Belcher and Deaf Burke in attitudes of self-defence. Several tandem and riding whips, mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled gun, and fishing rods, occupied one corner, and a polished oopper cask, holding about five gallons of mild ale, stood in 24 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. another. In short, there was plenty of everything except books — the literature of the world being represented, so 5aT as Tom could make out in his short scrutinyj by a few well- bound but badly used volumes of classics, with the cribs thereto appertaining, shoved away into a cupboard which stood half open, and contained besides, haK-emptied decanters, and large pewters, and dog-collars, and packs of cards, and all sorts of miscellaneous articles to serve as an antidote. Tom had scarcely finished his short survey, when the door of the bedi'oom opened, and Drysdale emerged in a loose jacket lined with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and other- wise gorgeously attired. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, of middle size, with dark hair, and a merry brown eye, with a twinkle in it, which spoke well for his sense of humour ; otherwise, his large features were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a thoroughly well-bred gentleman. His first act, after nodding to Tom, was to seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the contents, having, as he said, " * a whoreson longing for that poor creature, small beer.' We were playing Van-Jobji in Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled bones and mulled port. A fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after that without something to cool his coppers." Tom was as yet ignorant of what Van-John might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at the beer which the other handed to him ; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up Jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. In another minute, a bouncing and scrattling was heard on the stairs, and a white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his way ; for his brow was broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look, and a way he had of going 'snuzzling' about the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for nervous people. Tom, however, was used to dogs, and soon became friends with him, wiiicli evidently pleased his host. And then the breakfast arrived, all smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colours went, than Drysdale. They were introduced to Tom, who thought them somewhat ordi- nary and rather loud young gentlemen. One of them remon- strated vigorously against the presence of that confounded dog, and so Jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the four fell to work upon the breakfast. It was a good lesson in gastronomj'-, but the results are scai'cely worth v^.peating here. It is wonderful, though, how you feel drawn to a man who feeds you well ; and, as Tom's A BREAKFAST AT DRTSD ALE'S. 25 appetite got less, his liking and respect for liis host undoubt- edly increased. t\Tien they had nearly finished, in walked the Honourable Piers, a tall slight man, two or tlii'ee years older than the rest of them ; good-looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but with a drawing up of his nostril, and a dra^ving down of the corners of his mouth, which set Tom against him at once. The cool, supercilious half-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to own. "Here, Henry," said the Honourable Piers to. the scout in attendance, seating himself, and inspecting the half-cleared dishes ; " what is there for my breakfast ? " Heniy bustled about, and handed a dish or two. " I don't want these cold things ; haven't you kept mo any gudgeon 1 " " Why, su'," said Henry, " there was only two dozen tliis morning, and Mr. Drysdale told me to cook them all." "To be sure I did," said Drysdale. "Just half a dozen for each of us four : they were first-rate. H you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you." " Just go and get me a broil from the kitchen," said the Honourable Piers, without deigning an answer to Drysdale. " Very sorry, sir ; kitchen's shut by now, sir," answered Henry. " Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets." " I say, Henry," shouted Drysdale to the retreating scout ; " not to my tick, mind ! Put them down to Mr. St. Cloud." Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently re- turned to his waiting ; and the Honourable Piers set to work upon his breakfast, without showing any further ill-temper certainly, except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn. Tom thought he detected signs of coming hostilities be- tween his host and St. Cloud, for Drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance of roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong ; the fact being, that during Drysdale'3 first term, the other had lived on him — drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his dog-cart, and winning his money ; all which Drysdale, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in Oxford, had stood without turning a hair. But St. Cloud added to these little favours a hall 26 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. palTOJiizmg, half contemptuous manner, whicli he used with great success towards some of the other gentlemen-commoners, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, hut which Drysdale, who didn't care three stra^rs about ki) owing St. Cloud, wasn't going to put up with. However, nothing happened bej^ond a little sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be gratified with eome of the remnants by his fond master, and then curled himself up on the sofa along which Drysdale lounged. "What are you going to do to-day, Drysdale?" said one of the others. "I've ordered a leader to be sent on over the bridge, and mean to drive my dog-cart over, and dine at Abingdon. Won't you come 1 " " Who's going besides 1 " asked Drysdale. " Oh, only St. Cloud and Farley here. There's lots of room for a fourth." " No, thank'ee ; teaming's slow work on the back seat. Besides, I've half promised to go down in the boat." " In the boat ! " shouted the other. " Why, you don't mean to say you're going to take to pulling '? " " Well, I don't know ; I rather think I am. I'm dog- tired of driving and doing the High Street, and playing cards and billiards all day, and our boat is likely to be head of the river, I think." " By Jove ! I should as soon have thought of your taking to reading, or going to University Sermon," put in St. Cloud. " And the boating-men, too," went on Farley ; " did you ever see such a set, St. Cloud ? with their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters." " I'll bet a guinea there isn't one of them has more than 200^. a year," put in Chanter, whose father could just write his name, and was making a colossal fortune by supplying bad iron rails to the new railway companies. " What the devil do I care," broke in Drysdale ; " I know they're a deal more amusing than you fellows, who can do nothing that don't cost pounds." " Getting economical ! " sneered St. Cloud. " Well, I don't see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and bUstering one's hands, only to get abused by that httle brute Miller the coxswain," said Farley. " Why, you won't be able to sit straight in your chair for a month," said Chanter ; " and the captain will make you dine at one, and fetch you out of anybody's rooms, confound his A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S. 27 iirpudence, whether he knows them or not, at eleven o'clock every night." " Two cigars a day, and a pint and a half of liqnid," and Farley inserted his cod-fish face int# the tankard ; " fancy Drysdale on training allowance ! " Here a new comer entered in a bachelor's gown, who waa warmly greeted by the name of Sanders by Drysdale. St. Cloud and he exchanged the coldest possible nods ; and the other two, taking the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke, and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude half- whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a game at pyramids till luncheon time. Sanders took a cigar which Drysdale offered, and began asking him about his friends at home, and what he had been doing in the vacation. They were evidently intimate, though Tom thought that Drysdale didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as Sanders took his fancy at once. However, eleven o'clock struck, and Tom had to go off to lecture, where we cannot follow him just now, but must remain with Drys- dale and Sanders, who chatted on very pleasantly for some twenty minutes, till a knock came at the door. It was not till the third summons that Drysdale shouted "Come in," with a shrug of his shoulders, and an impatient kick at the sofa- cushion at his feet, as though not half pleased at the approaching visit. Header ! had you not ever a friend a few years older than yourself, whose good opinion you were anxious to keep ? A fellow teres atque rotundus ; who could do everything better than you, from Plato and tennis down to singing a comic song and playing quoits % If you have had, wasn't he always in your rooms or company whenever anything happened to show your little weak points % Sanders, at any rate, occupied this position towards our young friend Drysdale, and the latter, much as he liked Sanders's company, would have preferred it at any other time than on an idle morning just at the beginning of term, when the gentlemen-tradesmen, who look upon undergraduates in general, and gentlemen-commoners in particular, as their lawful prey, are in the habit of calling in flocks. The new arrival was a tall, florid man, with a half servile, half impudent, manner, and a foreign accent ; dressed in sumptuous costume, with a velvet-faced coat, and a gorgeous plush waistcoat. Under his arm he carried a large parcel, which he proceeded to open, and placed upon a sofa the con- tents, consisting of a couple of coats, and three or four waist* 28 TOM BROAVN AT OXFORD. coats and pairs of trousers. He saluted Sanders with a mosl obsequious bow, looked nervously at Jack, who opened one eye from between his master's legs and growled, and then, turning to Drysdale, %pked if he should have the honour of seeing him try on any of tlu clothes 1 "No; I can't be bored with trying them on now," said Drysdale ; "leave them where they are." Mr. Schloss would like very much on his return to town, in a day or two, to be able to assure his principals, that Mr. Drysdale's orders had been executed to his satisfaction. He had also some very beautiful new stuffs with him, which he should like to submit to Mr, Drysdale, and without more ado began unfolding cards of the most fabulous plushes and cloths. Drysdale glanced first at the cards and then at Sanders, who sat puffing his cigar, and watching Schloss's proceedings wdth a look not unlike Jack's when any one he did not approve of approached his master. " Confound your patterns, Schloss," said Drysdale ; " I tell you I have more things than I want already." " The large stripe, such as these, is now very much worn in London/' went on Schloss, without heeding the rebuff, and sj^reading his cards on the table. "D trousers," replied Drysdale; "you seem to think, Schloss, that a fellow has ten pairs of legs." " Monsieur is pleased to joke," smiled Schloss ; " but, to be in the mode, gentlemen must have variety." "Well, I won't order any now, that's flat," said Drysdale. ''Monsieur will do as he i;)leases ; but it is impossible that he should not have some plush waistcoats ; the fabric is only just out, and is making a sensation." " Kow look here, Schloss ; will you go if I order a waist- coat?" " Monsieur is very good ; he sees how tasteful these new patterns are." " I wouldn't be seen at a cock-fight in one of them ; they're as gaudy as a salmon-fly," said Drysdale, feeling the stuff which the obsequious Schloss held out. " But it seems nice stufi^ too,'" lie went on ; "I shouldn't mind having a couple of waistcoats of it of this pattern;" and he chucked across to Schloss a dark tartan waistcoat which Avas lying near him. *' Have you got the stuff in that pattern ?" " Ah ! no," said Schloss, gathering up the waistcoat ; " but it shall not hinder. I shall have at once a loom for Monsieur set up in Paris.'* " Set it up at Jericho if you like," said Drysdale ; " and now go ! *' A BREAKFAST AT DKYSDALE'S. 29 " May I ask, Mr. Schloss," broke in Sanders, " whai it will cost to set up the loom 1 " " Ah ! indeed, a trifle only ; some twelve, or perhaps four teen, pounds." Sanders gave a chuckle, and puffed away at his cigar. * By Jove," shouted Drysdale, jerking himself in a sitting posture, and upsetting Jack, who went trotting about the room, and snuMing at Schloss's legs ; " do you mean to say, Schloss, you were going to make me waistcoats at fourteen guineas apiece?" " Not if Monsieur disapproves. Ah ! the large hound is not friendly to strangers ; I will call again when Monsieur is more at leisure." And Schloss gathered up his cards and beat a hasty retreat, followed by Jack with his head on one side, and casting an enraged look at Sanders, as he slid through the door. " Well done, Jack, old boy ! " said Sanders, patting him ; " what a funk the fellow was in. Well, you've saved your master a pony this fine morning. Cheap dog you've got, Drysdale." *' D the fellow," answered Drysdale, " he leaves a bad taste in one's mouth ;" and he went to the table, took a pull at the tankard, and then threw himself down on the sofa again, and Jack jumped up and coiled himself round by his master's legs, keeping one half- open eye winking at him, and giving an occasional wag with the end of his taper tail. Sanders got up, and began handling the new things. First he held up a pair of bright blue trousers, with a red stripe across them, Drysdale looking on from the sofa. "I say Drysdale, you don't mean to say you really ordered theso thunder-and-lightning affairs ? " " Heaven only knows," said Drysdale ; " I daresay I did. I'd order a full suit cut out of my grandmother's farthingale to get that cursed Schloss out of my rooms sometimes." " You'll never be able to wear tliem ; even in Oxford the boys would mob you. Why don't you kick him down stairs 1" suggested Sanders, putting down the trousers, and turning to Drysdale. " Well, Fve been very near it once or twice ; but, I don't know- — my name's Eas}^ — besides, I don't want to give up the beast altogether ; he makes the best trousers in England." " And these waistcoats," went on Sanders ; "let me see ; three light silk waistcoats, peach-colour, fawn-colour, and lavender. Well, of course, you can only wear these at youi vveddings. You may be married the first time in the peach or fawn-colour; and then, if you have luck, and buryyoui! 50 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. first wile soon, it \vU\ be a delicate compliment to talie to No. 2 in the lavender, that being half-mourning ; but still, you see, we're in dilticulty as to one of the three, either the peach or the fawn-colour — " Here he was interrupted by another knock, and a boy entered fiom the fashionable tobacconist's in Oriel Lane, who had general orders to let Drysdale have his fair share of any- thing very special in the cigar line. He deposited a two- pound box of cigars at three guineas the pound, on the table, and withdrew in silence. Then came a boot-maker with a new pair of top-boots, which Drysdale had ordered in November, and had forgotten next day. This artist, wisely considering that his young patron must have plenty of tops to last him through the hunting season (he himself having supplied three previous pairs in October), had retained the present pair for show in his win- dow ; and every one knows that boots wear much better for being kept some time before use. Now, however, as the hunting season was drawing to a close, and the place in the wuidovv was wanted for spring stock, he judiciously sent in th»^ tops, merely adding half-a-sovereign or so to the price for interest on his outlay since the order. He also kindly left on the table a pair of large plated spurs to match the boots. It never rains but it pours. Sanders sat smoking his cigar in provoking silence, while knock succeeded knock and trades- man followed tradesman ; each depositing some article ordered, or supposed to have been ordered, or which ought in the judgment of the depositors to have been ordered, by the luck- less Drysd'ould cut the whole concern to-morrow. I've been near doing it twenty times, and enlisting in a good regiment." " Would it be any better there, though ? " said Tom, gently, for he felt that he was in a magazine, " Better ! yes, it must be better," said Hardy : " at any rate the youngsters there are marchers and fighters ; besides, one would be in the ranks and know one's place. Here one is by way of being a gentleman — God save the mark ! A young officer, be he never such a fop or profligate, must take his turn at guard, and carry his life in his hand all over the world, wherever he is sent, or he has to leave the service. Service ! — yes that's the word ; that's what makes every young red-coat respectable, though he mayn't think it. He is serving his Queen, his country — the devil, too, perhaps — very likely — but still the other in some sort. He is bound to it, sworn to it, nmst do it ; more or less. But a youngster up here, with health, strength, and heaps of money — bound to no earthly service, and choosing that of the devil and his own lusts, because some service or other he must have — I want to know where else under the sun you can see such a sight as that?" Tom mumbled something to the effect that it was by no means necessary that men at Oxford, either rich or poor, need embark in the service which had been alluded to ; which remark, however, only seemed to add fuel to the fire. For Hardy now rose from his chair, and began striding up and down the room, his right arm behind his back, the hand gripping his left elbow, his left hand brought round in front close to his body, and holding the bowl of his pipe, from which he was blowing off clouds in puffs like an engine just starting with a heavy train. The attitude was one of a man painfully trying to curb himself His eyes burnt like coals under his deep brows. The man altogether looked awful, and Tom felt particularly uncomfortable and puzzled. After a turn or two. Hardy burst out again — " And who are they, I should like to know, these fellows who dare to offer bribes to gentlemen ? How do they live ? What do they do for themselves or for tliis University 1 By heaven, they are ruining themselves body and soid, and making tliis place, which was meant for the training of learned and brave and righteous Englishmen, a lie and a snare. And who tries to stop them 1 Here and there a don AJS EXPLOSION. 69 is doing Lis work like a man ; the rest are either washing tlieir liands of the business, and spendmg their time ic looking after those who don't want looking after, and cram- ming those who would be better without the cramming, or else standing by, cap in hand, and shouting, * Oh young men of large fortune and great connexions ! you future dispensers of the good things of this realm ! come to our colleges, and all shall be made pleasant!' and the shout is taken up by undergraduates, and tradesmen, and horse-dealers, and cricket- cads, and dog-fanciers, ' Come to us, and us, and us, and we will be your toadies ! ' Let them ; let them toady and cringe to their precious idols, till they bring this noble old place down about their ears. Down it will come, down it must come, for down it ought to come, if it can find notliing better to worship than rank, money, and intellect. But to live in the place and love it too, and see all this going on, and groan and writhe under it, and not be able " At this point in his speech Hardy came to the turning- point in his march at the farther end of the room, just opi)0- site his crockery cupboard ; but, instead of turning as usual, he paused, let go the hold on his left elbow, poised himselt' for a moment to get a purchase, and then dashed his right fist full against one of the panels. Crash went the shght deal boards, as if struck with a sledge-hammer, and crash went glass and crockery behind. Tom jumped to his feet, in doubt wliether an assault on him would not follow; but the fit was over, and Hard}^ looked round at him with a rueful and deprecating face. For a moment Tom tried to look solemn and heroic, as befitted the occasion ; but, somehow, the sudden contrast flashed on him, and sent him off, before he could think about it, into a roar of laughter, endmg in a violent fit of coughing; for in his excitement he had swal- lowed a mouthful of smoke. Hardy, after holding out for a moment, gave in to the humour of the thing, and the appeal- ing look passed into a smile, and the smile into a laugh, as he turned towards his damaged cupboard, and began opening it carefully in a legitimate manner. "I say, old fellow," said Tom, coming up, "I should think you must find it an expensive amusement. Do you often walk into your cupboards hke that ?" " You see, Bro^^^l, I am naturally a man of a very quick temper." " So it seems," said Tom ; " but doesn't it hurt your knuckles ? I should have something softer put up for me if I were you ; your bolster, with a velvet cap on it, or a doctor of divinity's gown, now." 70 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. "You be hanged," said Hardy, as he disengaged the last splinter, and gently opened the ill-used cupboard door. " Oh, thunder and turf, look here," he went on, as the state oi affairs inside disclosed itself to his view ; " how many times h?ve I told that thief George never to put anything on this side of my cupboard ! Two tumblers smashed to bits, and I've only four in the world. Lucky we had those two out on the table." "And here's a great piece out of the sugar-basin, you see," said Tom, holding up the broken article ; " and, let me see, one cup and three saucers gone to glory." " Well, it's lucky it's no worse," said Hardy, peering over liis shoulder ; " I had a lot of odd saucers, and there's enough left to last my time. Never mind the smash, let's sit down again and be reasonable." Tom sat down in high good humour. He felt himself more on an equality with his host than he had done before, and even thought he might venture on a little mild expostu- lation or lectwriug. But while he was considering how to improve the occasion Hardy began himself. " I shouldn't go so furious. Brown, if I didn't care about the place so much. I can't bear to think of it as a sort of learning machine, in Avhich I am to grind for three years to get certam degrees which I want. No — this place, and Cambridge, and our great schools, are the heart of dear old England. Did you ever read Secretary Cook's address to the Yice-Chancellor, Doctors, &c. in 1636 — more critical times, perhaps, even than ours 1 No '? Well, listen then ;" and ho went to his bookcase, took down a book, and read : " * The * very truth is, that all wise princes res2)ect the welfare of * their estates, and consider that schools and universities are * (as in a body) the noble and vital parts, which being vigorous * and sound send good blood and active spirits into the veins * and arteries, which cause liealth and strength ; or, if feeble * or ill-affected, corrupt all the vital parts ; whereupon grow * diseases, and in the end, death itself.' A low standard up here for ten years may corrupt half the parishes in the kmg- dom." "That's true," said Tom, "but " " Yes ; and so one has a right to be jealous for Oxford. Every Englishman ought to bfe." "But 1 really think. Hardy, that you're unreasonable," said Tom, who had no mind to be done out of his chance of lecturing his host. " I am very quick-tempered," said Hardy. " as I told you just noAv." hardy's history. 71 ** But you'i-e not fair on the fast set up here. They can't help being rich men, after all." " Ko ; so one oughtn't to expect them to be going through the eyes of needles, I suppose. But do you mean to say you ever heard of a more dirty, blackguard business than this?" said Hardy ; " he ought to be expelled the University." " I admit that," said Tom ; " but it was only one of them, you know. I don't believe there's another man in the set who would have done it." " Well, I hope not," said Hardy; " I may be hard on them — as you say, they can't help being rich. But, now, I don't want you to think me a violent one-sided fanatic ; shall I tell you some of my experiences up here — some passages from the life of a servitor 1 " " Do," said Tom ; " I should like nothing so well" CHAPTER YIII. hardy's history. "My father is an old commander in the Royal Navy. He was a second cousin of Nelson's Hardy, and that, I believe, was what led him into the navy, for he had no interest what- ever of his own. It was a visit which Nelson's Hardy, then a young lieutenant, paid to his relative, my grandfather, which decided my father, he has told me : but he always had a strong bent to sea, though he was a boy of very studious habits. " However, those were times when brave men who knew and loved their profession couldn't be overlooked, and my dear old father fought his way up step by step — not very fast certainly, but still fast enough to keep him in heart about his chances in life. I could show you the accounts of some of the affairs he was in, in James's History, which you see up on my shelf there, or I could teU them you myself; but I hope some day you will know him, and then you will hear them m perfection. " My father was made coiftnander towards the end of the war, and got a ship, in which he sailed with a convoy of merchantmen from Bristol. It was the last voyage he ever made in active service ; but the Admiralty was so well satis- fied with his conduct in it that they kept his ship in com mis- sion two years after peace was declared. And well they 72 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. miglit be ; for in the Spanish main he fought an action which lasted, on and off, for two days, mth a French sloop of war, and a privateer, which he always thought was an American, either of which ought to have been a match for liim. But ho had been with Vincent in the Arrow, and was not likely to think much of such small odds as that. At any rate h^ beat tliem off, and not a prize could either of them make out of his convoy, though I believe his ship was never ht for anythmg afterwards, and was broken up as soon as she was out of com- mission. "We have got iier compasses, and the old flag which flew at the peak through the whole voyage, at home now. It was my father's own flag, and his fancy to have it always flying. More than half the men were killed, or badly hit — the dear old father amongst the rest. A ball took off part of his knee-cap, and he had to fight the last six hours of the action sitting in a chair on the quarter-deck ; but he says it made the men fight better than when he was among them, seeing him sitting there sucking oranges. " AYell, he came home with a stiff leg. The Bristol mer- chants gave liim the freedom of the city in a gold box, and a splendidly-mounted sword with an inscription on the blade, which hangs over the mantel-piece at home. ^Vhen I first left home, I asked him to give me his old service sword, which used to hang by the other, and he gave it D^e at once, though 1 was only a lad of seventeen, as he would give me his right eye, dear old father, which is the only one he has now ; the other he lost from a cutlass-wound in a boarding party. There it hangs, and those are his epaulettes in the tin case. They used to lie under my piUow before I had a room of my own, and many a cowardly down-hearted fit have they helped to pull me through, Brown ; and many a mean act have they helped to keep me from doing. There they are always ; and the sight of them brings home the dear old man to me as nothing else does, hardly even his letters. I must be a great scoundrel to go very wrong with such a father. " Let's see — where was 1 1 Oh, yes ; I remember. Well, my father got his box and sword, and some very handsome letters from several great men. We have them all in a book at home, and I know them by heart. The ones he values most are from Collingwood, an# his old captain, Vincent, and from his cousin, Nelson's Hardy, who didn't come off very well himself after the war. But my poor old father never got another ship. For some time he went up every year to London, and was always, he says, very kindly received by the people in power, and often dined with one and another Lord of the Admiralty who had been an old messmate. But he IIAIIDY'S HISTORY. 73 was longing for employment ; aiul it used to prey on him while he was in his prime to feel year after year slipping away and he still without a ship. But why should I abuse peo])le, and think it hard, whe]i he doesn't 1 ' You see, Jack,' he said to me the last time we spoke about it, ' after all^ I was a battered old hulk, lame and half blind. So was Nelson, you'll say : but every man isn't a Nelson, my boy. And though I might think I could con or fight a ship as well as ever, I can't say other folk who didn't know me were wrong for not agreeing with me. Would you now, Jack, appoint a lame and blind man to command your ship, if you had one ? ' But he left off applying for work soon after he was fifty (I just remember the time), for he began to doubt then whether he was quite so fit to command a small vessel as a younger man ; and, though he had a much better chance after that of getting a ship (for William IV. came to the throne, who knew all about him), he never went near the Admiralty again. ' God forbid/ he said, ' that his Majesty should take me if there's a better man to bo had.' '• But I have forgotten to tell you how I came into the world, and am telling you my father's story instead of my own. You seem to like hearing about it though, and you can't understand one without the other. However, when my father was made commander, he married, and bought, with his prize-money and savings, a cottage and piece of land, in a village on the south coast, where he left his wife when he went on his last voyage. They had waited some years, for neither of them had any money ; but there never were two people who wanted it less, or did more good Avithout it to all who came near them. They had a hard time of it, too, for my father had to go on half-pay ; and a commander's half-pay isn't much to live upon and keep a family. For they had a family ; three, besides me ; but they are all gone. And my mother, too ; she died when I was quite a boy, and left him and me alone ; and since then I have never known what a woman's love is, for I have no near relations ; and a man with such prospects as mine had better keep do\vn all — however, there's no need to go into my notions ; I won't wander any more if I can help it. "I know my father was very poor when my mother died, and I think (though he never told me so) that he had mort- gaged our cottage, and was very near having to sell it at one time. The expenses of my mother's illness had been very heavy ; I kno\s^ a good deal of the best furniture was sold — all, indeed, except a handsome arm-chair, and a little work- table of my mother's. She used to sit in the chair, in her 74 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. last illness, on our lawn, and watch the sunsets. And he sat by her, and watched her, and sometimes read the Bible to her ; while I played about with a big black dog we had then, named Vincent, after my father's old captain ; or with Burt, his old boatswain, who came with his wife to live with my father before I can recollect, and lives with us stUl. He did everything in the garden and about the house ; and in the house, too, when his wife was ill, for he can turn his hand to anything, like most old salts. It was he who rigged up the mast and weather-cock on the lawn, and used to let me run u]) the old flag on Sundays, and on my father's wedding-day, and on the anniversary of his action, and of Vincent's action in the Arroio. "After my mother's death my father sent away all the servants, for the boatswain and his wife are more like friends. I was wrong to say that no woman has loved me since my mother's death, for I believe dear old Nanny loves me as if I were her own child. My father, after this, used to sit silent for hours together, doing nothing but look over the sea ; but, except for that, was not much changed. After a short time he took to teaching me to read, and from that time I never was away from him for an hour, except when I was asleep, until I went out into the world. " As I told you, my father was naturally fond of study. He had kept up the little Latin he had learnt as a boy, and had always been reading whatever he could lay his hands on ; BO that I couldn't have had a better tutor. They were no lessons to me, particularly the geography ones ; for there was no part of the world's sea-coast that he did not know, and could tell me what it and the people who lived there were like ; and often when Burt happened to come in at such times, and heard what my father was talking about, he would give us some of his adventures and ideas of geography, which were very queer indeed. " When I was nearly ten, a new vicar came. He was about my father's age, and a widower, like him ; only he had no child. Like him, too, he had no private fortune, and the livmg is a very poor one. He soon became very intimate with us, and made my father his churchwarden ; and, after being present at some of our lessons, volunteered to teach me Greek, which, he said, it was time I should begin to learn. This was a great rehef to my father, who had bought a Greek grammar and dictionary, and a delectus, some time before ; and I could see him often, dear old ftither, with his glass in his eye, puzzling away over them when I was playing, or read- ing Cook's Voyaged, for it had grown to be the wish of hia hardy's history . 76 heart that I should be a scholar, and should go into orders. So he was going to teach me Greek himself, for there was no one in the parish except the Vicar who knew a word of any- thing but English — so that he could not have got me a tutor, and the thought of sending me to school had never crossed his mind, even if he could have afforded to do either. My father only sat by at the Greek lessons, and took no part ; but first he began to put in a word here and there, and then would repeat words and sentences himself, and look over my book while I construed, and very soon was just as regular a pupil of the Vicar's as I. " The Vicar was for the most part very proud of his pupils, and the kindest of masters ; but every now and then he used to be hard on my falher, which made me furious, though he never seemed to mind it. I used to make mistakes on pur- pose at those times to sho^v that I was worse than he at any rate. But this only happened after we had had a political discussion at dinner ; for we dined at three, and took to our Greek afterwards, to suit the Vicar's time, who was generally a guest, ^ly father is a Tory, of course, as you may guess, and the Vicar was a Liberal, of a very mild sort, as I have since thought; 'a Whig of '88,' he used to call himself. But he was in favour of the Eeform Bill, which was enough for my father, who lectured him about loyalty, and opening the flood-gates to revolution ; and used to call up old Burt from the kitchen, where he was smoking his pipe, and ask him wliat he used to think of the Kadicals on board ship ; and Burt's regular reply was — " ' Skulks, yer honour, regular skulks. I wouldn't give the twist of a fiddler's elbow for all the lot of *em as ever pre- tended to handle a swab, or hand a topsail.' " The Vicar always tried to argue, but, as Burt and I were the only audience, my father was always triumphant ; only he took it out of us afterwards at the Greek. Often I used to think, when they were reading history, and talking about the characters, that my father was much the most liberal of the two. " About this time he bought a small half-decked boat of ten tons, for he and Burt agreed that I ought to learn to handle a boat, although I was not to go to sea ; and when they got the Vicar in the boat on the summer evenings (for he was always ready for a sail though he was a very bad sailor), I believe they used to steer as near the wind as pos- sible, and get into short chopping seas on purpose. But i don't think he was ever frightened, though he used sometimes to be very ill 76 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " And so I went on, learning all I could from my father, and the Vicar, and old Burt, till I Avas sixteen. By that time I had bsgun to think for myself; and I had made up my mind that it was time I should do something. Xo boy ever wanted to leave home less, I believe ; but I saw that I must make a move if I was ever to be what my father wished me to be. So I spoke to the Vicar, and he quite agreed with me, and made inquiries amongst his acquaintance ; and so, before I was seventeen, I was oifered the place of under-master in a commercial school, about twenty miles from home. The Vicar brought the offer, and my father was very angry at first ; but we talked him over, and so I took the situation. " And I am very glad I did, although there were many drawbacks. The salary was 351. a year, and for that T had to drill all the boys in English, and arithmetic, and Latin, and to teach the Greek grammar to the five or six who paid extra to learn it. Out of school I had to be always with them, and was responsible for the discipline. It was weary work very often, and what seemed the worst part of it to me, at the time, was the trade spirit which leavened the whole of the establishment. The master and owner of the school, who was a keen vulgar man, but always civil enough to me, thought of nothing but what would pay. And this seemed to be what filled the school. Fathers sent their boys, because the place was so practical, and notliing was taught (except as extras) which was not to be of so-called real use to the boys in the world. We had our work quite clearly laid down for us ; and it was, not to put the boys in the way of getting real knowledge or understanding, or any of the things Solomon talks about, but to put them in the way of getting on. " I spent three years at that school, and in that time I grounded myself pretty well in Latin and Greek — better, I believe, than I should have done if I had been at a first- rate school myself ; and I hope I did the boys some good, and taught some of them that cunning was not the best quality to start in life with. And I was not often very un- happy, for I could always look forward to my holidays with my father. " However, I own that T never was better pleased than one Christmas, when the Vicar came over to our cottage, and brought with him a letter from the Principal of St. Ambrose College, Oxford, appointing me to a servitorship. My father was even more delighted than I, and that evening produced a bottle of old rum, wliich was part of his ship's stock, and had gone all through his action, and been in his cellar ever sineo. iiaedy's history. 77 And we three in the parlour, and old Burt and Lis wife in tho. kitchen, finished it that night ; the boatswain, I must own, taking the lion's share. The Yicar took occasion, in the course of the evening, to hint that it was only poor men who took these places at the University ; and that I might find some inconvenience, and suffer some annoyance, by not being exactly in the same position as other men. But my clear old father would not hear of it ; I was now going to be amongst tho very pick of English gentlemen — what could it matter whether I had money or not ? That was the last thing which real gentlemen thought of. Besides, why was I to be so very poor? he should be able to allow me whatever would bo necessary to make me comfortable. 'But, Jack,' he said suddenly, later in the evening, * one meets low fellows every- where. You have met them, I know, often at that con- founded school, and will meet them again. Never you be ashamed of your poverty, my boy.' I promised readily enough, for I didn't think I could be more tried in that wa_y than I had been already. I had lived for three years amongst people whose class notoriously measured all things by a money standard ; now that was all over, I thought. It's easy making promises in the dark. The Yicar, however, would not let the matter rest ; so we resolved ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means, and my father engaged to lay before us an exact statement of his affairs next day. I went to the door with the Vicar, and he told me to come and see him in the morning. " I half-guessed what he wanted to see me for. He knew all my father's affairs perfectly well, and wished to prepare me for what was to come in the evening. ' Your ftither,' he said, ' is one of the most liberal men 1 have ever met ; he is almost the only person who gives anything to the schools and other charities in this parish, and he gives to the utmost. You would not wish him, I know, to cut off these gifts, which bring the highest rcAvard with tliem, when they are made in the spirit in which he makes them. Then he is getting old, and you would never like him to deny himself the comforts (and few enough they are) which he is used to. He has nothing but his half-pay to live on ; and out of that he pays 501. a year for insurance ; for he has insured his life, that you may have something beside the cottage and land when he dies. I only tell you this that you may know the facts before- hand. I am sure you would never take a penny from him if you could help it. But he won't be happy unless he makes you some allowance ; and he can do it without crippling him- self. He has been paying off an old mortgage on his properly 78 TOM BROWN AT OXFORI here for many years, by instalments of 40^. a year, and the last Avas paid last Micliaolmas ; so that it will not incon- venience him to make you tliat allowance. l!^ow, you will not be able to live properly upon that up at Oxford, even as a servitor. I speak to you now, my dear Jack, as your oldest friend (except Burt), and you must allow me the privilege of an old friend. I have more than I want, and I propose to make up your allowance at Oxford to SOI. a year, and upon that I think you may manage to get on. IS'ow, it will not be quite candid, but I think, under the circumstances, w^e shall be justified in representing to your father that iOl. a year will be ample for him to allow you. You see what I mean ? ' " I remember almost word for word what the Vicar said ; for it is not often in one's life that one meets with this sort of friend. At first I thanked him, but refused to take anything from him. I had saved enough, I said, to cany me through Oxford. But he would not be put off ; and I found that his heart was as much set on making me an allowance himself as on saving my father. So I agreed to take 25Z. a year from him. " "UTien we met again in the evening, to hear my father's statement, it was as good as a play to see the dear old man, with his spectacles on and his papers before him, proving in some wonderful way that he could easily allow me at least SOI. or 100^. a year. I believe it cost the Yicar some twinges of conscience to persuade him that all I should want would be 40/. a year ; and it was very hard work ; but at last we suc- ceeded, and it was so settled. During the next tliree weeks the preparations for my start occupied us all. The Vicar looked out all his old classics, wdiich he insisted that I should take. There they stand on that middle shelf — all well bound, you see, and many of them old college prizes. My father made an expedition to the nearest town, and came back with a large new portmanteau and hat-box ; and the next day the leading tailor came over to fit me out with new clothes. In fact, if I liad not resisted stoutly, I should have come to college with half the contents of the cottage, and Burt as a valet; for the old boatswain w^as as bad as the other two. But I compromised the matter with him by accepting his pocket compass and the picture of the brig which hangs tliero ; the two things, next to his old wife, which he values, I believe, most in the world. " Well, it is ]iow two years last October since I came to Oxford as a servitor; so you see 1 have pretty nearly finished my time here. I was more than twenty then — much older HAKDY'S HISTORY. 79 as you know, than most freslimen. I daresay it was partly owing to the difference in age, and partly to tlie fact that I knew no one when I came up, hut mostly to my own bad management and odd temper, that I did not get on better than I have done with the men here. Sometimes I think that our college is a bad specimen, for I have made several friends amongst out-college men. At any rate, the fact is, as you have no doubt found out — and I hope I haven't tried at all to conceal it — that I am out of the pale, as it were. In fact, with the exception of one of the tutors, and one man who was a freshman with me, I do not laiow a man in college except as a mere speaking acquaintance. " I had been rather thrown off my balance, I think, at the change in my life, for at first I made a great fool of myself. I had believed too readily what my father had said, and thought that at Oxford I should see no more of what I had been used to. Here I thought that the last thing a man would be valued by would be the length of his purse, and that no one would look down upon me because I performed some services to the college in return for my keep, instead of paying for it in money. " Yes, I made a great foci of myself, no doubt of that; and, what is worse, I broke my promise to my father — I often was ashamed of my poverty, and tried at first to hide it, for some- how the spirit of the place carried me along with it. I couldn't help wishing to be thought of and treated as an equal by the men. It's a very bitter thing for a proud, shy, sensi tive fellow, as I am by nature, to have to bear the sort of assumption and insolence one meets with. I furnished my rooms weU, and dressed well. Ah ! you may stare ; but this is not the furniture I started with ; I sold it all when I came to my senses, and put in this tumble-down second-hand stuff, and I have worn out my fine clothes. I know I'm not well dressed now. (Tom nodded ready acquiescence to this posi- tion.) Yes, though I still wince a little now and then — a good deal oftener than I hke — I don't carry any false colours. I can't quite conquer the feeling of shame (for shame it is, I am afraid), but at any rate I don't try to hide my poverty any longer, I haven't for these eighteen months. I have a grim sort of pleasure in pushing it in everybody's face." (Tom assented with a smile, remembering how excessively uncomfortable Hardy had made him by this little peculiarity the first time he was in his rooms.) " The first tiling which opened my eyes a Uttle was the conduct of the tradesmen. My bills all came in within a week of the delivery of the furniture and clothes ; some of them wouldo't leave the thiwga 80 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. without paymeut. I was very angry and vexed ; not at the bills, for I had my savings, which were much more than enough to pay for everything. Eut I laiew that these same tradesmen never thought of asking for payment under a year, oftener two, from other men. Well, it was a lesson. Credit for gentle- men-commoners, ready-money dealings with ser^vators ! I owe the Oxford tradesmen much for that lesson. If they would only treat every man who comes up as a servitor, it would save a deal of misery. " My cure was completed by much higher folk, though. I can't go through the whole treatment, but will give you a specimen or two of the doses, giving precedence (as is the way here) to those administered by the highest in Tank. I got them from all sorts of people, but none did me more good than the lords' pills. Amongst other ways of getting on, 1 took to sparring, which was tlien very much in vogue. I am a good hand at it, and very fond of it, so that it wasn't alto- gether flunkeyism, I'm glad to think. In my second term two or three lighting men came down from London, and gave a benefit at the Weirs. I was there, and set to with one of them. We were well matched, and both of us did our very best ; and when we had had our turn we drew down the house, as they say. Several young tufts and others of the faster men came up to me afterwards and complimented me. They did the same by the professional, but it didn't occur to me at the time that they put us both in the same category. " I am free to own that I was really pleased two days after- wards, when a most elaborate flunkey brought a card to my door inscribed, ' The Viscount Philippine, Ch. Ch., at home to-night, eight o'clock — sparring.' Luckily, I made a light dinner, and went sharp to time into Christ Church. The porter directed me to the noble Viscount's rooms ; they were most splendid, certainly — first-floor rooms in Peckwater. I y/as shown into the large room, which was magnificently fur- nished and lighted. A good space was cleared in the centre ; tliere were all sorts of bottles and glasses on the sideboard. There might have been twelve or fourteen men present, almost all in tufts or gentlemen-commoners' caps. One or two of our coUege I recognised. The fighting man was also there, stripped for sparring, which none of the rest were. It was plain that the sport had not begun ; I think he was doing some trick of strength as I came in. My noble host came forward with a nod, and asked me if I would take anything, and when I declined, said, * Then will you put on the gloves ? ' I looked at hun, rather surprised, and thought it an odd way to treat the only stransrer in his owti rooms. However, 1 i HARDY'S IIISTOEY. 81 stripped, put on the gloves, and one of the others came fonvard to tie them for me. While he was doing it I heard my host say to the man, * A five-poimd note, mind, if you do it within the quarter-of-an-hour.' * Only half-minute time, then, my lord,' he answered. The man wlio was tying my gloves said, ill a low voice, * Be steady ; don't give him a chance to knock you down.' It flashed across me in a moment now why I was there ; but it was too late to draw back, so we stood up and began sparring. I played very steadily and light at first to see whether my suspicions were well founded, and in two minutes I was satisfied. My opponent tried every dodge to bring on a rally, and when he was foiled I could see that he was shifting his glove. I stopped and insisted that his gloves should be tied, and then we went on again. " I kept on the defensive. The man was in bad training, and luckily I had the advantage by an inch or so in length of arm. Before five minutes were over, I had caught enough of the bystanders' remarks to know that my noble host had betted a pony that I should be knocked down in a quarter- of-an-hour. My one object now was to make him lose his money. ^ly opponent did his utmost for his patron, and fairly winded himself in his efforts to get at me. He had to call time twice himself. I said not a word ; my time would come, I knew, if I could keep on my legs, and of this I had little fear. I held myself together, made no attack, and my length of arm gave me the advantage in every counter. It was all I could do, though, to keep clear of his rushes as the time drew on. On he came time after time, careless of guard- ing, and he was full as good a man as I. ' Time's up ; it's past the quarter.' * JSTo, by Jove, half a minute yet ; now's your time,' said my noble host to his man, who answered by a last rush. I met him as before with a steady counter, but this time my blow got home under his chin, and he staggered, lost his footing, and went fairly over on to his back. " Most of the bystanders seemed delighted, and some of them hurried towards me. But I tore off the gloves, flung them on the ground, and turned to my host. I could hardly speak, but I made an effort, and said quietly, 'You have brought a stranger to your rooms, and have tried to make him fight ff^r 3'our amusement ; now I tell yoi. it is a blackguard act of yours — an act which no gentleman would have done.' ^ly noble host made no remark. I tlirew (.»n my coat and waist- coat, and then turned to the rest and said, * Gentlemen would not have stood by and seen it done.' I went up to the side- board, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and lialf filled a tumbler, before a word was spoken. Then one of the visitors 82 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. stepped forward and said, ' Mr. Hardy, I hope you won't go , there has been a mistake ; we did not know of this. I am sure many of us are very sorry for what lias occurred ; stay and look on, we will all of us spar.' I looked at him, and then at my host, to see whether the latter joined in the apology. Not he ; he was doing the dignified sulky, and most of the rest seemed to me to be with him. ' Will any of you spar with meV I said, tauntingly, tossing off the champagne. ' Certainly,' the new speaker said directly, * if you wish it, and are not too tired. I will spar with you myself; you will, vvon't you, James 1 ' and he turned to one of the other men. If any of them had backed him by a word I should probably have stayed. Several of them, I learnt afterwards, would have liked to have done so, but it was an awkward scene to interfere in. I stopped a moment, and then said, with a sneer, ' You're too small, and none of the other gentlemen seem inclined to offer.' " I saw that I had hurt him, and felt pleased at the mo- ment that I had done so. I was now ready to start, and I could not think of anything more unpleasant to say at the moment ; so I went up to my antagonist, who was standing with the gloves on still, not quite knowing what to be at, and held out my hand. * I can shake bands with you at any rate,' I said ; * you only did what you were paid for in the regular way of business, and you did your best.' He looked rather sheepish, but held out his gloved hand, which I shook. 'Now, I hive the honour to wish you all a very good evening ;' and so I left the place and got home to my own rooms, and sat down there with several new ideas in my hccid. On the whole, the lesson was not a very bitter one, for I felt that I had had the best of the game. The only thing I really was sorry for was my own insolence to the man who had c^me forward as a peacemaker. I had remarked his face before. I don't know how it is with you, but I can never help looking at a tuft — the gold tassel draws one's eyes somehow : and then it's an awful position, after all, for mere boys to be placed in. So I knew his face before that day, though I had only seen him two or three times in the street. Now it waa much more clearly impressed on my mind; and I called it up and looked it over, half hoping that I should detect some- thing to justify me to myself, but without success. How- ever, I got the whole allair pretty well out of my head by bedtime. " AVhile I was at breakfast tlie next morning, my scout camo in with a face of the most ludicrous importance, and quite a deferential manner. I declare I don't think ho has ever got hardy's histoky. 83 back since that day to his original free-and-easy swagger. He laid a card on my table, paused a moment, and then said, * His ludship is houtside watin', sir.' " I had had enough of lords' cards ; and the scene of yesterday rose painfully before me as I threw the card into the fire without looking at it, and said, 'Tell him I am engaged.' " My scout, with something like a shudder at my audacity, replied, ' His ludship told me to say, sir, as his bis'ness was very particular, so hif you was engaged he would call again in 'arf an hour.' " * Tell him to come in, then, if he won't take a civil hint.' I felt sure who it would be, but hardly knew whether to be pleased or annoyed, when in another minute the door opened, and in walked the peacemaker. I don't know which of ua was most embarrassed ; he walked straight up to me without lifting his eyes, and held out his hand, saying, * I hope, Mr. Hardy, you will shake hands with me now.' " ' Certainly, my lord,' I said, taking his hand ; * 1 am sorry for what I said to you ye^^terday, when my blood was up.' " ' You said no more than we deserved,* he answered, twirl- ing his cap by the long gold tassel ; * I could not be com- fortable without coming to assure you again myself, that neither I, nor, I believe, half the men in Pliilippine's rooms yesterday, knew anything of the bet. I really cannot tell you how annoyed I have been about it.' " I assured him that he miglit make himself quite easy, and then remained standing, expecting him to go, and not know- ing exactly what to say further. But he begged me to go on with my breaklast, and sat down, and then asked me to give him a cup of tea, as he had not breakfasted. So in a few minutes we were sitting opposite one another over tea and bread and butter, for he didn't ask for, and I didn't offer, any- thing else. It was rather a trying meal, for each of us was doing all he could to make out the other. I only hope I was as pleasant as he was. After breakfast he went, and 1 thought the acquaintance was probably at an end ; he had (lone all thac a gentleman need liave done, and had well-nigh healed a raw place in my mental skin. "But I was mistaken. Without intruding himself on me, he managed somehow or another to keep on building up the acquaintance little by little. For some time I looked out very jealously for any patronising airs, and even after I was con- vinced that he had nothing of the sort in him, avoided him a£ much as I could, though he was the most pleasant and G 2 84 TOM BEOWK AT OXFORD. best-informed man I knew. However, we became intimate, and I saw a good deal of him, in a quiet way, at his own rooms. I wouldn't go to his parties, and asked him not to come to me here, for my horror of being thought a tuft-hunter had become ahnost a disease. He was not so old as I, but he was just leaving tlie University, for he had come up early, and lords' sons are allowed to go out in two years ; — I suppose because the authorities think they will do less harm here in two than three years ; but it is somewhat hard on poor men, who have to earn their bread, to see such a privilege given to those who want it least. When he left, he made me promise to go and pay him a visit — which I did in the long vacation, at a splendid place up in the North, and enjoyed myself more than I care to own. His father, who is quite worthy of his son, and all his family, were as kind as people could be. " "Well, amongst other folk I met there a young sprig of nobility who was coming up here the next term. He had been brought ujd abroad, and, I suppose, knew very few men of his own age in England. He was not a bad style of boy, but rather too demonstrative, and not strong-headed. He took to me wonderfully, was delighted to hear that T was up at Oxford, and talked constantly of how much we should see of one another. As it happened, I was almost the first man he met when he got off the coach at the ' Angel,' at the begin- ning of his first term. He almost embraced me, and nothing would serve but I must dine with him at the inn, and we spent the evening together, and parted dear friends. Two da_ys afterwards we met in the street ; he was with two other youngsters, and gave me a polished and distant bow ; in another week he passed me as if we had never met. " I don't blame him, poor boy. My only wonder is, that any of them ever get through this place without being thoroughly spoilt. From Vice-Chancellor down to scout's boy, the whole of Oxford seems to be in league to turn their heads, even if they come up with them set on straight, which toadying servants at home take cai-e shall never happen if they can hinder it. The only men who would do them good up here, both dons and undergraduates, keep out of their way, very naturally. Gentleuien-comnioncrs have a little better chance, though not much, and seem to me to be worse than the tufts, and to furnish most of their toadies. " Well, are you tired of my railing 1 I daresay I am rabid about it all. Only it does go to my heart to think what this place might be, and what it is. I see I needn't give you any more of m}"" experience. *'A EKOWN 15AIT." 85 "You'll oinderstand now some of the tilings that have puzzled you about me. Oh ! I know they did ; you needn't look apologetic. I don't wonder, or blame you. 1 am a vciy queer bird for the perch I have lit on ; I know that as well as anybody. The only wonder is that you ever took tht trouble to try to lime me. Now have another glass of toddy. Why ! it is near twelve. I must have one pipe and turn in. No Aiistophanes to-night." CHAPTER IX. **A BROWN BAIT." Tom's little exaltation in his own eyes consequent on the cupboard-smashing escapade of his friend was not to last long. Not a week had elapsed before he himself arrived suddenly in Hardy's room in as furious a state of mind as the other had so lately been in, allowing for the difierence of the men. . Hardy looked up from liis books and exclaimed : — " AVhat's the matter ? Where have you been to-night 1 You look fierce enough to sit for a portrait of Sanguinoso Volcanoni, the bandit." "Eeen!" said Tom, sitting down on the spare Windsor chair, which he usually occupied, so hard as to make it crack again ; " been ! I've been to a wine party at Hendon's. Do you know any of that set ?" "No, except Grey, who came into residence in the same term with me; we have been reading for degree together. You must have seen him here sometimes in the evenings." " Yes, I remember ; the fellow with a stiif neck, who won't look you in the face." "Ay, but he is a sterling man at the bottom, I can tell you." "Well, he wasn't there. You don't know any of the rest?" " No." " And never went to any of their parties 1 " "No." " You've had no loss, I can teU you," said Tom, pleased that the ground was clear for him. " I never was amongst such a set of waspish, dogmatical, over-bearing fellows in my life." " Why, what in the name of fortune have they been doing to you 1 How did you fall among such Philistines 1 " 86 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOllD. " rm such an easy fool, you see," said Tom, " I go off directly with any fellow that asks me ; fast or slow, it's all the same. I never thinlj; twice about the matter, and gene- rally, I hke all the fellows I meet, and enjoy everything. But just catch me at another of their stuck-up wines, that's " But you won't tell me what's the matter." " Well, I don't know why Hendon should have asked me. lie can't think me a likely card for a convert, I should think. At any rate, he asked me to wine, and I went as usual. Every- tliing was in capital style (it don't seem to be any part of their creed, mind you, to drink bad wine), and awfully gentlemanly and decorous." " Yes, that's aggravating, I admit. It would have been in better taste, of course, if they had been a little blackguard and indecorous. No doubt, too, one has a right to expect bad ^vme at Oxford. Well ? " Hardy spoke so gravely, that Tom had to look across at him for half a minute to see whether he was in earnest. Then he went on with a grin. " There was a piano in one corner, and muslin curtains — I give you my word, muslin curtains, besides the stuff ones." **You don't say so !" said Hardy; "put up, no doubt, to insult you. No wonder you looked so furious when you came in. Anything else?" "Let me see — yes — I counted three sorts of scents on the mantel-piece, besides Eau-de-Cologne. But I could have stood it all well enough if it hadn't been for theu' talk. From one thing to another they got to cathedrals, and one of them called St. Paul's 'a disgrace to a Christian city.' I couldn't stand that, you know. I was always bred to respect St. Paul's ; weren't you 1 " " My education in that line was neglected," said Hardy, gravely. " And so you took up the cudgels for St. Paul's 1 " " Yes, I plumped out that St. Paul's was the hnest cathedral in England. You'd have thought I had said that lying was one of the cardinal virtues — one or two just treated me to a sort of pitying sneer, but my neighbours were down upon me with a vengeance. I stuck to my text though, and they drove me into saying I liked the Katchffe more than any building in Oxford ; which I don't believe I do, now I come to think of it. So when they couldn't get me to budge for their talk, they took to telling me that everybody who knew anything about church architecture was against me- — of course meaning that I knew nothing about it — for the matter of that, I don't mean to say that I do " — Tom paused ; it had suddenly occurred to "A BROWN BAIT." 87 him that tliere might be some reason in the rough handling he had got. "But what did you say to the authorities 1 " said Hardy, who was greatly amused. " Said I didu't care a straw for them," said Tom; "there was no right or wrong in the matter, and I had as good a right to my opinion as Pugin — or whatever his name is — and the rest." "What heresy!" said Hardy, laughing; "you caught it for that, T suppose ?" " Didn't I ! They made such a noise over it, that the men at the other end of the table stopped talking (they were all freshmen at our end), and when they found what was up, one of the older ones took me in hand, and I got a lecture about the middle ages, and tJie monks. I said I thought England! was well rid of the monks ; and then we got on to Pro- testantism, and fasting, and apostolic succession, and passive obedience, and I don't know what all ! I only know I was tired enough of it before coffee came ; but T couldn't go, you know, with all of them on me at once, could 11" " Of course not ; you were like the 6,000 unconquerable Eritish infantry at Albuera. You held your position by sheer fighting, suli'ering fearful loss." "Well," said Tom, laughing, for he had talked himself into good humour again, " I dare say I talked a deal of nonsense ; and, when I come to think it over, a good deal of what some of them said had something in it. I should like to hear it again quietly ; but there were others sneering and giving themselves airs, and that puts a fellow's back up." "Yes," said Hardy, "a good many of the weakest and vainest men who come up take to this sort of thing now. They can do nothing themselves, and get a sort of platform by going in for the High Church business from which to look down on their neighbours." "That's just what I thought," said Tom; " they tried to push mother Church, mother Churcli, down my throat at every turn. I'm as fond of the Church as any of them, but I don't want to be jumping up on her back every minute, like a sickly chicken getting on the old hen's back to warm its feet whenever the ground is cold, and fancying himself taller than all the rest of the brood." *' You were unlucky," said Hardy; "there are some very fine fellows amongst them." " Well, I haven't seen much of them," said Tom, " and I don't want to see any more, for it seems to me all a Gothio mouldings and man-millinery business." 88 TOM BEOWX AT OXFORD. " "Sou won't think so when you've been up a little longer," Raid Hardy, getting up to make tea, which operation he liad hardly commenced, when a knock came at the door, and in answer to Hardy's *' Come in," a slight, shy man appeared, who hesitated, and seemed inclined to go when he saw that Hardy was not alone. " Oh, come in, and have a cup of tea, Grey. You know Bro^vn, I think ? " said Hardy, looking round from the fire, where he was filling his teapot, to watch Tom's reception of the new comer. Our hero took his feet doMTi, drew himself up and made a solemn bow, which Grey returned, and then shd nervously into a chair and looked very uncomfortable. However, in another minute Hardy came to the rescue and began pouring out the tea. He was evidently tickled at the idea of con- fronting Tom so soon with another of liis enemies. Tom saw this, and put on a cool and majestic manner in consequence, which evidently increased the discomfort of Grey's seat, and kept Hardy on the edge of an abyss of laughter. In fact, he had to ease himself by talking of indilferent matters and laughing at nothing. Tom had never seen him in this sort of humour before, and couldn't help enjoying it, though he felt that it was partly at his own expense. But when Hardy once just approached the subject of the wine party, Tom bristled up so quickly, and Grey looked so meekly wretched, though he knew nothing of what was coming, that Hardy suddenly changed the subject, and turning to Grey, said — " What have you been doing the last fortnight ] You haven't been here once. I've been obliged to get on with my Aristotle without you." " I'm very sorry indeed, but I haven't been able to come," said Grey, looking sideways at Hardy, and then at Tom, who sat regarding the wall, supremely indifferent. " Well I've finished my Ethics," said Hardy ; " can't you come in to-morrow night to talk them over ? I suppose you're tlirough them too 1 " "Ko, really," said Grey, "I haven't been able to look at them since the last time I was here." " You must take care," said Hardy. " The new examiners are all for science and history ; it won't do for you to go in trusting to your scholarship." " I hope to make it up in the Eastei vacation," said Grey. " You'll have enough to do then," said Hardy ; " but how is it you've dropped astern so 1 " " Why, the fact is," said Grey, hesitatingly, " that the curate of St. Peter's has set up some night-schook, and wanted 1 •• A BEOWN B^IT." 89 BOine help. So I have been doing what 1 could to help him ; and really," looking at his Avatch, " I must be going. I only wanted to tell yoa how it was 1 didn't come now.'' Hardy looked at Tom, who was taken rather aback by this announcement, and began to look less haughtily at the wall He even condescended to take a short glance at his neighbour. '* It's unlucky," said Hardy ; " but do you teach every night r' " Yes," said Grey. " I used to do my science and history at iiight, you know ; but I find that teaching takes so much oub of me, that I'm only fit for bed now, when I get back. I'm so glad I've told you. I have wanted to do it for some time. And if you would let me come in for an hour directly after hall, instead of later, I think I could stiU manage that." " Of course," said Hardy, " come when j^ou like. But it's rather hard to take you away every night, so near the examinations." " It is my own wish," said Grey. " I should have been very glad if it hadn't happened just now ; but as it has, I must do the best I can." "Well, but I should like to help you. Can't I take a night or two olf your hands ] " " No ! " said Tom, fired with a sudden enthusiasm ; " it will be as bad for you. Hardy. It can't a rant much scholarship to teach there. Let me go. I'll take two nights a week, if you'll let me." " Oh, thank you," said Grey ; " but I don't, know how mj friend might Hke it. That is — I mean," he said, getting verj red, '* it's very kind of you, only I'm used to it ; and — and they rely on me. But I reaUy must go — good night ; " and Grey went off in confusion. As soon as the door had fairly closed, Hardy could stand it no longer, and lay back in his chair, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. Tom, wholly unable to appreciate tho joke, sat looking at him with perfect gravity. " What can there be in your look. Brown," said Hardy, when he could speak again, " to frighten Grey so 1 Did you see what a fright he was in at once, at the idea of turning you into the night-schools 1 There must be some lurking Protestantism in your face somewhere, which I hadn't detected.' " I don't believe he was frightened at me a bit. He wouldn't have you either, remember," said Tom. " WeU, at any raoe, that don't look as if it were aU mere Gothic-mouldings and man-millinery, does it ? " said Hardy. Tom sipped his tea, and considered. 90 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " One can't lielp admiring him, do you know, for it," he said. *' Do you think he is really thrown back, now, in his own reading by this teaching 1 " " I'm sure of it. lie is such a quiet fellow, that nothing else is likely to draw him off reading ; and I can see that he doesn't get on as he used, day by day. Unless he makes it up somehow, he won't get his first." "He don't seem to like the teaching work much,' said Tom. "Not at all, as far as I can see." " Then it is a very fine thing of him," said Tom. " And you retract yoar man-millinery dictum, so far as he is concerned ? " " Yes, that I do, heartily ; but not as to the set in generaL" " Well . they don't suit me either ; but, on the whole, they are wanted — at any rate, in this college. Even the worst of them is making some sort of protest for self-denial, and against self-indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than here." " A nice sort of protest — muslin curtains, a piano, and old claret." " Oh, you've no right to count Hendon among them ; he has only a httle hankering after mediaevalism, and thinka the whole thing gentlemanly." " I only know the whole clamjamfery of them were there, and didn't seem to protest much." " Brown, you're a bigot. I should never have thought you would have becii so furious against any set of fellows. I begin to smell Arnold." " No you don't. He never spoke to me against anybody." " Hallo ! It was the Rugby atmosphere, then, I suppose. But I tell you they are the only men in this college who are making that protest, whatever their motives may be." " What do you say to yourself, old fellow 1 " " Nonsense ! I never deny m,yself any pleasure that I can afford, if it isn't wrong in itself, and doesn't hinder any one else. I can tell you I'm as fond of fine things and good living as you." "//a thing isn't wrong, and you can afford it, and it don't hurt anybody ! Just so ; well, then, mustn't it be right for you to have ? You wouldn't have it put under your nose, I suppose, just for you to smell at, and let it alone ? " " Yes . I know all that. I've been over it all often enough, and thfr.'/s truth in it. But, mind you, it's rather slippery ground, especially for a freshman ; and tliere's a great deal to be said on the other side — I mean, for denying oneself just for the sake of the self-denial" • ' BEOWN BAIT." 91 " "Well, they don't deny themselvtis the pleasure of looking at a fellow as if lie were a Turk, because he likes St. Paul's better than Westminster Abbey." , " How that snubbing you got at the Ecclesiological wina party seems to rankle. — There now ! don't bristle up like a hedgehog. I'll never mention that unfortunate wine again. I saw the eight come in to-day. You are keeping much better time ; but there is a weak place or two forward," " Yes," said Tom, delighted to change the subject, " I find it awfully hard to pull up to Jervis's stroke. Do you think I shall ever get to it 1 " "Of course you will. Why, you have only been pulling behind him a dozen times or so, and his is the most trying stroke on the river. You quicken a Httle on it ; but I didn't mean you. Two and five are the blots in the boat." " You think so ? " said Tom, much relieved. *' So does Miller, I can see. It's so provoking — Drysdale is to pull two in the races next term, and Blake seven, and then Diogenes will go to five. He's obliged to pull seven now, because Blake won't come down this term ; no more "will Drysdale. They say there will be plenty of time after Easter." " It's a great pity," said Hardy. " Isn't it 1 " said Tom ; " and it makes Miller so savage. He walks into us all as if it were our faults. Do you think he's a good coxswain ] " "First-rate on most points, but rather too sharp-tongued. You can't get a man's best out of him without a little praise." " Yes, that's just it ; lie puts one's back up," said Tom. ** But the Captain is a splendid fellow, isn't he ? " " Yes ; but a little too easy, at least with men like Blake and Drysdale. He ought to make them train, or turn them out." " But who could he get ? There's nobody else. If you would pull, now — why shouldn't you ? I'm sure it would make us all right." " I don't subscribe to the club," said Hardy ; " I wish X had, for I should like to have pulled with you, and behind Jervis, this year." " Do let me tell the Captain," said Tom ; " I'm sure he'd manage it somehow." " I'm afraid it's too late," said Hardy ; " I cut myself off from everything of the sort two years ago, and I'm beginning to think I was a fool for my pains." 92 TOM BllOWN AT OXFORD. Notlimg more was said on the subject at the time, hut Tom went away in great spiiits at having drawn this confession out of Hardy — the more so, perhaps, because he flattered himself tliat he had had something to say to the change in iiis friend. CHAPTEE X. SUMMER TERM. How many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with the beginning of our second term at the University ? So far as external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what a man could find to ask for at that period of his life, if a- fairy godmother were to alight in his rooms and offer him tlie usual three wishes. The sailor who had asked for " all the grog in the world," and " all the baccy in the world," was indeed driven to " a little more baccy " as his third requisition ; but, at any rate, his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on what he held to be sub- stantial wants ; he felt himself actually limited in the matters of grog and tobacco. The condition which Jack would have been in as a wisher, if he had been started on his quest with the assurance that his utmost desires in the direction of alcohol and narcotics were already provided for, and must be left out of the question, is the only one affording a pretty exact parallel to the case we are considering. In our second term we are no Icnger freshmen, and begin to feel ourselves at home, wdiile both "small.-" and "greats" are sufficiently distant to be altogether ignored if we are that way inclined, or to be looked forward to with confidence that the game is in our own hands if we are reading men. Our financial position — unless we have exercised rare ingenuity in in- volving ourselves — is all that heart can desire ; we have ample allowances paid in quarterly to the University bankers without thought or trouble of ours, and our credit is at its zenith. It is a part of our recognised duty to repay the hosjDitality we have received as freshmen ; and all men will be sure to come to our first parties, to see how we do the thing ; it will be our own faults if we do not keep them in future. We have not had time to injure our characters to any material extent with the authorities of our own college, or of the University. Our spirits are never likely to bo higher, or our digestions better. These and many other comforts and advantages environ the fortunate youth returning SUMMER TERM. 93 to Oxford after his first vacation ; thrice fortunate, however, if, as happened in our hero's case, it is Easter term to which he is returning ; for that Easter term, Avith the four days' vacation, and little Trinity term at the end of it, is surely the cream of the Oxford year. Then, even in this our stern northern climate, the sun is beginning to have power, the days have lengthened out, great-coats are unnecessary at morning chapel, and the miseries of numbed hands and shivering skins no longer accompany every pull on the river and canter on Bullingdon. In Christ Church meadows and the college gardens the birds are making sweet music in the tall elms. You may almost hear the thick grass growing, and the buds on tree and shrub are changing from brown, red, or purple, to emerald green under your eyes ; the glorious old city is puttmg on her best looks and bursting out into laughter and song. In a few weeks the races begin, and Cowley marsh will be alive with white tents and joyous cricketers. A quick ear, on the towing-path by the Gut, may feast at one time on those three sweet sounds, the thud thud of the eight-oar, the crack of the rifles at the Weirs, and the click of the bat on the Magdalen ground. And then Commemoration rises in the background, with its clouds of fair visitors, and visions of excursions to Woodstock and Nuneham in the summer days — of windows open on to the old quadrangles in the long still evenings, through which silver laughter and strains of sweet music, not made by man, steal out and puzzle the old celibate jackdaws, peering down from the battlements with heads on one side. To crown all, long vacation, beginning with the run to Henley regatta, or up to town to see the match with Cam.bridge at Lord's, and taste some of the sweets of the season, before starting on some pleasure tour or reading party, or dropping back into the quiet pleasures of English country life ! Surely, the lot of young Englishmen who frequent our universities is cast in pleasant places. The country has a right to expect some- thing fi'om those for whom she finds such a life as this in the years when enjoyment is keenest. Tom was certainly alive to the advantages of the situation, and entered on his kingdom without any kind of scruple. lie was very glad to find thijigs so pleasant, and quite resolved to make the best he could of tluiui. Tlien he was in a particr.hirly good humour v/ith himself; for, in db%rence to the advice of Hardy, he had actually fixed on the books which he should send in for his little-go examination before going down for the Easier vacation, and had read them through at home, devoting an houi* or two almost daily to 94 TOM BKO^^^ AT OXFOED. tais laudable occupation. So he felt himself entitled to take things easily on his return. He had brought back with him two large hamfjers of good sound wine, a gift from his father, who had a horror of letting his son set before his friends the fire-water which is generally sold to the undergraduate. Tom found that his father's notions of the rate of consumption prevalent in the university were wild in the extreme. " In his time," the squire said, "eleven men came to his first wine party, and he had opened nineteen bottles of port for them. He was very glad to hear that the habits of the place had changed so much for the better ; and as Tom wouldn't want nearly so much wine, he should have it out of an older bin." Accordingly the port which Tom employed the first hour after his return in stacking carefully away in his cellar, had been more than twelve years in bottle, and he thought with unmixed satisfaction of the pleasing effect it would have on Jervis and ]\liller, and the one or two other men who knew good wine fi'om bad, and guided public opinion on the subject, and of the social importance which he would soon attain from the reputation of giving good wine. The idea of entertaining, of being hospitable, is a pleasant and fascinating one to most young men ; but the act soon gets to be a bore to all but a few curiously constituted individuals. With these hospitality becomes first a passion and then a faith — a faith the practice of which, in the cases of some of its professors, reminds one strongly of the hints on such subjects scattered about the Kew Testament. Most of us feel, when our friends leave us, a certain sort of satisfaction, not unlike that of paying a bill ; they have been done for, and can"t expect anything more for a long time. Such thoughts never occur to your really hospitable man. Long years of narrow means cannot hinder him from keeping open house for whoever wants to come to him, and setting the best of everything before all comers. He has no notion of giving you anything but the best he can command, if it ba oidy fresh porter from the nearest mews. He asks himself not, " Ought I to invite A or B 1 do I owe him anything 1 " but, "Would A or B like to come here?" Give me these men's houses for real enjoyment, though you never get any- thing very choice there, — (how can a man produce old wine who gives his oldest every day ?) — seldom much elbow room or orderly arrangement. The high arts of gastronomy and scientific drhiking, so much valued in our highly civilized community, are wholly unheeded by him, are altogether above him, are cultivated in fact by quite another set, who SUMMER TERM. 95 have very little of the genuine spirit cf hospitality in them ; from whose tables, should one by chance happen upon therc, one rises, certainly with a feeling of satisfaction and ex- pansion, chiefly physical, hut entirely Avithout that expansion of heart which one gets at tlie scramble of the hospitable man. So that we are driven to remark, even in such every- day matters as these, that it is the invisible, the spiritual, which after all gives value and reality even to dinners ; and, with Solomon, to prefer to the most touching diner Jiusse, the dinner of herbs where love is, though I trust that neither we nor Solomon sliould object to well-dressed cutlets with our salad, if they happened to be going. Readers will scarcely need to be told that one of the first things Tom did, after depositing his luggage and unpacking liis wine, was to call at Hardy's rooms, where he found his friend deep as usual in his books, the hard-worked atlases and dictionaries of all sorts taking up more space than ever. After the first hearty greetings, Tom occupied his old place with much satisfaction, "How long have you been up, old fellow?" he began; "you look quite settled." " I only went home for a week. "Well, what have you been doing in the vacation ?" *' Oh, there was nothing much going on ; so, amongst other things, I've nearly floored my little-go work." "Bravo ! you'll find the comfort of it now. I hardly thougnt you would take to the grind so easily." " It's pleasant enough for a spurt," said Tom ; " but I shall never manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. But what in the world have you been doing to your walls V Tom might well ask, for the corners of Hardy's room were covered ^vith sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups. In the line of sight, from about the height of four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away nearly to the bookcases or fireplace. •' Well, don't you think it a great imj^rovement on tlie old paper '( " ?aid Hardy. " I shall be out of rooms next term, and it will be a hint to the College that the rooms want papering. You're no judge of such matters, or I should ask yoti whethar you don't gpo great artistic taste in the arrangement." " Why, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates," said Tom, who had got tip to examine the decorations. "And what in the world are all these queer pins for?" he 96 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. went on, pulling a strong pin with a large red sealing-wax head out of the map nearest to him. " Hullo ! take care there ; what are you about V shouted Hardy, getting up and hastening to the corner. " Why, you irreverent beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of Greece and Eome." " Oh, I beg your pardon ; I didn't know I was in such august company ; " saying which, Tom proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back into the wall. " Now, just look at that," said Hardy, taking the pin out from the place where Tom had stuck it. " Pretty doings there would be amongst them with your management. This pin is Brasidas ; you've taken him away from Naupactus, where ho was watching the eleven Athenian galleys anchored under the temple of Apollo, and stuck him down right in the middle of the Pnyx, where he will be instantly torn in pieces by a ruthless and reckless mob. You call yourself a Tory indeed ! However, 'twas always the same with you Tories ; calculating, cruel, and jealous. Use your leaders up, and throw them over — tliat's the golden rule of aristocracies." * Hang Brasidas," said Tom, laughing ; " stick him back at Naupactus again. Here, which is Cleon 1 The scoundrel ! give me hold of him, and I'll put him in a hot berth." " That's he, with the yellow head. Let him alone, I tell you, or all will be hopeless confusion when Grey comes for his lecture. We're only in the third year of the war." " I like your chaff about Tories sacrificing their great men," said Tom, putting his hands in his pockets to avoid tempta- tion. " How about your precious democracy, old fellow 1 Which is Socrates 1 " "Here, the dear old boy ! — this pin with. the great grey head, in the middle of Athens, you see. I pride myself on my Athens. Here's the Piraeus and the long walls, and the hill of jMars. Isn't it as good as a picture ? " " Well, it is better than most maps, I think," said Tom ; " but you're not going to slip out so easily. I Avant to know whether your pet democracy did or did not murder Socrates." " I'm not bound to defend democracies. But look at my pins. It may be the natural fondness of a parent, but I declare they seem to me to have a great deal of character, con- sidering the material. You'll guess them at once, I'm sure, if you mark the colour and slia])e of the wax. This one now, for instance, who is he ] " " Alcihiadcs," answered Tom, doubtfully. " Alci blades ! " shouted Hardy ; " you fresh from Eugby, SUMMER TERM. 97 and not know your Thucydides better than that 1 There's Alcibiades, that httlo piirjile-headed, foppish pin, by Socrates. This rusty-coloured one is that respectable old stick-in-the- mud, Nicias." " Well, but j^ou've made Alcibiades nearly the smallest of the whole lot," said Tom. "So he was, to my mind," said Hardy; "just the sort of insolent young ruffian whom I should have Hked to buy at my price, and sell at his o\Yn. He must have been very like some of our gentlemen-commoners, with the addition of brains," " I should really think, though," said Tom, " it must be a capital plan for making you remember the history." " It is, I flatter myself. I've long had the idea, but I should never have worked it out and found the value of it but for Grey. I invented it to coach him in his history. You see we are in the Grecian corner. Over there is the Roman. You'll find Livy and Tacitus worked out there, just as Herodotus and Thucydides are here ; and the pins are stuck for the Second Punic War, where we are just now. I shouldn't wonder if Grey got his first, after all, he's pick- ing up so quick in my corners ; and says he never forgets any set of events when he has pricked them out with the pins." " Is he working at that school still?" asked Tom. " Yes, as hard as ever. He didn't go down for the vacation, and I really believe it was because the curate told him the school would go wrong if he went away." " It's very plucky of him, but I do think he's a great fool not to knock it off now till he has passed, don't you ? " " No," said Hardy ; " he is getting more good there than he can ever get in the. schools, though I hope he'll do well in them too." " Well, I hope so ; for he deserves it. And now, Hardy, to change the subject, I'm going to give my first wine next Thursday ; and here's the first card which has gone out for it You'll promise me to come, no^v, won t you 1 " " What a hurry you're in," said Hardy, taking the card, which he put on nis mantel-piece, after examining it "But you'll promise to come, now?" " I'm very hard at work ; I can't be sure." "You needn't stay above half an hour. I've brought back some famous wine from the governor's cellar; and I want so to get you and Jer\^is together. He is sure to come." " Why, thaf s the bell for chapel beginning already,' said 98 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOKU Hardy ; " I had no notion it was so late. I must be off, to put the new servitor up to his work. Will you come in after haUr' " Yes, if you will come to me next Thursday." " We'll talk about it. But mind you come to-night : for you'll find me working Grey in the Punic Wars, and you'll see how the pins act. I'm very proud of my show." And so Hardy went off to chapel, and Tom to Drysdale's rooms, not at all satisfied that he had made Hardy safe. He found Drysdale lolling on his sofa, as usual, and fondling Jack. He had just arrived, and his servant and the scout were unpacking his portmanteaus. He seemed pleased to see Tom, but looked languid and used up. " Where have you been this vacation 1 " said Tom ;. " you look seedy." " You may say that," said Drysdale. " Here, Henry, get out a bottle of Schiedam. Have a taste of bitters 1 there's nothing like it to set one's digestion right." " No, thank'ee," said Tom, rejecting the glass which Henry proffered him ; "my appetite don't want improving." "You're lucky, then," said Drysdale. "Ah, that's tho right stuff! I feel better already." " But where have you been ] " " Oh, in the little village. It's no use being in the country at this time of year. I just went up to Dimmer's, and thero I stuck, with two or three more, till to-day." " I can't stand Dondon for more than a week," said Tom, " What did you do all day 1 " "We hadn't much to say to daylight,", said Drysdale. "What with theatres, and sparring-cribs, and the Coal-holo and Cider-cellars, and a little play in St. James's Street now and then, one wasn't up to early rising. However, I was better than the rest, for I had generally breakfasted by two o'clock." "No wonder you look seedy. You'd much better have been in the country." " I should have been more in pocket, at any rate," said Drysdale. "By Jove, how it runs away with the ready! I'm fairly cleaned out ; and if I haven't luck at Van John, I'll be hanged if I know how I'm to get through term. But, look here, here's a bundle of the newest songs — first-rate, some of them." And he threw some papers across to Tom, who glanced at them A\dthout being at all edified. " You're going to pull regularly, I hope, this term, Drysdale?" " Yes, I think so ; it's a cheap amusement, and I want a little training for a change." SUADfER TERM. 99 « That's all right." "I've brought down some dresses for our gipsy business, by the way. I didn't, forget tliat. Is Blake back ? " " I don't know," said Tom ; " but we shan't have time before the races." " Well, afterwards will do ; though the days oughtn't to be too long. I'm all for a little darkness in masquerading." "There's five o'clock striking. Are you going to dine in haU?" "i*^o ; I shall go to the Mitre, and get a broil." " Then I'm off. Let's see, — wiU you come and wine with me next Thursday ? " " Yes ; only send us a card, 'to remind.' '* " All right ! " said Tom, and went off to hall, feeling dis- satisfied and uncomfortable about liis fast friend, for whom he had a sincere regard. After hall, Tom made a short round amongst his acquaint- ance, and theu, giving himself up to the strongest attraction, returned to Hardy's rooms, comforting himself with the thought that it really must be an act of Clmstian charity to take such a terrible reader off his books for once in a way, when his conscience pricked him for intruding on Hardy during his hours of work. He found Grey there, who was getting up his Roman history, under Hardy's guidance ; and the two were working the pins on the maps and lists in the Eoman corner when Tom arrived. He begged them not to stop, and very soon was as much interested in what they were doing as if he also were going into the schools in May ; for Hardy had a way of throwing life into what he was talking about, and, like many men with strong opinions, and passion- ate natures, either carried his hearers off their legs and away with him altogether, or roused every spark of combativeness in them. The latter was the effect which his lecture on the Punic Wars had on Tom. He made several protests as Hardy went on ; but Grey's anxious looks kept him from gaing fairly into action, till Hardy stuck the black pin, which represented Scipio, triumphantly in the middle of Carthage, and, turning round said, "And now for some tea, Grey, before you have to turn out." Tom opened fire while the tea was brewing. " You couldn't say anything bad enough about aristocracies this morning. Hardy, and now to-night you are crowing over the success of the heaviest and cruelest oligarchy that <^ver lived, and praising them up to the skies." " Hullo ! here's a breeze ! " said Hardy, smiling ; " but I rejoice, Brown, in that they tlirashed the Carthaginians ,- h2 100 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. and not, as you seem to think, in that they, being aristocrats; thrashed the Carthaginians ; for oligarchs they "were not at this time." " At any rate they answer to the Spartans in the struggle, and the Carthaginians to the Athenians ; and yet all your sympathies are with the Eomans to-night in the Punic Wars, though they were with the Athenians before dinner." ^'\ deny your position. The Carthaginians were nothing Ivat a great trading aristocracy — with a glorious family or two I grant you, like that of Hannibal ; but, on the whole, a dirty, bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aristocracy — of whom the world was well rid. They like the Athenians inderd ! Why, just look what the two peoples have left behind them " " Yes," interrupted Tom ; " but we only know the Cartha- ginians through the reports of their destroyers. Your heroes trampled them out with hoofs of ii'on." " Do you think the Eoman hoof could have trampled out their Homer if they ever had one ? " said Hardy. " The Eomans conquered Greece too, remember." " But Greece was never so near beating them." *' True. But I hold to my point. Carthage was the mother of all hucksters, compassing sea and land to sell her wares." "And no bad line of hfe for a nation. At least English- men ought to think so." "No, they ought not; at least if 'Punica fides' is to be the rule of trade. Selling any amount of Brummagem wares never did nation or man much good, and never will. Eh, Grey 1 " Grey winced at being appealed to, but remarked that he hoped the Church would yet be able to save England from the fate of Tyre and Carthage, the great trading nations of the old world : and then, swallowing his tea, and looking as if he had been caught robbing a henroost, he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out of college to the night-schooL " What a pity he is so odd and shy," said Tom : " I should BO like to know more of him." " It is a pity. He is much better when he is alone with me. I think he has heard from some of the set that you are a furious Protestant, and sees an immense amount of stiff- neckedness in you." "But about England and Carthage," said Tom, shirking the subject of his own peculiarities ; " you don't really think us like them 1 It gave me a turn to hear you translating * Punica fides ' into Brummagem wares just now." **I think that successful trade is our rock ahead. The SUMMER TEllM. 101 devil who liolJs new markets and twenty per cent, profits in his gift is tlie devil that England has most to fear from. * Because of unrighteous dealings, and riches gotten by deceit, the kingdom is translated from one people to another/ said the wise man. Think of that opium war the other day : I don't believe we can get over many more such businesses as that. Grey falls back on the Church, you see, to save the nation ; but the Church he dreams of will never do it. Is there any that can? There must be surely, or we have believed a lie. But this work of making trade righteous, of Christianizing trade, looks like the very hardest the Gospel has ever had to take in hand — in England at any rate." Hardy spoke slowly and doubtfully, and paused as if asking for Tom's opinion. ** I never heard it put in that way. I know very little of politics or the state of England. But come, now ; the piittiiig down the slave-trade and compensating our planters, that shows that we are not sold to the trade devil yet, sui'ely." " I don't think we are. !N"o, thank God, there are plenty of signs that we are likely to make a good fight of it yet." They talked together for another hour, drawing their chairs round to the fire, and looking dreamily into the embers, as is the wont of men who are throwing out suggestions, and helping one another to think, rather than arguing. At the end of that time, Tom left Hardy to his books, and went away laden with several new ideas, one of the clearest of which was that he was awfully ignorant of the contemporary history of his own country, and that it was the thing of all others which he ought to be best informed on, and thinking most about. So, being of an impetuous turn of mind, he M'ent straight to his rooms to commence his new study, wnere, after diligent hunting, the only food of the kind he required which turned up was the last number of BelVs Life from the pocket of his greatcoat. Upon this he fell to work, in default of anything better, and was soon deep in the P.K. column, which was full of interesting speculations as to the chances of Bungaree in his forthcoming campaign against the British middle-weights. By the time he had skimmed through the well-known sheets, he was satisfied that the columns of his old acquaintance were not the place, except in the police reports, where much could be learnt about the present state or future prospects of England. Then, the first evening of term being a restless time, he wandered out 102 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. again, and before long landed, as his custom was, at Drysdale'a door. On entering the room he found Drysdale and Blake alone together, the former looking more serious than Tom had ever seen him before. As for Blake, the restless, haggard ex- pression sat more heavily than ever on his face, sadly marring its beauty. It was clear that they changed the subject of their talk abruptly on his entrance ; so Tom looked anywhere except straight before him as he was greeting Blake. He really felt very sorry for him at the moment. However, in another five minutes, he was in fits of laughter over Blake's description of the conversation between himself and the coachman who had driven the Glo'ster day-mail by which he had come up : in which conversation, nevertheless, when Tom came to think it over, and try to repeat it afterwards, the most facetious parts seemed to be the " sez he's " and the ** sez I's " with which Jehu larded his stories ; so he gave up the attempt, wondering what he could have found in it to laugh at. " By the way, Blake," said Drysdale, " how about oui excursion into Berkshire masquerading tliis term 1 Are you game 1 " **Not exactly," said Blake ; " I really must make the most of such time as I have left, if I'm to go into the schools this term." '' If there's one thing which spoils Oxford, it is those schools," said Drysdale ; " they get in the way of everything. I ought to be going up for smalls myself next term, and I haven't opened a book yet, and don't mean. Follow a good example, old fellow, you're cock-sure of your first, everybody knows." " I wish everybody would back his opinion, and give me a shade of odd^ ^^Tiy? 1 have scarcely thought of my history." " Why the d — 1 should they make such a fuss about history 1 One knows perfectly well that those old black- guard heathens M'ere no better than they should be ; and what good it can do to lumber one's head with who their grand- mothers were, and what they ate, and when and where and why they had their stupid brains knocked out, I can't see for the life of me." "Excellently well put. TMiere did you pick up such sound views, Drysdale 1 But you're not examiner yet ; and, on the whole, I must rub up my history somehow. I wish I knew how to do it." " Caji't you put on a coach 1 " said Drysdalo. SUIOEER TEKM. 103 " I have one on, but history is his weak point," said Blake. " I think I can help you," said Tom. " I've just been hearing a lecture in Roman history, and one that won't be so easy to forget as most ; " and he went on to explain Hardy's plans, to which Blake listened eagerly. " Capital ! " he said, when Tom had finished. " In whose rooms did you say they are ? " " In Hardv's, and he works at them every night with Grey." " That's the queer big ser^dtor, his particular pal," put in .Drysdale ; " there's no accounting for tastes." " You don't know him," retorted Tom ; " and the less you say about liim the better." " I know he wears highlows and short flannels, and — " "Would you mind asking Hardy to let me come to his lectures 1 " interrupted Blake, averting the strong language which was rising to Tom's lips. " I think they seem just the things I want. I shouldn't like to offer to pay him, unless you think — " " I'm quite sure," interrupted Tom, " that he won't take anything. I will ask him to-morrow whether he will let you come, and he is such a kind good fellow that I'm almost sure he will." " I should like to know your pal, too, Brown." said Drysdale ; " you must introduce me, with Blake." " No, I'll be hanged if I do," said Tom. " Then I shall introduce myself," said Drysdale ; " see if I don't sit next him, now, at your wine on Thursday." Here Drysdale's scout entered, with two notes, and wished to know if' Mr. Drysdale would require anything more. Nothing but hot water ; he could put the kettle on, Drysdale said, and go ; and while the scout was fulfilling his orders, he got up carelessl}', w^histling, and walking to the fire, read the notes by the light of one of the candles which were burning on the mantel-piece. Blake was watching him eagerl}', and Tom saw tliis, and made some awkward efforts to go on talking about the advantages of Hardy's plan for learning history. But he was talking to deaf ears, and soon came to a stand stilL He saw Drysdale crumple up the notes in his hand and shove them into his pocket. After standing for a few seconds in the same position, with his back to them, he turned round with a careless air, and sauntered to the table where they were sitting. " Let's see, what were we saying 1 " he began. " Oh, about your eccentric pal, Brown." " You've answers from both 1 "' interrupted Blake. Drys>' l04 TOM BEOWN AT OXTORD. dale nodded, and was beginning to speak again to Tom, when Blake got up and said, with white lips, " I must see them." " No, never mind, vrhat does it matter 1 " *' Matter ! by Heaven, I must and will see them now." Tom saw at once that he had better go, and so took up his cap, wished them good night, and went off to his o^\ti roomSi He might have been sitting there for about twenty minutes, when Drysdale entered. " I couldn't help coming over, Bro^vn," he said, " I must talk to some one, and Blake has gone oiF raging. I don't know what he'll do — I never was so bothered or savage in my life." " I am very sorry," said Tom ; " he looked very bad in your rooms. Can I do anything 1 " "No, but I must talk to some one. You know — no you don't, by the way — but, however, Blake got mo out of a tremendous scrape in my first term, and there's nothing that I am not bound to do for him, and wouldn't do if I could. Yes, by George, whatever fellows say of me, they shall never say I didn't stand by a man who has stood by me. Well, he owes a dirty SOOl. or 400^. or something of the sort — nothing worth talking of, I know — to people in Oxford, and they've been leading him a dog's life this year and more. Now, he's jus* going up for his degree, and two or three of these creditors — the most rascally of course — are sueing him in the Vice-chan- cellor's Court, thinking now's the time to put the screw on. He will be ruined if they are not stopped somehow. Just after I saw you to-day, he came to me about it. You never saw a fellow in such a state ; I could see it was tearing him to pieces, telling it to me even. However, I soon set him at case as far as I was concerned ; but, as the devil will have it, I can't lend him the money, though 60/. would get him over the examination, and then he can make terms. My guardian advanced me 200/. beyond my allowance just before Easter, and I haven't 201. left, and the bank here has given me notice not to overdraw any more. However, I thought to settle it easily enough ; so I told him to meet me at the Mitre in half-an-hour for dinner, and when he was gone I sat do^vn and wrote two notes — the first to St. Cloud. That fellow was with us on and off in town, and one night he and I went partners at roulette, I finding ready-money for the time, gains and losses to be equally shared in the end. I left the table to go and eat some supper, and he lost 80/., and paid it out of my money. I didn't much care, and he cursed the luck, and acknowledged that he owed me 40/. at the time. Well. SUxMMEll TEHM. 105 I just reminded liim of this 40^. and said I should be glad of it (I know he has j)lenty of money just noAv), but added, that it might stand if he would join me and Blake in borrowing 60^. ; I was fool enough to add that Llake was in difficulties, and I was most anxious to help him. As I thought that St. Cloud would proba])ly pay the 40/. but do no more, I wrote also to Chanter — heaven knows why, except that the beast rolls in money, and has fawned on me till I've been nearly sick this year past — and asked him to lend Blake 50/. on oar joint note of hand. Poor Blake ! when I told liim what I had done at the Mitre, I think I might as well have stuck the carving-knife into him. We had a wretched two hours ; then you came in, and I got my two answers — here they are." Tom took the proffered notes, and read : — " Dear Drysdale, — Please explain the allusion in yours to some mysterious 40/. I remember perfectly the occurrence to which you refer in another part of your note. You were tired of sitting at the table, and went off to supper, leaving me (not by my own desire) to play for you with your money. I did so, and had abominable luck, as you will remember, for I handed you back a sadly dwindled heap on your return to the table. I hope you are in no row about that night 1 I shall be quite ready to give evidence of what passed if it will help you in any way; I am always yours very truly, A. St. Cloud. " P.S. I must decline the little joint operation for Blake's benefit, which you propose." The second answer ran : — " Dear Drysdale, — I am sorry that I cannot accommodate Mr. Blake, as a friend of yours, but you see his acceptance is mere waste paper, and you cannot give security until you are of age, so if you were to die the money would be lost. Mr. Blake has always carried his head as high as if he had 6,000/. a year to spend ; perhaps now he will turn less haughty to men who could buy him up easy enough. 1 remain yours sincerely, Jabez Chanter." Tom looked up, and met Drysdale's eyes, w hich hadmore of purpose in them than he had ever seen before. " Fancy poor Blake reading those two notes," he said, "and 'twas I brought them on him. However, he shall have the money somehow to-morrow, if I pawn my watch. I'll be even ^vith those two some day." The two remained iii conference foi 105 TOM BROWN AT OXTORD. some time longer ; it is hardly wortli while to do more than relate the result. At three o'clock the next day, Blake, Drysdale, and Tom were in the hack-parlour of a second-rate inn, in the Corn- jnarket. On the tahle were pens and ink, some cases of Eau-de-Cologne and jewellery, and hehind it a fat man of for- bidding aspect who spent a day or two in each term at Oxford. He held in his thick red damp hand, ornamented as to tho fore-finger with a huge ring, a piece of paper. " Then I shall draw for a hundred-and-five ? " "If you do, we won't sign," said Drysdale; "now, be quick, Ben " (the flit man's name was Benjamin), " you infernal shark, we've been wrangling long enough over it, Draw for a 100^. at three months, or we are oJGT." " Then, Mr. Drysdale, you gents will take part in goods. I wish to do all I can for gents as comes well introduced, but money is very scarce just now." " iS^ot a stuifed bird, bottle of Eau-de-Cologne, ring, or cigar, will we have. So now, no more nonsense, put down 751. on the table." The money-lender, after another equally useless attempt to move Drysdale, who was the only one of the party who spoke, produced a roll of notes, and counted out 75/., think- ing to himself that he would make this young spark sing a different tune before very long. He then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that the interest was nothing considering the risk, and he hoped they woidd hel}) him to something better with some of their friends. Drysdale reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen, that lie was getting cent, per cent. The document was signed, — Drysdale took the notes, and they went out. " Well, that's well over," said Drysdale, as they walked towards High Street. " I'm proud of my tactics, I must say ; one never does so well for oneself as for any one else. If I had been on my own hook that fellow would have let me in for 201. worth of stufl'ed birds and bad jewellery. Let's see, what do you want, Blake 1 " " Sixty will do," said Blake. " You had better take 651. ; there'll be some law costs to pay," and Drysdale handed him the notes. "Now, Brown, shall we divide the balance, — a fiver a-piece ? " " No, thank you," said Tom, " I don't want it ; and, as you two are to hold me harmless, you must do what you like with the money." So Drysdale pocketed the \0L after which they walked in silence to the gates of St. Ambrose. The most MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 107 reckless youngster doesn't bej^in this sort of thing without reflections which are apt to keep him silent. At the gates Blake wi-ung both their hands. " I don't say much, but 1 sha'n't forget it." He got out the words with some difficulty, and went off to his rooms. CHAPTER XI. MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. Within the next week or two several important events had happened to one and another of our St. Ambrose friends. Tom had introduced Blake to Hardy, after some demur on the part of the latter. Blake was his senior by a term ; might have called on him any time these three years ; why should he want to make his acquaintance now] But when Tom ex- plained to him that it would be a kind thing to let Blake come and coach up history with him, for that unless he took a high degree in the coming examination, he would have to leave the college, and probably be ruined for life, Hardy at once consented. Tom did not venture to inquire for a day or two how the two hit it off together. When he began cautiously to approach the subject, he was glad to find that Hardy liked Blake. " He is a gentleman, and very able," he said ; " it is curious to see how quickly he is overhauling Grey, and yet how Grey takes to him. He has never looked scared at him (as he still does at you, by the way) since the first night they met. Blake has the talent of setting people at their ease without saying anything. I shouldn't wonder if Grey thinks he has sound Church notions. It's a dangerous talent, and may make a man very false if he doesn't take care." Tom asked if Blake would be up in bis history in time. Hardy thought he might perhaps, but he had great lee- way to make up. If capacity for taking in cram would do it, he wculd be all right. He had been well crammed in his science, and had put him (Hardy) up to many dodges which might be useful in the schools, and which you couldn't get without a private tutor. Then Tom's first wine had gone off most successfully. Jervis and Miller had come early and stayed late, and said all that was handsome of the port, so that he was already a social hero with the boating set. Drysdale, of course, had been there, rattling away to everybody in his reckless fashion, and setting a good example to the two or three fast men whom Tom know i08 TOM BKO^^^ at oxfoed. well enough, tc ask, and who consequently behaved pretty well, and gave themselves no airs, though as they went away together they grumbled slightly that Brown didn't give claret. The rest of the men had shaken together well, and seemed to enjoy themselves. The only drawback to Tom had been that neither Hardy or Grey had appeared. They excused themselves afterwards on the score of reading, but Tom felt aggrieved in Hardy's case ; he knew that it was only an excuse. Then the training had begun seriously . Miller had come up specially for the first fortnight, to get them well in hand, as he said. After they were once fairly started, he would have to go down till just before the races ; but he thought he might rely on the Captain to keep them up to their work in the interval. So Miller, the coxswain, took to drawing the bow up to the ear at once. At the very beginning of the term, five or six weeks before the races, the St. Ambrose boat was to be seen every other day at Abingdon ; and early dinners, limitation of liquids and tobacco, and abstinence from late supper parties, pastry, ice, and all manner of trash, likely in IMiller's opinion to injure nerve or wind, were hanging over the crew, and already, in fact, to some extent enforced. The Captain iihrugged his shoulders, submitted to it all himself, and worked away vdih imperturbable temper ; merely hinting to IMiller, in private, that he was going too fast, and that it would be impossible to keep it up. Diogenes highly approved ; he would have become the willing slave of any tyranny which should insist that every adult male subject should pull twenty miles, and never imbibe more than a quart of liquid, in the twenty-four hours. Tom was inclmed to like it, as it helped him to realize the proud fact that he was actually in the boat. The rest of the crew were in all stages of mutiny, and were only kept from breaking out by their fondness for the Captain and the knowledge that Miller was going in a few days. As it was, Blake was the only one who openly rebelled. Once or twice he stayed away. IMiller sATOre and grumbled, the Captain shook his head, and the crew in general rejoiced. It is to one of these occasions to which we must now turn. If the usual casual voyager of novels had been standing on Sandford lock at about four, on the afternoon of April — th, 184 , he might have beheld the St. Ambrose eight-oar coming with a steady swing up the last reach. If such voyager were in the least conversant with the glorious mystery of rowing, he would have felt his heart warm at the magnificent sweep and life of the stroke, and would, on the whole, have been pleased MUSCULAR CHRISTIAIHTY. 109 with tlie performance of the creAV generally, considered as a college crew in the early stages of training. They came " hard all" up to the pool below the lock, the coxswain standing in the stern with a tiller-rope in each hand, and then shipped oars ; the lock-gates opened, and the boat entered, and in another minute or two was moored to the bank above the lock, and the crew strolled into the Httle inn which stands by the lock, and, after stopping in the bar to lay hands on several pewters full of porter, passed through the house into the quoit and skittle-gi'ounds behind. These were already well filled with men of other crews, playing in groups or looking on at the players. One of these groups, as they passed, seized on the Captain, and Miller stopped with him ; the rest of the St. Ambrose men, in no humour for skittles, quoits, or any relaxation except rest and grumbling, took possession of the first table and seats which ofibred, and came to anchor. Then followed a moment of intense enjoyment, of a sort only appreciable by those who have had a twelve mUes' training pull with a coxswain as sharp as a needle, and in an awful temper. " Ah," said Drysdale, taking the peAvter down from his lips, with a sigh, and handing it to Tom, who sat next him, " by Jove, I feel better." ^' It's almost worth while pulling 'hard all' from Abiagdon to get such a thirst," said another of the crew. " I'll tell 3^ou what, though," said Drysdale, " to-day's the last day you'll catch me in this blessed boat." Tom had just finished his draught, but did not reply ; it was by no means the first time that Drysdale had announced this resolve. The rest were silent also. " It's bad enough to have to pull your heart out, without getting abused all the v,^ay into the bargain. There Miller stands in the stern — and a devilish easy thing it is to stand there and walk into us — I can see him chuckle as he comes to you and me. Brown — 'Now, 2, well forward;' * 3, don't jerk;' 'Now, 2, throw your weight on the oar; come, now, you can get another pound on.' I hang on like grim Death,— then its ' Time, 2 ; now, 3—' " "Well, it's a great compliment," broke in Tom, with a laugh : "he thinks he can make something of us." " He'U make nothing of us first, I think," said Drysdale. " I've lost eight pounds in a fortnight." The Captain ought to put me in every place in the boat, in turn, to make it water- tight. I've larded the bottom boards under my seat so that not a drop of water will ever come tlirough again." " A very good thing for you, old fellow," said Diogenes j 110 TOM BrtO\\Ti AT OXFORD. " you look ten times better than you did at the beginning of term." " I don't know what you call a good thing, you old fluter. I'm obliged to sit on my hip-bones — I can't go to a lecture — ■ all the tutors think I'm poking fun at them, and put me on directly. I haven't been able to go to lecture these ten days." " So fond of lecture as he is, too, poor feUow," put in Tom. "But they've discommonsed me for staying away," said Drysdale ; " not that I care much for that, though." " Well, Miller goes down to-morrow morning — I heard him say so," said another. *' Then we'll memorialize the Captain and get out of these Abmgdon pulls. Life isn't worth having at this rate." " No other boat has been below Sandford yet." And so they sat on and plotted, and soon most of the other crews started. And then they took their turn at skittles, and almost forgot their grievances, which must be explained to those who don't know the river at Oxford. The river runs along the south of the city, getting Into the university quarter after it passes under the bridge connecting Berks and Oxfordshire, over which is the road to Abingdon, Just below this bridge are the boat-builders' establishments on both sides of the river, and then on the Oxfordshire side is Cliristchtirch meadow, opposite which is moored the university barge. Here is the goal of all university races ; and the racecourse stretches away down the river for a mile and a half, and a little below the starting- place of the races is Iffley Lock. The next lock below Iffley is the Sandford Lock (where we left our boat's crew playing at skittles), which is about a mile and a half below Ifdey. Below Sandford there is no lock tiU you get to Abingdon, a distance of six miles and more by the river. Kow, inasmuch as the longest distance to be rowed in the races is only the upper nule and a half fi-om Ifilcy to the university barge, of course all the crews think themselves very hardly treated if they are taken farther than to Sandford. Pulling " hard all" fi'om Sandford to Iffley, and then again from Iffley over the regular course, ought to be enough in all conscience. So chorus the crews ; and most captains and coxswains give in. But here and there some enemy of his kind — some uncomfortable, worriting, energizing mortal, like MiUer — gets command of a boat, and then the unfortunate crew are dragged, bemoaning their fate, down below Sandford, where no friendly lock intervenes to break the long, steady swing of the training pull MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. Ill every two milos, and the result for the time is blisters and mutiny. I am bound to add that it generally tells, and that the crew which has been undergoing that peine forte et dure is very apt to get the change out of it on the nights of hard races. So the St. Ambrose crew played out their skittles, and settled to appeal to the Captain in a body the next day, after Miller's departure ; and then, being summoned to the boat, they took to the water again, and paddled steadUy up home, arriving just in time for hall for those who liked to hurry. Drysdale never liked hurrying himself ; besides, he could not dine in hall, as he was discommonsed for persistent absence from lectures, and neglect to go to the Dean when sent for to explain his absence. " I say. Brown, hang hall," he said to Tom, who was throwing on his tilings ; " come and dine with me at the Mitre. I'll give you a bottle of hock ; it's very good there." " Hock's about the worst thing you can drink in training," said Miller. " Isn't it Jervis ? " *' It's no good, certainly," said the Captain, as he put on his cap and gown ; " come along, Miller." "There, you hear?" said Miller. "You can drink a glass of sound sherry, if you want wine ;" and he followed the Captain. Drysdale performed a defiant pantomime after the retiring coxswain, and then easily carried his point with Tom, except as to the hock. So they walked up to the Mitre together, where Drysdale ordered dinner and a bottle of hock in the coffee-room. " Don't order hock, Drysdale ; I shan't druik any." " Then I shall have it aU to my own cheek. If you begin making a slave of yourself to that Miller, he'll very soon cut you down to a glass of water a day, A^dth a pinch of rhubarb in it, and make you drink that standing on your head." " Gammon ; but I don't think it's fair on the rest of the crew not to train as well as one can." " You don't suppose drinking a pint of hock to-night will aiake you pull any the worse this day six weeks, when the races begin, do you 1" "Ko; but—" " Hullo ! look here," said Drysdale, who was inspecting a printed bill pinned up on the wall of the coffee-room; " "Wombwell's menagerie is in the town, somewhere do^vn by "Worcester. What fun ! We'll go there after dinner." The food arrived, with Drysdale's hock, which he seemed to enjoy all the more from the assurance which every glass 13 2 TOM BLOWN AT OXFORD. gave him that he was defying the coxswain, and doing just the thing he would most dislike. So he drank away, and facetiously speculated how he could be such an idiot as to go on pulling. Every day of his life he made good resolutions in the reach above the Gut that it should be his last per- formance, and always broke them next day. He supposed the habit he had of breaking all good resolutions was the way to account for it. After dinner they set off to find the wild-beast show ; and, as they will be at least a quarter of an hour reaching it, for the pitch is in a part of the suburbs little known to gowns- men, the opportunity may be seized of making a few remarks to the patient reader, which impatient readers are begged to skip. Our hero on his first appearance in public some years since, was without his own consent at once patted on the back by the good-natured critics, and enrolled for better or worse in the brotherhood of muscular Christians, who at that time were beginning to be recognised as an actual and lusty portion of general British life. As his biographer, I am not about to take exceptions to his enrolment ; for, after con- sidering the persons up and down her Majesty's dominions to whom the new nick-name has been applied, the principles which they are supposed to hold, and the sort of lives they are supposed to lead, I cannot see where he could in these times have fallen upon a nobler brotherhood. I am speaking of course ander correction, and with only a slight acquain- tance with the faith of muscular Christianit}'', gathered almost entirely from the witty expositions and comments of persons of a somewhat dyspeptic habit, who are not amongst the faithful themselves. Indeed, I am not aware that any authorized articles of belief have been sanctioned or published by the sect. Church, or whatever they may be. Moreover, at the age at which our hero has arrived, and having regard to his character, I should say that he has in all likelihood thought very little on the subject of belief, and would scarcely be able to give any formal account of his own, beyond that contained in the Church Catecliism, which I for one think may very well satisfy him lor the present. Nevertheless, had he been suddenly caught at the gate of St. Ambrose's College, by one of the gentlemen who do the classifying for the British public, and accosted with, " Sir, you belong to a body whose creed is to fear God, and walk 1000 miles in 1000 hours;" I believe he would have replied, "Do I, sir? Pm very glad to hear it. They must be a very good set of fellows. How many weeks' training, do they allow 1" MUSCULAR CHRISTIAN IT Y. 113 But in the course of my inquiries on the subject of muscular Christians, their works and ways, a fact has forced itself on my attention, whicli, for the sake of ingenious youth, like my hero, ought not to be passed over. I find, then, that, side by side with these muscular Christians, and apparently claiming some sort of connexion with them (the same concern, as the pirates of trade-marks say), have risen up another set of persons, against whom I desire to caution my readers and my hero, and to warn the latter that I do not mean on any pretence whatever to allow him to connect himself with them, however much he may be taken with their off-hand, " hail- brother well-met" manner and dress, which may easily lead careless observers to take the counterfeit for the true article. I must call the persons in question " musclemen," as dis- tinguished from muscular Christians ; the only point in common between the two being, that both hold it to be a good thing to have strong and well-exercised bodies, ready to be put at the shortest notice to any work of which bodies are capable, and to do it well. Here all likeness ends ; for the " muscleman" seems to have no belief whatever as to the purposes for which his body has been given him, except some hazy idea that it is to go up and down the world with him, belabouring men and captivating women for his benefit or pleasure, at once the servant and fomenter of those fierce and brutal passions which he seems to think it a necessity, and rather a fine thing than otherwise, to indulge and obey. Whereas, so far as I know, the least of the muscular Christians has hold of the old chivalrous and Christian belief, that a man's body is given him to be trained and brought into sub- jection, and then used for the protection of the weak, the advancement of all righteous causes, and the subduing of the earth which God has given to the children of men. He does not hold that mere strength or activity are in themselves worthy of any respect or worship, or that one man is a bit better than another because he can knock him down, or carry a bigger sack of potatoes than he. Eor mere power, whether of body or intellect, he has (I hope and believe) no reverence whatever, though, cceteris paribus, he would probably himself, as a matter of taste, prefer the man who can lift a hundred- weight round his head with his little finger to the man who can construct a string of perfect Sorites, or expound the doctrine of " contradictory inconceivables." The above remarks occur as our hero is marching inno- cently down towards his first " town and gown " row, and I bhould scarcely like to see hirn in the middle of it, without protesting that it is a mistake. I know that he, and other 114 TOM BKOWN AT OXrOKD. } Gangsters of his kidney, will have fits of fighting, or de- siring to fight -v^dth their poorer brethren, just as children have the measles. But the shorter the fit the better foi the patient, for like the measles it is a great mistake, and a most "unsatisfactory complaint. If they can escape it alto- gether so much the better. But instead of treating the fit aa a disease, " musclemen " professors are wont to represent it as a state of health, and to let their disciples run about in middle age with the measles on them as strong aa ever. Now although our hero had the measles on him at this particular time, and the passage of arms which I am about shortly to describe led to results of some importance in his history, and cannot therefore be passed over, yet I wish at the same time to disclaim, both in my sponsorial and indi^ddual character, all sympathy with town and go^vn rows, and with all other class rows and quarrels of every sort and kind, whether waged with sv/ord, pen, tongue, fist, or otherwise. Also to say that in all such rows, so far as I have seen or read, from the time when the Eoman plebs marched out to ]\Ions Sacer, down to 1848, when the English chartists met on Kennington Com- mon, the upper classes are most to blame. It may be that they are not the aggressors on any given occasion : very pos- sibly they may carry on the actual fighting v/ith more fairness (though this is by no means true as a rule) ; nevertheless the state of feeling which makes such things possible, especially in England, where men in general are only too ready to be led and taught by their superiors in rank, may be fairly laid at their door. Even in the case of strikes, which just now will of course be at once thrown in my teeth, I say fearlessly, Let any man take the trouble to study the question honestly, and he will come to the conviction that all combinations -of the men for the purpose of influencing the labour market, whether in the much and unjustly abused Trades' Societies, or in other forms, have been defensive organizations, and that the masters might, as a body, over and over again have taken the sting out of them if they would have acted fairly, as many indi- viduals amongst them have done. Whether it may not be too late now, is a tremendous question for England, but one which time only can decide. When Drysdale and Tom at last found the caravans, it was just getting dark. Something of a crowd had collected out- side, and there was some hissing as they ascended the short flight of steps which led to the platform in front of the show ; but they took no notice of it, paid their money, and entered. Inside they found an exciting scene. The place was pi-etty MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 115 well lighted, and the birds and beasts were all alive in their several dens and cages, walking np and down, and each utter- ing remonstraiu I's arter its own manner, the shrill notes of birds mingling with the moan of the beasts of prey and chattering of the monkeys. Feeding time had been put olf till night to suit the undergraduates, and the undergraduates were proA'ing their appreciation of the attention by playing off all manner of practical jokes on birds and beasts, their keepers, and such of the public as had been rasli enough to venture in. At the farther end was the keeper, who did the showman, vainly endeavouring to go through his usual jogtrot description. His monotone was drowned every minute by the chorus of voices, each shouting out some new fact in natural history touching the biped or quadruped whom the keeper was attempting to describe. At that day a great deal of this sort of chaff was current, so that the most duiider- headed' boy had jjlenty on the tip of his tongue. A small and indignant knot of townspeople, headed by a stout and severe middle-aged woman, with two big boys, her sons, fol- lowed the keeper, endeavouring by caustic remarks and withering glances to stop the flood of chaff, and restore the legitimate authority and the reign of keeper and natural history. At another point was a long Irishman in cap and gown, who had clearly had as much wine as he could carry, close to the bars of the panther's den, through which he was earnestly endeavouring, with the help of a crooked stick, to draw the tail of whichever of the beasts stopped for a moment in its uneasy walk. On the other side were a set of men bent on burning the wretched monkeys' fingers with the lighted ends of their cigars, in which tliey seemed successful enough, to judge by the angry chatterings and sliriekings of their victims. The tv\'o new comers paused for a moment on the platform inside the curtain ; and then Drysdale, rubbing his hands, and in high glee at the sight of so nnich misrule in so small a place, led the way down on to the floor deep in sawdust, exclaiming, " Well, this is a lark ! We're just in for all the fun of the fair." Tom followed his friend, who made straight for the show- man, and planted himself at his side, just as that worthy, pointing with his pole, was proceeding — " This is the jackal, from — " " The Caribee Hielands, of which I'm a native mysel'," shouted a gownsman. "This is the jackal^ or lion's provider," began again the much-enduring keeper. 116 TOM BEOWTT AT OXFORD. " Who always goes before the lion to purwide his pur- wisions, purwiding there's anything to purwide," put ia Drysdale. '* Hem — really I do thinli it's scandalous not to let the keeper tell about the bcasteses," said the unfortunate matron, with a half turn towards the persecutors, and grasping her bag. " My dear madam," said Drysdale, in his softest voice, " I assure you he knows nothing about the beasteses. We aro Doctor Buckland's favourite ])upils, are also well known to the great Panjandrum, and have eaten more beasteses than the keeper has ever seen." " I don't know who you are, young man, but you don't know how to behave yourselves," rejoined the outraged female ; and the keeper, giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with his pole, proceeded — " The little hanimal in the upper cage is the hopossum, of North America — " " The misguided offspring of the racoon and the gum-tree," put in one of his tormentors. Here a frightful roaring and struggling at a little distancBj mingled with shouts of laughter, and " Hold on, Pat 1" " Go it, panther ! " interrupted the lecture, and caused a rush to the other side, where the long Irishman, Donovan, by name, with one foot against the bars, was holding on to the tail of one of the panthers, Avhich he had at length managed to catch hold of The next moment he was flat on his back in the sawdust, and his victim was bounding wildly about the cage. The keeper hurried away to look after the outraged panther ; and Drysdale, at once installing himself as show- man, began at the next cage — " This is the wild man of the woods, or whangee-tangee, the most untameable — good heavens, ma'am, take care ! " and he seized hold of the unfortunate woman and pulled her away from the bars. " Oh, goodness ! " she screamed, " it's got my tippet ; oh. Bill, Peter, catch hold ! " Bill and Peter proved unequal to the occasion, bvit a gownsman seized the vanishing tippet, and after a moment's struggle with the great ape, restored a meagre half to the proper owner, while Jacko sat grinning over the other half, picking it to pieces. The poor woman had now had enough of it, and she hurried ofl' with her two boys, followed by the few townspeople who were still in the show, to lay her case directly before the mayor, as she informed the delinquents from the platform before disappearing. Hei wrongs were likely to be more speedily avenged, to judge by MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 117 the i.ngry murmuri which arose outside immediately after her exit. Eut still the high jinks went on, Donovan leading all mis- chief, until the master of the menagerie appeared inside, and remonstrated with the men. " He must send for the police," he said, " if they would not leave the beasts alone. He had put off the feeding in order to suit them ; would they let his keepers feed the beasts quietly ? " The threat of the police Wa3 received with shouts of defiance by some of the men, though the greater part seemed of the opinion that matters were getting serious. The proposal for feeding, however, was welcomed by all, and comparative quiet ensued for some ten minutes, while the baskets of joints, bread, stale fish, and potatoes were brought in, and the contents distributed to the famishing occupants of the cages. In the interval of peace the showman-keeper, on a hint from his master, again began his round. But the spirit of miscliief was abroad, and it only needed this to mwke it break out again. In another two minutes the beasts, from the lion to the smallest monkey, were struggling for their suppers with one or more undergraduates ; the elephant had torn the gown off Donovan's back, having only just missed his arm ; the manager in a confusion worthy of the tower of Babel, sent off a keeper for the city police, and tui-ned the gas out. The audience, after the first moment of surprise and indig- nation, gi'oped their way towards the steps and mounted the platform, where they held a council of war. Should they stay where they were, or make a sally at once, break through the crowd and get back to their colleges. It was curious to see how in that short minute individual character came out, and the coward, the cautious man, the resolute, prompt EngHshman, each was there, and more than one species of each. Donovan was one of the last up the steps, and as he stumbled up caught something of the question before the house. He shouted loudly at once for descending, and ofler- ing battle. " But, boys," he added, " first wait till I adthress the meeting," and he made for the opening in the canvas through which the outside platform was reached. Stump oratory and a free fight were just the two temptations which Donovan was wholly unable to resist ; and it Avas with a face radiant with devil-may-care delight that he burst through the opening, folloAved by aU the rest (who felt that the matter was out of their hands, and must go its o\vn way after the Iiishman), and rolling to the front of the outside platform, 118 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. rftsted one hand on the rail, and waved the other gracefully toward* the crowd. This was the signal for a hurst of defiant shouts and hissing. Donovan stood hlandly waving his hand for silence. Drysdale, running his eye over the mob, turned to the rest and said, "There's nothing to stop us, not twenty grown men in the whole lot." Then one of the men lighting upon the drumsticks, which the usual man in corduroys had hidden away, began beating the big drum furiously. One of the unaccountable whims which influence crowds seized on the mob, and there was almost perfect silence. This seemed to take Donovan by surprise ; the open air was having the common effect on him ; he was getting unsteady on his legs, and his brains were wan- dering. " I^ow's your time, Donovan, my boy — begin." " Ah, yes, to be sure, what'll I say ? let's see," said Donovan, putting his head on one side — " Friends, Romans, countrymen," suggested some wag. " To be sure," cried Donovan ; " Friends, Romans, country- men, lend me your ears." " Bravo Pat, well begun ; pidl their ears well when you've got 'em." " Bad luck to it ! where was 1 1 you divels — I mean ladies and gentlemen of Oxford city as I was saying, the poets — " Then the storm of shouting and hissing arose again, and Donovan, after an ineffectual attempt or two to go on, leaned forward, and shook his fist generally at the mob. Luckily for him, there were no stones about ; but one of the crowd, catching the first missile at hand, which happened to be a cabbage-stalk, sent it with true aim at the enraged orator. He jerked his head on one side to avoid it ; the motion unsteadied his cap ; he threw up his hand, which, instead of catching the faUrng cap, as it was meant to do, sent it spinning among the crowd below. The owner, without a moment's hesitation, clapped both hands on the bar before him and followed his property, vaulting over on to the heads of those nearest the platform, amongst whom he fell, scattering them right and left. " Come on, gown, or he'll be murdered," sang out one of Donovan's friends. Tom was one of the first do^Ti the steps ; they rushed to the spot in another moment, and the Irishman rose, plastered with dirt, but otherwise none the M'orse for his f(.'at ; his cap, covered with mud, was proudly stuck on, hind part before. He was of course thirsting for battle, but not quite so much master of his strength as usual ; so his two friends, who were luclcily strong and big men, seized him^ one to each arm. JfUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 119 ** Como along^, keep together," was tlie word ; " there's no time to lose. Push for the corn-market." The cry of " Town ! town ! " now rose on all sides. The gownsmen in a compact body, with Donovan in the middle, pushed rapidly across the open space in which the caravans were set up and gained the street. Here they were compara- tively safe : they were followed close, but could not be sur- rounded by the mob. And now again a bystander might have amused himself by noting the men's characters. Three or four pushed rapidly on, and were out of sight ahead in no time. The greater part, without showing any actual signs of Tear, kept steadily on, at a good pace. CLse behind these, Donovan struggled violently with his two conductors, and shouted defiance to the town ; while a small and silent rear- guard, amongst whom were Tom and Drysdale, walked slowly 'and, to all appearance, carelessly behind, within a few yards of the crowd of shouting boys who headed the advancing toAvn. Tom himself felt his heart beating quick, and I don't think had any particular desire for the fighting to begin, with such long odds on the town side ; but he was resolved to be in it as soon as any one if there was to be any. Thus they marched through one or two streets without anything more serious than an occasional stone passing their ears. Another turn would have brought them into the open parts of the town, within hearing of the colleges, when suddenly Donovan broke loose from his supporters, and rushing with a shout on the advanced guard of the town, drove them back in confusion for some yards. The onij thing to do was to back him up ; 60 the rear-guard, shouting " Gown ! gown ! " charged after him. The efi'ect of the onset was Hke that of Blount at riodden, when he saw Marmion's banner go down, — a wide space was cleared for a moment, the town driven back on to the pavements, and up the middle of the street, and the rescued Donovan caught, set on his legs, and dragged away again some paces towards college. But the charging body was too few in number to improve the first success, or even to insure its own retreat. '* Darkly closed the war around." The town lapped on them from the pavements, and poured on them down the middle of the street, before they had time to rally and stand together again. What happened to the rest — who was down, who up, who fought, who fled, — Tom had no time to inquire ; for he found himself suddenly the centre of a yelling circle of enemies. So he set his teeth and buckled to his work ; and the thought of splendid single combat, and glory such as he had read of in college stories, and tradition lianding him do^A^n as the hero of that great night, flas.hed 120 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. into his head as lie cast his eye round for foeoen worthy of his steeL None such appeared; so, selecting the one most of his own size, he squared and advanced on him. But the challenged one declined the combat, and kept retreating ; while from behind, and the sides, one after another of the " town " rushing out dealt Tom a blow and vanished again into the crowd. For a moment or two ho kept his head and temper ; the assailants individually were too insignificant to put out his strength upon ; but liead and temper were rapidly going ; — he was like a bull in the arena with the picadores sticking their little javelins in liim. A smart blow on the nose, which set a myriad of stars dancing before his eyes, finished the business, and he rushed after the last assailant, dealing blows to right and left, on small and great. The mob closed in on him, still avoiding attacks in front, but on flank and rear they hung on him, and battered at him. He had to turn sharply round after every step to shake himself clear, and at each turn the press thickened, the shouts waxed louder and fiercer ; he began to get unsteady ; tottered, swayed, and, stumbling over a prostrate youth, at last went down full length on to the pavement, carrying a couple of his assailants with him. And now it would have fared hardly with him, and he would scarcely have reached college with sound bones, — for I am sorry to say an Oxford town mob is a cruel and brutal one, and a man who is down has no chance with it, —but that for one moment he and his prostrate foes were so jumbled together that the town could not get at him, and the next the cry of " Gown ! gown ! " rose high above the din ; the town were swept back again by the rush of a reinforce- ment of gownsmen, the leader of whom seized him by the shoulders and put him on his legs again ; while his late antagonists crawled away to the side of the road. " Why, Brown ! " said his rescuer, — Jervis, the Captain, — ' " this you 1 Not hurt, eh 1 " " Not a bit," said Tom. " Good ; come on, then ; stick to me." In three steps they joined the rest of the gown, now numbering some twenty men. The mob was close before them, gathering for another rush. Tom felt a cruel, wild devil beginning to rise in him : he had never felt the like before. This time he longed for the next crash, which happily for him, was fated never to coma off. " Your names and colleges, gentlemen," said a voice close behind them at this critical moment. The " town " set up a derisive shout, and, turning round, the gownsmen found the velvet sleeves of one of the proctors at their elbow and his 1 MUSCULAR CIIEISTIANITY. 121 satellites, vulgarly called bull-dogs, taking notes of them They were completely caught, and so quietly gave the required iuforuiation. " You will go to your colleges at once," said the proctor, " and remain within gates. You will see these gentlemen to the High-street," he added to his marshal ; and then strode on after the crowd, which was vanishing down tho street. The men turned and strolled towards the High-street, the marshal keeping, in a deferential but wide-awake manner, pretty close to them, but without making any show of watch ing them. When they reached the High-street he touched his hat and said civilly, "I hope you will go home now, gentlemen, the senior proctor is very strict." " All right, marshal ; good night," said the good-natured ones. " D — his impudence," growled one or two of the rest, and the marshal bustled away after his master. The men looked at one another for a moment or two. They were of different colleges, and strangers. The High-street was quiet ; so, without the exchange of a word, after the manner of British youth, they broke up into twos and threes, and parted. Jervis, Tom, and Drysdale, who turned up quite undamaged, saun- tered together towards St. Ambrose's. " I say, where are we going ? " said Drysdale. " Kot to college, I vote," said Tom. " 'No, there may be some more fun." " Mighty poor fun, I should say, you'll find it," said Jervis ; " however, if you will stay, I suppose I must. I can't leave you two boys by yourselves." " Come along then, down here." So they turned down one of the courts leading out of the High-street, and so by back streets bore up again for the disturbed districts. " Mind and keep a sharp look out for the proctors," said Jervis ; " as much row as you please, but we musn't be caught again." " Well, only let's keep together if we have to bolt." They promenaded in lonely dignity for some five minutes, keeping eyes and ears on full strain. " I tell you what," said Drysdale, at last, " it isn't lair, these enemies in the camp ; what with the ' town ' and their stones and fists, and the proctors with their * name and college,' we've got the wrong end of the stick." " Both wrong ends, I can tell you," said Jervis. " Holloe, Brown, your nose is bleeding.'' " Is it 1 " said, Tom, drawing his hand across his face • " 'twaR 122 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. that confounded little fellow then who ran up to mj side while I was squaring at the long party. I felt a sharp crack, and the little rascal bolted into the crowd before 1 could turn at him." " Cut and come again," said Drysdale, laughing. "Ay, that's the regular thing in these blackguard street squabbles. Here they come then," said Jervis. *' Stejidy, all." They turned round to face the town, which come shouting down the street behind them in pursuit of one gOAvnsman, a little, harmless, quiet fellow, who had fallen in with them on his way back to his college from a tea with his tutor, and, like a wise man, was gi\^g them leg-bail as hard as he could foot it. But the little man was of a courageous, though prudent soul, and turned panting and gasping on his foes the moment he found himself amongst friends again. " Now, then, stick together ; don't let them get round us," said Jervis. They walked steadily down the street, which was luckily a narrow one, so that three of them could keep the whole of it, halting and showing front every few yards, when the crowd pressed too much. " Down with them ! Town, town 1 That's two as was in the show." " Mark the velvet-capped chap. Town, town ! " shouted the hinder part of the mob ; but it was a rabble of boys as before, and the front rank took very good care of itself, and forbore from close quarters. The small gownsman had now got his wind again ; and smarting under the ignominy of his recent flight, was always a pace or two nearer the crowd than the other three, ruffling up like a little bantam, and shouting defiance between the catchings of his breath, " You vagabonds ! you cowards ! Come on now, I say ! Gown, gown ! " And at last, emboldened by the repeated halts of the mob, and thirsting for revenge, he made a dash at one of the nearest of the enemy. The suddenness of the attack took both sides by surprise, then came a rush by two or three of the town to the rescue. " No, no ! stand back — one at a time," shouted the Captain, throwing himself between the combatants and the mob. " Go it, little 'un ; serve him out. Keep the rest back, boys : steady ! " Tom and Drysdale faced towards the crowd, while the little gownsman and his antagonist — who defended himself vigorously enough now — came to close quarters, in the rear of the gov/n line ; too close to hurt one anotlier, but what with hugging and cuffing, the townsman in another hilf-minute MUSCUIJIK CIirJSTIANlTY. 123 \sas sitting quietly on the pavement with, liis back against the wall, his enemy squaring in front of him, and daring him to renew the combat. " Get up, you coward ; get up, I say, you coward ! He won't get up," said the little man, eagerly turning to the Captain. " Shall I give him a kick ? '* " No, let the cur alone," replied Jervis. " Now, do any more of you want to fight ? Come on, like men, one at a time. I'll fight any man in the crowd. '^ Whether the challenge would have been answered must rest uncertain ; for now the crowd began to look back, and a cry arose, " Here they are, proctors ! now they'll run." " So we must, by Jove, Brown," said the Captain. " "What's your college ? " to the little hero. " Pembroke." '' Cut away, then ; year close at home ;" " Very well, if I must : good night," and away went the small man as fast as he had come ; and it has never been neard that he came to further grief or performed other feats that night. " Hang it, don't let's run," said Drysdale. " Is it the proctors '? " said Tom. " I can't see them." " Mark the bloody-faced one ; kick him over," sang out a voice in the crowd. " Thank'ee," said Tom, savagely. " Let's have one rush at them." " Look ! there's the proctor's cap just through them ; come along, boys — well, stay if you like, and be rusticated, I'm ofiT;" and away went Jervis, and the next moment Tom and Drysdale followed the good example, and, as they had to run, made the best use of their legs, and in two minutes were w^ell ahead of their pursuers. They turned a corner ; " Here, Brown ! alight in this pubhc, cut in, and it's all right." Next moment they were in the dark passage of a quiet little inn, and heard with a chuckle part of the crowd scurry by the door in pursuit, while they themselves suddenly appeared in the neat little bar, to the no small astonishment of its occupants. These were a stout elderly woman in spectacles, who was stitching away at plain work in an arm-chair on one side of the fire ; the foreman of one of the great boat-builders, who sat opposite her, smoking his pipe, with a long glass of clear ale at his elbow ; and a bright-eyed, neat-handed barmaid, who was leaning against the table, and talking to the others aa they entered. 124 TOM BRO\\Ts AT OXFORD. CHAPTER XIL THE captain's NOTIONS. The old lady dropped her work, the barmaid turned round with a start and little ejaculation, and the foreman stared with all his eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, ex- claimed — " Bless us, if it isn't Muster Drysdale and Muster Brown, of Ambrose's. Why what's the matter, sir 1 Muster Brown, you be all covered wi' blood, sir." " Oh dear me ! poor young gentleman ! " cried the hostess : — " Here, Patty, run and tell Dick to go for the doctor, and get the best room " — " No, please don't ; it's nothing at all," interrupted Tom, laughing ; — " a basin of cold water and a towel, if you please, Miss Patty, and I shall be quite presentable in a minute. Tm very sorry to have frightened you all." Drysdale joined in assurances that it was nothing but a little of his friend's " claret," which he would be all the better for losing, and watched with an envious eye the in- terest depicted in Patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh pumped water, and held the towel. Tom bathed his face, and very soon v/as as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a slight swelling on one side of liis nose. Drysdale meantime — seated on the table — had been ex- plaining the cii'cumstances to the landlady and the foreman. " And now, ma'am," said he, as Tom joined them and seated himself on a vacant chair, " I'm sure you must draw famous ale." "Indeed, sir, I think Dick — that's my ostler, sir — is as good a brewer as is in the town. We always brews at home, sir, and I hope always shall." " Quite right, ma'am, quite right," said Drysdale ; " and 1 don't think we can do better than follow Jem here. Let us have a jug of the same ale as he is drinking. And you'll take a glass with us, Jem 1 or will you hove spirits 1 " Jem was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to its being the best in Oxford, and Patty drew tlie ale, and sup- plied two more long glasses. Drysdale, with apologies, produced his cigar-case ; and Jem, under the infiuun2e of the ale and a first-rate Havannah (for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half as much), volunteere^l to go and rouse the yard and conduct them safely back to college. This oiTer was of course politely declined, and then, Jem's houi THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS. 125 for bed luiving come, he, bfdng a methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our two young friends in sole possession of the bar. Nothing could have suited the two young gentlemen better, and they set to work to make them, selves agreeable. They listened with lively interest to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a -widow woman in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum Dick and her niece Patty. They applauded her resolution of not bringing up her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no very available answer to her appeals for advice as to what trade they should be put to ; all trades w^ere so full, and things were not as they used to be. The one thing, apparently, which was wanting to the liappiness of Drysdale at Oxford, was the discovery of such beer as he had at last found at " The Choughs." Dick was to come up to St. Ambrose's the first thing in the morning and carry off his barrel, which would never contain in future any otlier lif^uid. At last that worthy appeared in the bar to know when he was to shut up, and was sent out by his mistress to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. And so, after paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, they found themselves in the street, and set off for college, agreeing on the way that " The Choughs " v/as a great find, the old lady the best old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest girl in Oxford. They found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along them, knocked at the college gates at half-past eleven. The stout porter received them with, a long face. " Senior proctor's sent down here an hour back, gentlemen, to find whether you Avas in college." " You don't mean that, porter ? How kind of him ! WTiat did you say 1 " " Said I didn't know, sir ; but the marshal said, if you come in after, thai you was to go to the senior proctor's at half-past nine to-morjow." " Send my compliments to the senior proctor," said Drysdale, " and say I have a very particular engagement to-morrow morning, which will prevent my having the pleasure of calling on him." " Very good, sir," said the porter, giving a little dry chuckle, and tapping the keys against his leg ; " only perhaps you wouldn't mind ■writing him a note, sir, as he is rather a parti- cular gentleman." " Didn't he send after any one else 1 " said Tom* " Yes, sir, Mr. Jervis, sir." " Well, and what aboat him ] " 126 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " Oh, sir, Mr. Jervis ! an old hand, sir. He'd bcei^ in gates a long time, sir, when the raarshal came." "The sly old beggar !" said Drysdale, "good night porter; mind you send my message to the proctor. If he is set on seeing me to-morrow, yon can say that he will find a broiled chic]ven and a hand at picquet in my rooms, if he likes to drop in to lunch." The porter looked after them for a moment, and then retired to his deep old chair in the lodge, pulled his night-cap over hi? ears, put up his feet before the fire on a high stool, and folded his hands on his lap. " The most impidentest thing on the face of the earth is a genTman-commoner in his first year," soliloquized the little man. " 'Twould ha' done that one a sight of good, now, if he'd got a good liiding in the street to-night. But he's better than most on 'em, too," he went on ; " uncommon free with his tongue, but just as free with his a^f-sovereigns. Well, I'm not going to peach if the proctor don't send again in the morning. That sort's good for the college ; makes things brisk ; has his win from town, and don't keep no keys. I wonder, now, if my Peter's been oat a fighting 1 lie's pretty nigh as hard to manage, is that boy, as if he was at college hissclf." And so, muttering over his domestic and professional gi'ievanccs, the small janitor composed himself to a nap. I may add, parenthetically, that his hopeful Peter, a precocious youth of seventeen, scout's boy on Xo. 3 Staircase of St. Ambrose's College, was represented in the boot cleaning and errand line by a substitute for some days ; and when he returned to duty was minus a front tooth. " What fools we were not to stick to the Captain. I wonder what we shall get," said Tom, who was troubled in his mind at the proctors message, and not gifted naturally with the recklessness and contempt of authority which in Drysdale's case approached the sublime. "Who cares? Til be bound, now, the old fox came straight home to earth. Let's go and knock him up." Tom assented, for he was anxious to consult Jervis as to his i)roceedings in the morning ; so they soon found them- selves drumming at his oak, which was opened shortly by *' the stroke " in an old boating-jacket. They followed hiui in. At one end of his table stood his tea-service and the remains of his commons, which the scout had not cleared away ; at the other, open books, note-books, and maps showed that tlie Captain read, as he rowed, " hard all." " Well, are you two only just in ?" "Only just, my Captain," an.3wercd Drysdale. THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS. 127 "Have you been well thrashed, then? You don't look much damaged." " We are innocent of fight since your sudden departure — flight, shall I call it 1 — my Captain." " AVhere have you been ]" " Where ! why in the paragon of all pothouses ; snug little bar with red curtains ; stout old benevolent female in spec- tacles ; barmaid a liouri ; and for malt, the most touching tap in Oxford — home-brewed, too, wasn't it, Brown ?" " Yes, the beer was undeniable," said Tom. "Well, and you dawdled there till now?" said Jervis. " Even so. What with mobs that wouldn't fight fair, and and captains who would run away, and proctors ana marshals who would interfere, we were ' perfectly disgusted with the whole proceedings,' as the Scotchman said when he was sen- tenced to be hanged." " WeU ! Heaven, they say, protects children, sailors, and drunken men ; and wliatever answers to Heaven in the academical system protects freshmen," remarked Jervis. "Not us, at any rate," said Tom, "for we are to go to the proctor to-morrow morning." " What, did he catch you in your famous public ? " " .IS'o ; the marshal came round to the porter's lodge, asked if we were in, and left word that, if we were not, we were to go to him in the morning. The porter told us just now as we came in." " Pshaw," said the Captain, with disgust ; " now you'll both be gated probably, and the v»'hole crew will be thrown out of gear. Why couldn't you have come home when I did?" " We do not propose to attend the levee of that excellent person in office to-morrow morning," said Drysdale. " Ho will forget all about it. Old Copas won't say a word — catch him. He gets too much out of me for that." " Well, you'll see ; I'll back the proctor's memory." " But, Captain, what are you going to stand ? " " Stand ! nothing, unless you like a cup of cold tea. You'll get no wine or spirits here at this time of night, and the buttery is shut. Besides, you've had quite as much beer as is good for you at your paragon pubUc." **Come, now, Captain, just two glasses of sherry, and I'll promise to go to bed." "Not a thimbleful." " You old tyrant ! " said Drysdale, hopping off his perch on the elbow of the sofa. " Come along. Brown, let's go and draw for some supper, and a hand at Van John. There's sure 128 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. to "be some going up my staircase ; or, at any rate, there's a cool bottle of claret in my rooms." " Stop and have a talk, Brown," said the Captain, and prevailed against Drysdale, who, after another attempt to draw Tom off, departed on his quest for drink and cards. " He'll never do for the boat, I'm afraid," said the Captain ; "with his rascally late hours, and drinking, and eating all sorts of trash. It's a pity, too, for he's a pretty oar for his weight." " He is such uncommon good company, too," said Tom. *' Yes ; but I'll tell you what. He's just a leetle too good company for you and me, or any fellows who mean to take a degree. Let's see, this is only his third term ? I'll give him, perhaps, two more to make the place too hot to hold him. Take my word for it, he'll never get to his little-go " " It will be a great pity, then," said Tom. " So it will But after all, you see, what does it matter to him ? He gets rusticated ; takes his name off with a flourish of trumpets — what then? He falls back on 5,0001. a year in land, and a good accumulation in consols ; runs abroad, or lives in town for a year. Takes the hounds when he comes of age, or is singled out by some discerning constituency, and sent to make laws for his country, having spent the whole of his life hitherto in breaking all the laws he ever came under. You and I, perhaps, go fooling about with him, and get rusti- cated. We make our friends miserable. AVe can't take our names off, but have to come cringing back at the end of our year, marked men. Keep our tails between our legs for the rest of our time. Lose a year at our professions, and most likely have the slip casting up against us in one way or another for the next twenty years. It's like the old story of the gianf. and the dwarf, or like fighting a sweep, or any other one- sided business." " But I'd sooner have to fight my own way in the world after all ; wouldn't you ? " said Tom. " II — m — m ! " said the Captain, throwing himself back in the chair, and smiling ; " can't answer off hand. I'm a third- year man, and begin to see- the other side rather clearer than 1 did when I was a freshman lilie you. Three years at Oxford, my boy, will teach you something of what rank and money count for, if they teach you nothing else." " ^^ hy here's the Captain singing the same song as Hardy,* thought Tom. " So you two have to go to the proctor to-morrow ? " *' Yes." " Shall you go 1 Drysdale won't." " Of course I shall. It seems to me childish not to go ; a^ •I'HE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS. 129 if I were back in tho lower school again. To tell you the truth, the being sent for isn't pleasant; but the otlior I couldn't stand." "Well, I don't feel anything of that sort. But I think you're right on the whole. The chances are that he'll re- member your name, and send for you again if you don't go ; and then you'll be worse off." " You don't think he'll rusticate us, or anything of that sort ? " said Tom, who had felt horrible twinges at the Captain's picture of the effects of rustication on ordinary mortals. " IsTo ; not unless he's in a very bad humour. I was caught three times in one night in my freshman's term, and only got an imposition." " Then I don't care," said Tom. " But it's a bore to have been caught in so seedy an affair ; if it had been a real good row, one wouldn't have minded so much." " Why, what did you expect ] It was neither better nor worse than the common run of such things." " Well, but three parts of the crowd were boys." " So they are always — or nine times out of ten at any rate." " But there was no real fighting : at least, I only know I got none." " There isn't any real fighting, as you call it, nine times out of ten." " What is there, then 1 " " Why, something of this sort. Five shopboys, or scouts' boys, fall of sauciness, loitering at an out-of-the-way street corner. Enter two freshmen, fuU of dignity and bad wine. Explosion of inflammable material. Freshmen mobbed into High-street or Broad-street, where the tables are turned by the gathering of many more freshmen, and the mob of town boys quietly subsides, puts its hands in its pockets, and ceases to shout ' Town, town ! ' The triumphant freshmen march up and down for perhaps half an hour, shouting * Gown, gown ! ' and looking furious, but not half sorry that the mob vanishes like mist at their approach. Then come the proctors, who hunt down, and break up the gown in some half-hour or hour. The * town ' again marches about in the ascendant, and mobs the scattered freshmen, wherever they can be caught in very small numbers." ^ But with all your chaff about freshmen. Captain, you were in it yourself to-night ; come now." " Of course, I had to look after you two boys." ** But you didn't know we were in it when yua came up." " I was sure to find some of you. Besides, I'll admit one don't like to go in while there's any chance oi a real row as K 130 TOM DROVrN AT OXFORD. you call it, and so gets proctorized in one's old age for oas'i patriotism." " Were yon ever in a real row ? " said Tom. " Yes, once, about a year ago. The fighting numbers v.'ers about equal, and the town all grown men, labourers and mechanics. It was desperate hard work, none of your shout- ing and promenading. That Hardy, one of our Bible clerks, fought like a Paladin ; I know I shifted a fellow in corduroys on to liim, whom I had found an uncommon tough customer, and never felt better pleased in my life than when I saw the light glance on his hobnails as he went over into the gutter two minutes afterwards. It lasted, perhaps, ten minutes, and both sides were very glad to draw off." " But, of course, you licked them ? " " We said we did." " Well, I believe that a gentleman will always Hck in a fail fight." " Of course you do, it's the orthodox belief." " But don't you ? " " Yes ; if he is as big and strong, and knows how to fight as well as the other. The odds are that he cares a little more for giving in, and that will pull him through." " That isn't saying much, though." " 'No, but it's quite as much as is tme. I'll tell you what it is, I think just this, that we are generally better in the fighting way than shopkeepers, clerks, flunkies, and all fellows who don't work hard with their bodies all day. But the moment you come to the real hard-fisted fellow, used to nine or ten hours' work a day, he's a cruel hard customer. Take seventy or eighty of them at haphazard, the first you meet, and turn them into St. Ambrose any morning — by night I take it they would be lords of this venerable establishment if we had to fight for the possession ; except, perhaps, foi that Hardy — he's one of a thousand, and was bom for a fighting man ; perhaps he might pull us through." " Why don't you try him in the boat 1 " " Miller manages all that. I spoke to him about it after that rovr, but he said that Hardy had refused to subscribe to the club, said he couldn't afford it, or something of the sort. I don't see why that need matter, myself, but I suppose, as we have rules, we ought to stick to them." " It's a great pity though. I know Hardy Avell, and you can't think what a fine fellow he is." " I'm sure of that. I tried to know him, and we don't get on badly as speaking acquaintance. But he seems a queer, solitary bird." I THE CArTAlN'S NOTIONS. 131 Twelve o'clock struck ; so Tom wished the Captain good night and departed, meditating much on what he had heard and seen. The vision of terrific single combats, in which the descendant of a hundred earls polishes off the huge repre- sentative of the masses in the most finished style, without a scratch on his own aristocratic features, had faded from his mind. He went to bed that night, fairly sickened with his ex- perience of a town and gown row, and with a nasty taste in his mouth. But he felt much pleased at having drawn out the Captain so completely. For "the stroke" was in general a man of marvellous few words, having many better uses than talking to put his breath to. Next morning he attended at the proctor's rooms at the appointed time, not without some feeling of shame at having to do so ; which, however, wore off when he found some dozen men of other colleges waiting about on the same errand as himself. In liis turn he was ushered in, and, as ho stood by the door, had time to look the great man over as he sat making a note of the case he had just disposed of. The inspection was reassuring. The proctor was a gentlemanly, straight- forward-looking man of about thirty, not at all donnish, and his address answered to his appearance. " Mr. Brown, of St. Ambrose's, I think," he said. " Yes, sir." " I sent you to your college yesterday evening : did yon go straight home 1 " " No, sir." " How was that, Mr. Brown ? " Tom made no answer, and the proctor looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then repeated, " How was that ? " • " Well, sir," said Tom, " I don't mean to say I was going straight to college, but I should have been in long before you sent, only I fell in with the mob again, and then there was a cry that you were coming. And so — " He paused. "Well," said the proctor, with a grim sort of curl about the corners of his mouth. " Why, I ran away, and turned into the first place which was open, and stopped till the streets were quiet." " A public house, I suppose." " Yes, su- ; ' The Choughs.' " The proctor considered a minute, and again scrutinized Tom's look and manner, which certainly were straightforward, and without any tinge of cringing or insolence. " How long have you been up ? " k2 132 TOM BROWN AT OXFOi^D. " This is my second term, sir." " You have never been sent to me before, I think 1 " " Never, sir/' " Well, I can't overlook this, as you yourself confess to a direct act of disobedience. You must write me out 200 lines of Virgil. And now, Mr. Brown, let me advise you to keep out of these disreputable street quarrels in future. Good morning." Tom hurried away, wondering what it would feel hke to be writing out Virgil again as a punishment at his time of life, but glad above measure that the proctor had asked him no questions about his companion. That hero was, of course, mightily tickled at the result, and seized the occasion to lecture Tom on his future conduct, holding himself u]3 as a hving example of the benefits which were sure to accrue to a man who never did anything he was told to do. The sound- ness of his reasoning, however, was somewhat shaken by the dean, who, on that same afternoon, managed to catch him in quad ; and, carrying him olF, discoursed with him concerning his various and systematic breaches of discipline, pointed out to him that he had already made such good use of his time that if he were to be disconmionsed for three more days he would lose his term ; and then took off his cross, gave him a book of Virgil to write out, and gated him for a fortnight after hall. Drysdale sent out his scout to order his punish- ment as he might have ordered a waistcoat, presented old Copas with a half-sovereign, and then dismissed punishment and gating from liis mind. He cultivated with great success the science of mental gymnastics, or throwing everything the least unpleasant off his mind at once. And no doubt it is a science worthy of all cidtivation, if one desires to lead a comfortable life. It gets harder, however, as the years roll over us, to attain to any* satisfactory proficiency in it ; sc that it should be mastered as early in life as may be. The town and gown row was the talk of the college for the next week. Tom, of course, talked much about it, like his neighbours, and confided to one and another the Captain's heresies. They were all incredulous ; for no one had ever heard him talk as much in a term as Tom reported him to have done on this one evening. So it was resolved that he should be taken to task on the subject on the first opportunity ; and, as nobody was afraid of him, there was no difficulty in finding a man to bell the cat. Accordingly, at the next -wine of the boating set, the Captain Had scarcely entered when he was assailed by the host with — " Jervis, Brown says you don't believe a gentleman can lick a cad, unless he is the biggest and strongest of the two." THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS. 133 The Captain, who hated coming out with his beliefs, shrugged his sliouldeis, sipped his wine, and tried to turn the subject. But, seeing that they Avere all bent on drawing him out, he was not the man to run from his guns ; and so said quietly, . " JJ^o more I do." Illotwithstanding the reverence in which he was held, this saying could not be allowed to pass, and a dozen voices were instantly raised, and a dozen authentic stories told to confute him. He listened patiently, and then, seeing he was in for it, said, " A^evev mind fighting. Try something else ; cricket, for instance. The players generally beat the gentlemen, don't they?" " Yes ; but they are professionals." "Well, and we don't often get a university crew which can beat the watermen 1 " " Professionals again." " I believe the markers are the best tennis-players, ain't they? " persevered the Captain ; " and I generally find keepers and huntsmen shooting and riding better than their masters, don't you ? " " But that's not fair. All the cases you put are those of men who have nothing else to do, who live by the things which gentlemen only take up for pleasure." " I only say that the cads, as you call them, manage, some- how or another, to do them best," said the Captain. " How about the army and navy? The officers always lead." " Well, there they're all professionals, at any rate," said the Captain. " I admit that the officers lead ; but the men follow pretty close. And in a forlorn hope there are fifty men to one officer, after all." " But they must be led. The men will never go without an officer to lead." " It's the officers' business to lead, I know ; and they do it. But you won't find the best judges talking as if the men wanted much leading. Eead Napier : the finest story in his book is of the sergeant who gave his life for his boy officer's — your namesake, Brown — at the Coa." " Well, I never thought to hear you crying down gentle- men." " I'm not crying down gentlemen," said the Captain. " I only say that a gentleman's flesh and blood, and brains, are just the same, and no hotter than another man's. He has all the chances on his side in the way of training, and pretty near all the prizes ; so it would be hard if he didn't do most things better than poor men. But give them the chance of 134 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Irainiiig, and they will tread on his heels soon enough. That's all I say." That was all, certainly, that the Captain said, and then relapsed into his usual good-tempered nionosyllahic state; from which all the eager talk of the men, who took up the cudgels naturally enough for their own class, and talked them- selves before the wine broke up into a renewed consciousness of their natural superiority, failed again to rouse him. This was, in fact, the Captain's weak point, if he had one. He had strong beliefs himself ; one of the strongest of which was, that nobody could be taught anything except by his own experience ; so he never, or very rarely, exercised his own personal influence, but just quietly went his own way, and let other men go theirs. Another of his beliefs was, that there was no man or thing in the world too bad to be tolerated ; faithfully acting up to w^hich belief, the Captain himself tolerated persons and things intolerable. Bearing which facts in mind, the reader will easily guess the result of the application which the crew duly made to him the day after Miller's back was turned. He simply said that the training they proposed would not be enough, and that he himself should take all who chose to go down, to Abingdon twice a week. From that time there were many dafaulters ; and the spirit of Diogenes groaned within him, as day after day the crew had to be filled up from the torpid or by watermen. Drysdale would ride down to Sandford, meeting the boat on its way up, and then take his place for the pull up to Oxford, while his groom rode his horse up to Folly bridge to meet him. There he would mount again and ride off to Bullingdon, or to the Isis, or Quentin, or otVior social meeting equally inimical to good training. Blake often absented himself three days in a week, and other men once or twice. From considering which facts, Tom came to understand the difference between his tw^o heroes ; their strong likeness in many points he had seen from the fii'st. They were ahk^ in truthfulness, bravery, bodily strength, and in most of their opinions. But Jervis worried himself about nothing, and let all men and things alone, in the belief that the world was not going so very wrong, or would right itself somehow vrithout him. Hardy, on the ether hand, was consuming his heart over everything that seemed to him to be going vVTong in hunself and round about him — in the college, in Oxford, in England, in the ends of the earth, and never letting slip a chance of trying to set right, here a thread, and there a thread. A self-questioning, much-enduring man; a slayer THE captain's NOTIONS. 135 of dragons himself, and one with whom you could not live much without getting uncomfortably aware of the dragons which you also had tx) slay. What wonder that, apart altogether from the difference in their social position, the one man was ever becoming more and more popular, while the other was left more and more to himself. There are few of us at Oxford, or elsewhere, who do not like to see a man living a brave and righteous life, eo loLg as he keeps clear of us ; and still fewer who do like to be in constant contact with one who, not content with so living himself, is always coming across them, and laying bare to them their own faint-heartedness, and sloth, and meanness. The latter, no doubt, inspires the deeper feeling, and lays hold with a firmer grip of the men he does lay hold of, but they are few. For men can't keep always up to high pressure till they have found firm ground to build upon, altogether outside of themselves ; and it is hard to be thankful and fair to those who are showing us time after time that our foothold is nothing but shifting sand. The contrast between Jervis and Hardy now began to force itself daily more and more on our hero's attention. From the night of the town and gown row, " The Choughs," became a regular haunt of the St. Ambrose crew, who were taken there under the guidance of Tom and Drysdale the next day. Not content with calling there on his way from the boats, there was seldom an evening now that Tom did not manage to drop in and spend an hour there. When one is very much bent on doing a thing, it is generally easy enough to find very good reasons, or excuses at any rate, for it ; and whenever any doubts crossed Tom's mind, he silenced them by the reflection that the time he spent at " The Choughs " would otherwise have been devoted to wine parties or billiards ; and it was not difficult to persuade him- self that his present occupation was the more wholesome of the two. He could not, however, feel satisfied till he had mentioned his change in life to Hardy. This he found a much more embarrassing matter than he had fancied it would be. But, after one or two false starts, he managed to get out, that he had found the best glass of ale in Oxford, at a quiet little public on the way to the boats, kept by the most perfect of widows, with a factotum of an ostler, who was a regular cliaracter, and that he went there most evenings for an hour or so. Wouldn't Hardy come some night ? No, Hardy couldn't spare the time. Tom felt rather relieved at this answer ; but, nevertheless, went on to urge the excellence of the ale as a further inducement 136 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " I don't believe it's half so good as our collego beer, and I'll be bound it's half as dear again." " Only a penny a pint dearer," said Tom, '* that won't ruin you, — all the crew go there." " If I were the Captain," said Hardy, " I wouldn't let you run about drinking ale at night after wine parties. Does ha know about it 1 " " Yes, and goes there himself often on the way from the boats," said Tom. " And at night, too 1 " said Hardy. " No," said Tom, " but I don't go there after drinking wine ; I haven't been to a wine these ten days, at least not for more than five minutes." " Well, sound ale is better than Oxford wine," said Hardy. " if you must drink something ; " and so the subject dropped And Tom went away satisfied that Hardy had not dis- approved of his new habit. It certainly occurred to him that he had omitted aU mention of the pretty barmaid in his enumeration of the attractions of "The Choughs," but this he set down to mere accident ; it was a slip which he would set right in their next talk. But that talk never came, and the subject was not again mentioned between them. In fact, to tell the truth, Tom's visits to his friend's room in the evenings became shorter and less frequent as " The Choughs " absorbed more and more of his time. He made excuses to himself, that Hardy must be glad of more time, and would be only bored if he kept dropping in every night, now that the examination for degree was so near ; that he was sure he drove Grey away, who would be of much more use to Hardy just now. These, and many other equally plausible reasons- suggested themselves whenever his conscience smote him foi his neglect, as it did not seldom. But he always managed to satisiy himself somehow, without admitting the real fact, that these visits were no longer what they had been to him ; that a guK had sprung up, and was widening day by day between him and the only friend who would have had the courage and honesty to tell him the truth about his new pursuit, JMeantime Hardy was much pained at the change in liis friend, which he saw quickly enough, and often thought over it with a sigh as he sat at his solitary tea. He set it down to his own dulness, to the number of new friends such a sociable fellow as Tom was sure to make, and who, of course, would take up more and more of his time ; and, if he felt a little jealousy every now and then, put it resolutely back, struggling to think no evil, or if there were any, to lay it on his own shoulders. THE captain's notions. 137 Cribbage is a most virtuous and lespectable game, and yet scarcely, one would think, possessing in itself sufficient attrac tions to keep a young gentleman in his twentieth year tied tc the board, and going through the quaint calculation night after night of "fifteen two, fifteen four, two for his nob, and one for his heels." The old landlady of *' The Choughs " liked nothing so much as her game of cribbage in the evenings, and the board lay ready on the little table by her elbow in the cozy bar, a sure stepping-stone to her good graces. Tom somehow became an enthusiast in cribbage, and would always loiter behind his companions for his quiet game ; chatting pleasantly while the old lady cut and shuffled the dirty pack, striving keenly for the nightly stake of sixpence, which he seldom failed to lose, and laughingly wrangling with her over the last i)oints in the game which decided the transfer of the two sixpences (duly posted in the snuffer-tray beside the cribbage- board) into his waistcoat pocket or her bag, until she would take off her spectacles to wipe them, and sink back in her chair exhausted with the pleasing excitement, Su(3h an odd taste as it seemed, too, a bystander might reasonaljly have thought, when he might have been employing his time so much more pleasantly in the very room. For, flitting in and out of the bar during the game, and every now and then stooping over the old lady's shoulder to examine her hand, and exchange knowing looks with her, was the lithe little figure of Miss Patty, with her oval face, and merry eyes, and bright brown hair, and jaunty little cap, with fresh blue ribbons of the shade of the St. Ambrose colours. However, there is no accounting for tastes, and it is fortunate that some like apples and some onions. It may possibly be, too, that Miss Patty did not feel herself neglected, or did not caro about attention. Perhaps she may not have been altogether unconscious that every least motion and word of hers was noticed, even when the game was at its keenest. At any rate, it was clear enough that she and Tom were on the best terms, though she always took her aunt's part vehemently in any little dispute which arose, and sometimes even came to the rescue at the end, and recaptured the vanished sixpences out of the wrongful grasp which he generally laid on them the moment the old lady held out her hand and pronounced the word "game." One knows that size has little to do with strength, or one might have wondered that her little hands should have been able to open his fingers so surely one by one, though he seemed to do all he could to keep them shut. But, after all, if he really thought he had a right to the money, he had always time to put it in his pocket at once, 138 TOM BIIOWN AT OXFORD. instead of keeping his clenched hand on the table, and arguing about it till she had time to get up to the succour of her aunt. CHAPTER XIII. THE FIRST BUMP. « What's the time, Smith ? " " Half-past three, old fellow," answered Diogenes, looking at his watch. " I never knew a day go so slowly," said Tom ; " isn't it time to go down to the boats 1 " " Not by two hours and more, old fellow — can't you take a book, or something to keep you quiet 1 You won't be fit for anything by six o'clock, if you go on worrying like this." And so Diogenes turned himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as composedly as if it had been the first week of term, though, if the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for Tom's restlessness in- fected him. Diogenes' whole heart was in the college boat : and so, though he had pulled dozens of races in his time, he was almost as nervous as a freshman on this the first day of the races. Tom, all unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw himseh" into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. The flute went " toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer. So he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up and down the street for seme minutes in a purposeless sort of fashion, staring hard at everybody and everything, but unconscious all the time that he was doing so. He would not have been able, in fact, to answer Diogenes a word, had that worthy inquired of him what he had seen, when he presently drew in his head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room. " How hot the sun is ! but there's a stifi" breeze from the south-east. I hope it will go down before the evening, don't you?" ** Yes, this wind will make it very rough below the Gut Mind you feather high now at starting." " I hope to goodness I sha'n't catch a crab," said Tom. " Don't think about it, old fellow ; that's your best plan." " But 1 can't think of anything else/* said Tom- " What THE FIRST BUMP. 139 the deuce is the good of telling a fellow not to think about itl" Diogenes a})i)arently had nothing particular to reply, for he put his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot, toot," Tom caught up his gown, and fled away irta the quadrangle. The crew had had their early dinner of steaks and chops- stale bread, and a glass and a half of old beer a piece at tw3 o'clock, in the Captain's rooms. The current theory of train- ing at that time was — as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could manage to live. Two pints in the twenty-four liours was all that most boats' crews that pre- tended to train at all were allowed, and for the last fortnight jt had been the nominal allowance of the St. Ambrose crew. The discomfort of such a diet in the hot summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and violent exercise, was something very serious. Outraged human nature rebelled against it ; and though they did not admit it in public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water-bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the development of their bumps of conscientiousness and ob- stinacy. To keep to the diet at all strictly, involved a very respectable amount of physical endurance. Our successors have found out the unwisdom of this, as of other old super- stitions ; and that in order to get a man into training for a boat-race now-a-days, it is not of the first importance to keep him in a constant state of consuming thirst, and the restless- ness of body and sharpness of temper which thirst generally induces. Tom appreciated the honour of being in the boat in his first year so keenly, that he had almost managed to keep to his training allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame of body and disagreeable frame of mind. He fled away from Diogenes' flute, but found no rest. He tried Drysdale. That hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing with Jack, and only increased Tom's thirst and soured his temper by the viciousness of his remarks on boating, and everything and person connected therewith ; above all, on Miller, who had just come up, Had steered them the day before, and pronounced the crew generally, and Drysdale in particular, '*not half trained." Blake's oak was sported, as usuaL Tom looked in at the Captain's door, but found him hard at work reading, and so carried himself ofi" ; and. after a vain hunt after others of the 140 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. crew, and even trying to sit down and read, first a novel, tlien a play of Shakes})eare, with no success whatever, wandered away out of the college, and found himself in five minutes, by a natural and irresistible attraction, on the university barge. There were half-a-dozen men or so reading the papers, and a group or two discussing the coming races. Amongst other things, the chances of St. Ambrose's making a bump the first night were weighed. Every one joined in praising the stroke, but there were great doubts Avhether the crew could live up to it. Tom carried liimself on to the top of the barge to get out of hearing, for listening made his heart beat and his throat drier than ever. He stood on the top and looked right away down to the Gut, the strong wind blowing his gown about. Not even a pair oar was to be seen ; the great event of the evening made the river a solitude at this time of day. Only one or two skiffs were coming home, impelled by reading men, who took tlieir constitutionals on the water, and were coming in to be in time for afternoon chapel. The fastest and best of these soon came near enough for Tom to recognise Hardy's stroke ; so he left the barge and went down to meet the servitor at his landing, and accompanied him to the St. Ambrose dressing-room. " Well, how do you feel for the race to-night ?" said Hardy, as he dried his neck and face, which he had been sluicing with cold water, looking as hard and bright as a racer on Derby day. " Oh, wretched ! I'm afraid I shall break down," said Tom, and poured out some of his doubts and miseries. Hardy soon comforted him greatly ; and by the t'.me they were half across Christchurch meadow he was quite in heait again. For he knew how well Hardy understood rowing, and what a sound judge he was ; and it was therefore cheering to hear that he thought they were certainly the second best, if not the best boat on the river ; and that they would be sure to make some bumps unless they had accidents. " But that's just what I fear so," said Tom. " I'm afraid I shall make some awful blunder." " Not you ! " said Hardy ; " only remember. Don't you faucy you can pull the boat by yourself, and go trying to do it. That's where young oars fail. If you keep thorough good time you'll be pretty sure to be doing your share of work. Time is everything, almost." " I'll be sure to think of that," said Tom ; and they entered St. Ambrose just as the chapel bell was going down ; and he went to chapel and then to haU, sitting by and talking foi companionship while th3 rest dined. THE FIE ST BUMP. 141 And so at last the time slipped away, and tLe Captain and Miller mustered tliem at the gates and walked off to the boats. A dozen other crews were making their way in the sarce direction, and half the undergraduates of Oxford streamed along with them. The banks of the river were crowded ; and ihe punts plied rapidly backwards and forwards, carrjTng loatls of men over to the Berkshire side. The university barge, and all the other barges, were decked with flags, and the band was playing lively airs as the St. Ambrose crew reached the scene of action. No time was lost in the dressing-room, and in two minutes they were all standing in flannel trousers and silk jerseys at the landing-place. " You had better keep your jackets on," said the Captain ; " we sha'n't be off yet." " There goes Brazen-nose." " They look like work, don't they ? " " The black and yellow seems to slip along so fast. They're no end of good colours. I wish our new boat was black." " Hang her colours, if she's only stiff in the back, and don't dip." " Well, she didn't dip yesterday ; at least, the men on thfl bank said so." " There go Baliol, and Oriel, and University." " By Jove, we shall be late ! Where's IMiUer ?" "In the shed, getting the boat out. Look, here's Exeter." The talk of the crew was silenced for the moment as every man looked eagerly at the Exeter boat. The Captain nodded to Jervis with a grim smile as they paddled gently by. Then the talk began again. " How do you think she goes ?" " Not so badly. They're very strong in the middle of the boat." " Not a bit of it : it's aU lumber." "You'll see. They're better trained than we are. They look as fine as stars." " So they ought. They've pulled seven miles to our five for the last month, I'm sure." " Then we sha'n't bump them." "Why not I" " Don't you know that the value of products consists in the quantity of labour which goes to produce them 1 Product I)ace over course from Iffley up. Labour expended, Exeter, 7 ; St. Ambrose, 5. You see it is not in the nature of things that we should bump them — Q.E.D." 142 TOSI BROWN AT OXTORD. " Wliat moonshine ! as if ten miles behind their stroke are worth two behind Jervis ! " " My dear fellow, it isn't my moonshine ; you must settle the matter with the philosojDhers. I only apply a universal law to a particular case." Tom, unconscious of the pearls of economic lore which were oeing poured out for the benefit of the crew, was watching the Exeter eight as it glided away towards the CherwelL He thought they seemed to keep horribly good time. "Halloa, Drysdale ! look, there's Jack going across in one of the punts." • " Of course he is. You don't suppose he wouldn't go down to see the race." "Why won't Miller let us start? Almost all the boats are off." " There's plenty of time. We may just as well be up here as dawdling about the bank at Iffiey." " We sha'n't go down till the last ; Miller never lets us get out down below." " Well, come ; here's the boat, at last." The new boat now emerged from its shed, guided steadily to where they were standing by i\liller and a waterman. Then the coxswain got out and called for bow, who stepped forward. " Mind how you step now, there are no bottom boards, remember," said Miller. " Shall I take my jacket?" " Yes ; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. I've sent a man down to bring them back. Now, two." " Aye, aye ! " said Drysdale, stepping forward. Then came Tom's turn, and soon the boat was manned. "Now," said Miller, taking his place, "are all youi stretchers right ?" " I should like a little more grease for my rollocks." " I'm taking some down ; we U put it on do-wn below. Are you all right?" " Yes." "Then push her off — gently." The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts in the way, or other obstructions ; and they swung steadily down past the university barge, the top of which was already covered with spectators. Eveiy man in the boat felt as if the eyes of Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small groups of gOA\Tismen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch meadow, chielly dons, who were really interested in the races, but, at that time of day, seldom Uked to display enthusiasm enough to cross the watoi THE FIKST BUMP. 142 and go down to the starting-place. These sombre groups were lighted up here and there by the dresses of a few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats. At the mouth of the Cherwell were moored two punts, in which reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking ; several of these were friends of Drysdale's, and hailed him as the boat passed thera. " What a fool I am to be here ! " he grumbled, in an under tone, casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. " I say, Bro^vn, don't you wish we were well past this on the way up V " Silence in the bows !" shouted Miller. " You devil, how I hate you ! " growled Drysdale, half in jest and half in earnest, as they sped along under the willows. Tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the time they reached the Gut began to hope that he should not have a fit, or lose all his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or come to some other unutterable giief, the fear of which nad been haunting him all day. " Here they are at last ! — come along now — keep up with them," said Hardy to Grey, as the boat neared the Gut ; and the two trotted along downwards. Hardy watching the crew, and Grey watching him. " Hardy, how eager you look ! " " I'd give twenty pounds to be going to pull in the race." Grey shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend, and wished he could understand what it was that moved him so. As the boat shot into the Gut from under the cover of the Oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows. " Feather high, now," shouted Miller ; and then added in a low voice to the Captain, " It will be ticklish work, starting in this wind." "Just as bad for all the other boats," answered the Captain. " Well said, old pliilosopher ! " said Miller. " It's a comfort to steer you ; you never make a fellow nervous. I wonder if you ever felt nervous yourself, now?" " Can't say," said the Captain. " Here's our post ; we may as well turn." " Easy, bow side — now two and four, pull her round — back water, seyen and five !" shouted the coxswain ; and the boat's head swung round, and two or three strokes took her into tho bank. Jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to board, but wbjs sternly repulsed, and tumbled backwards into the water. J 44 TOM BROWN AT OXTORD. Hark ! — the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into his mouth again. Several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream ; and the cro\\'ds of men on the banli began to be agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. The St. Ambrose crew fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their roUocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers. " Shall we push her off?" asked *'bow." " ]^o, I can give you another minute," said Miller, who was sitting, watch in hand, in the stern, " only be smart when I give the word." The Captain turned on his seat, and looked up the boat. His face was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed t© pass from him into the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger, as he met his eye. " Is^ow mind, boys, don't quicken," he said, cheerily ; " four short strokes, to get way on hev, and then steady. Here, pass up the lemon." And he took a sUced lemon out of his pocket, put a small piece into his own mouth, and then handed it to Blake, who followed his example, and pa-ssed it on. Each man took a piece ; and just as " bow " had secured the end, Miller called out — " Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily." The jackets were thrown on shoie, and gathered up by the boatmen in attendance. The crew poised their oars, No. 2 pushing out her head, and the Captain doing the same for the stern. j\Iiller toolc the starting-rope in his hand. *' How the wind catches her stern," he said ; " here, pay . coxswain, shun the gates alto- gether, and take the big ditches in their stride, making for the long bridges, that they may get quietly over these and be safe for the best part of the race. They know that the critical point of the struggle will be near the finish. Both boats made a beautiful start, and again as before in the first dash the St. Ambrose pace tells, and they gain their boat's length before first winds fail ; then they settle down ior a long steady effort. Both crews are rowing comparatively steady reserving themselves for the tug of war up above. Thtis they pass the Gut, and those two treacherous corners, the sceno of countless bumps, into the wider water beyond, up under the willows. Miller's face is decidedly hopeful ; he shows no sign, indeed, but you can see that he is not the same man as he was at this place in the last race. He feels that to-day the boat is full of life, and that he can call on his crew with hopes of an answer. His well- trained eye also detects that, while both crews are at full stretch, his own, instead of losing, as it did on the last night, is now gaining inch by inch on Oriel. The gain is scarcely perceptible to liim even ; from the bank it is quite imperceptible ; but there it is ; he is surer and surer of it, as one after another the willows are left behind. And now comes the pinch. The Oriel captain is beginning to be conscious of the fact which has been dawning on Miller, but will not acknowledge it to himself, and as his coxswain turns the boat's head gently across the stream, and makes for the Berkshire side and the goal, now full in view, he smiles grimly as he quickens his stroke ; he will shake off these light-heeled gentry yet, as he did before. culler sees the move in a moment, and signals his captain, and the next stroke St. Ambrose has quickened also ; and now there is no mistake a bout it, St. Ambrose is creeping up slowly but surely. The boat's length lessens to forty feet, thirty feet ; surely and steadily lessens. But the race is not lost yet ; thirty feet is a short space enough to look at on the water, but a good bit to pick up foot by foot in the last two or three hundred yards of a desperate struggle. They are over, under the" Berkshire side now, and there stands up the winning-post, close ahead, all but won. The distance lessens, anil lessens still, but the Oriel crew stick steadily and gallantly Jo their work, and will fight every inch of distance to the ;ast. The Oriel men on the bank, who are rusliing along sometimes in the water, sometimes out, hoarse, furious, madly ilternating between hope and despair, have no reason to be 160 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. ashamed of a man in the crew. Off the mouth of the Cherwell there is still twenty feet between them. Another minute, and it will be over one way or anotlier. Every man in both crews is now doing his best, and no mistake ; tell me which boat holds the most men who can do better tlian their best at a pinch, who will risk a broken blood-vessel, and I vdll tell you how it will end, " Hard pounding, gentlemen ; let's see who will pound longest/' the Duke is reported to have said at V»^aterloo, and won. " Now, Tummy, lad, 'tis thou or I," Big Ben said as he came up to the last round of his hardest fight, and won. Is there a man of that temper in either crew to-night 1 If so, now's his time. For both coxswains have called on their men for the last effort ; Miller is whirling the tassel of his right-hand tiller rope round his bead, like a wiry little lunatic ; from the to^vdng path, from Ciiristchurch meadow, from the row of punts, from the clustered tops of the barges, comes a roar of encouragement and applause, and the band, unable to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash into the " Jolly Young Waterman," playing two bars to the second. A bump in tlie Gut is nothing — a few partisans on the towing-path to cheer you, already out of breath ; but up here at the very finish, witli all Oxford looking on, when the prize is tlie headship of the river — once in a generation only do men get such a chance. Who ever saw Jervis not up to his work ] The St. Ambrose stroke is glorious. Tom had an atom of go still left in the very back of his head, and at this moment he heard Drysdale's view holloa above all the din ; it seemed to give him a lift, and other men besides in the boat, for in another six strokes the gap is lessened and St. Ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and now to five from the stern of Oriel. Weeks afterwards Hardy confided to Tom that when he heard that view holloa he seemed to feel the muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and did more work in the last twenty strokes than in any other forty in the earlier part of the race. Another fifty yards and Oriel is safe, but the look on the Captain's face is so ominous that their coxswain glances over his shoulder. The bow of St. Ambrose is within two feet of their rudder. It is a moment for desperate expedients. He pulls his left tiller rope suddenly, thereby carrying the stern of his own boat out of the line of the St. Ambrose, and calls on his crew once more ; they respond gallantly yet, but the rudder is against them for a moment, and the boat drags. St. Ambrose overlaps. " A bump, a bump," shout the St. Ambrosians on shore. " How on, row on," screams Lliller. He has not yet felt the electric shock, and knows he will miss A STOilil BRl'.W'S AND BREAKS. l61 his "bump if tlie 3'oung ones slacken for a moment. A young coxswain would have gone on making shots at the stern of the Oriel boat, and so have lost, A bump now and no mistake ; the bovr of the St. Ambrose boat jams the oar of the Oriel stroke, and the two boats pass the winning-post with the way that was on them when the bump was made. So near a shave was it. \Yho can describe the scene on the bank 1 It was a hurly- burly of delirious joy, in the midst of whidi took place a terrific combat between Jack and tlie Oriel dog — a noble black bull terrier belonging to the college in general, and no one in particular — who always attended the races and felt the misfortune keenly. Luckily they were parted without worse things happening ; for though the Oriel men were savage, and not disinclined for a jostle, the milk of human kindness was too strong for the moment in their adversaries. So Jack was choked off '.vith some trouble, and the Oriel men extricated themselves fioiu the crowd, carrying ofif Crib, their dog, and looking straight before them into vacancy. " Well rowed, boys," says Jervis, turning round to his crew as they lay panting on their oars. " Well rowed, five," says Miller, who even in the hour of such a triumph is not inclined to be general in laudation. " Well rowed, five," is echoed from the bank ; it is that cunning man, the recruiting-sergeant. " Fatally well rowed," he adds to a comrade, with whom he gets into one of the punts to cross to Christchurch meadow ; "we must have him in the University crew." " I don't think you'll get him to row, from what I hear," answers the other. " Then he must be handcuffed and carried into the boat by force," says the 0. U. B. coxswain ; " why is not the press- gang an institution in this university?" CHAPTEK XV. A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS. Certaini '' Drysdale's character came out well that night. He did not seem the least jealous of the success which had been achieved through his dismissal. On the contrary, there was no man in the college who showed more interest in the race, or joy at the result, than he. Perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself may have reckoned for something with him. In any case, there he was at the door with Ja:;k, to meet the crew as they landed after the race, with a large 1G2 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. pe\vter, foaming with shandygaff, in each hand, for theil recreation. Draco himself could not have forbidden them to drink at that moment ; so, amidst shaking of hands and clappings on the back, the pewters travelled round from stroke to bow, and then the crew w^ent off to their dressing-room, accompanied by Drysdale and others. " Bravo ! it was the finest race that has been seen on tlie river this six years ; everybody says so. You fellows have deserved well of your country. I've sent up to college to have supper in my rooms, and you must all come. Hang training ! there are only two more nights, and you're safe to keep your place. What do you say Captain ] eh. Miller 1 Now be good-natured for once." " Miller, what do you say 1 " said the Captain. " Well, we don't get head of the river every niglit," said Miller. " I don't object if you'll all turn out and go to bed at eleven." " That's all right," said Drysdale ; " and now let's go to the old * Choughs' and have a glass of ale while supper is getting ready. Eh, Brown?" and he hooked his arm into Tom's and led the way into the town. " I'm so sorry you were not in it for the finish," said Tom, who was quite touched by his friend's good-humour. " Are you V said Drysdale ; '' it's more than I am, then, I can tell you. If you could have seen yourself under the willows, you wouldn't have thought yourself much of an object of envy. Jack and I were quite satisfied with our share of work and glory on the bank. Weren't we, old fellow ?" at which salutation Jack reared himself on his bind legs and licked his master's hand. " Well, you're a real good fellow for taking it as you do. 1 don't think I could have come near the river if I had been you." *' I take everything as it comes," said Drysdale. " The next race is on Derby day, and I couldn't have gone if I hadn't beer turned out of the boat ; that's a compensation, you see. Here we are. I wonder if Miss Patty has heard of the victory V They turned down the little passage entrance of "The Choughs" as he spoke, followed by most of the crew, and by a tail of younger St. Ambrosians, their admirers, and the bar was crowded the next moment. Patty was there, of course, and her services were in great requisition ; for though sach of the crew only took a small glass of the old ale, they made as nmch fuss about it with the pretty barmaid as if they were drinking hogsheads. In fact, it had become clearly th« correct thing with the St Ambrosians to make much of Patty ; A STOKM BREWS AND BREAKS. 163 and, considering the circnmstances, it was only a wonder that slie was not more spoilt than seemed to be tlie case. Indeed, as Hardy stood up in the corner opposite to the landlady's chair, a silent on-looker at the scene, he couldn't help admitting to himself that the girl held her own well, without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman. And it was a hard thing for him to be fair to her, for what he saw now in a few minutes confirmed the impression which his former visit had left on his mind — that his friend was safe in her toils ; how deeply, of course he could not judge, but that there was more between them than he could approve was now clear enough to him, and he stood silent, leaning against the wall in that farthest corner, in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much distressed in mind, and pondering over what it behoved him to do under the circumstances. With the exception of a civil sentence or iv^o to the old landlady, who sat opposite him knitting, and casting rather uneasy looks from time to time towards the front of the bar, he spoke to no one. In fact, nobody came near that end of the room, and their existence seemed to have been forgotten by the rest Tom had been a little uncomfortable for the first minute ; but after seeing Hardy take his glass of ale, and then missiug him, he forgot all about him, and was too busy with his own afiairs to trouble himself further. He had become a sort of drawer, or barman, at " The Choughs," and presided, under Patty, over tlie distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his chief to see that she was not put upon. Drysdale and Jack left after a short stay, to see that the supper was being properly prepared. Soon afterwards Patty went off out of the bar in answer to some bell wliich called her to another part of the house ; and the St. Ambrosians voted that it was time to go off to college to supper, and cleared out into the street. Tom went out with the last batch of them, but lingered a moment in the passage outside. He knew the house and its ways weU enough by this time. The next moment Patty appeared from a side door, which led to another part of the house. " So you're not going to stay and play a game with, aunt," she said ; " what makes you in such a hurry ? " " I must go up to college ; there's a supper to celebrate our getting head of the river." Patty looked down and pouted a little. Tom took her hand, and said, sentimentally, " Don't be cross, now ; you know that I would sooner stay here, don't you-r' M 3 Ifi4 TOM BE OWN AT OXFOKD. She tossed her head, and pulled away her hand, and then changing the subject, said, " Who's that ugly old fellow who was here again to-night 1" " There was no one older than Miller, and he is rather an admirer of yours. I sliall tell him you called him ugly." " Oh, I don't mean ]\Ir. Miller; you know that well enough," she answered. " I mean him in the old rough coat, who don't talk to any one." " Ugly old fellow, Patty 1 Why you mean Hardy. lie's a great friend of mine, and you must like him for my sake." "I'm sure I won't. I don't like bim a bit; he looks so cross at me." " It's all your fan^y. There now, good-night." "You sha'n't go, however, till you've given me that hand- kerchief You promised it mo if you got head of the river." " Oh ! you little story-teller. Why they are my college colours. I wouldn't part with them for worlds. I'll give you a lock of my hair, and the prettiest handkerchief you can find in Oxford ; but not this." " But I will have it, and you did promise me it," she said, and put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of Tom's neck-handkerchief. He caught her wrists in his hands, and looked down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his going, he saw other things which stirred in him strange feelings of triumph and tenderness. "Well, then, you shall pay for it, any how," he said. — Why need I tell what followed ? — There was a little struggle ; a "Go along, do, Mr. Brown;" and the next minute Tom, minus his handkerchief, was hurrying after his companions ; and Patty was watching him from the door, and setting her cap to rights. Then she turned and went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw Hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then passed out, wishing them " Good- night." '*A\T3y, aunt," she said, "I thought they were aU gone. Who was that sour-looking man 1 " '' He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear," said the old lady, looking up. " I'm sure he's much better than those ones as makes so much racket in the bar. But where have you been, Patty 1 " " Oh, to the commercial room, aunt. Won't you have a game at cribbage ? " and Patty took up the cards and set the board out, the old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her spectacles. She was beginning to wish that tho A STOEM BKEWS Als^D BREAKS. 1G5 college gentlemen wouldn't come so much to the house, though they were very good customers. Tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after his comrades, and caught tliem up before they got up to college. They were all there but Hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a moment ; he had hoped that Hardy, now that he was in the boat, would have shaken off all his reserve towards the other men, and blamed him because he had not done so at once. There could be< no reason for it but his own oddness, he thought, for every one was full of his praises as they strolled on talking of the race. Miller praised his style, and time, and jduck. "Didn't you feel how the boat sprung when 1 called on you at the Cherwell 1 " he said to the Captain. " Drysdale was always dead beat at the Gut, and just like a log in the boat, pretty much like some of the rest of you." " He's in such good training, too," said Diogenes ; " I shall find out how he diets himself." " We've pretty well done with that, I should hope," said No. 6. " There are only two more nights, and nothing can touch us now." " Don't be too sure of that," said Miller. " IMind now, all of you, don't let us have any nonsense till the races are over and we are all safe." And so they talked on till they reached college, and then dispersed to their rooms to wash and dress, and met again in Drysdale'e rooms, where supper was awaiting them. Again Hardy did not appear. Drysdale sent a scout to his rooms, who brought back word that he could not find him ; so Drysdale set to work to do the honours of his table, and enjoyed the pleasure of tempting the crew with all sorts of forbidden hot liquors, which he and the rest of the non-pro- fessionals imbibed freely. But with Miller's eye on them, and the example of Diogenes and the Captain before them, the rest of the crew exercised an abstemiousness which would have been admirable, had it not been in a great measure compulsory. It was a great success, tliis supper at Drysdale's, although knocked up at an hour's notice. The triumph of their boat bad, for the time, the effect of warming up and drawing out the feeling of fellowship, which is the soul of college life. Though only a few men besides the crew sat down to supper, long before it was cleared away men of every set in the college came in, in the highest spirits, and the room was crowded. For Drysdale sent round to every man in the college with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and 166 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. they flocked in and sat where they could, and men talked and laughed with neiglibours, with whom, perhaps, they had never exchanged a word since the time when they were freshmen together. Of course there were speechos, cheered to the echo, and songSy of which the chonises might have been heard in the High-street. At a little before eleven, nevertheless, despite the protestations of Drysdale, and the passive resistance of several of their number, i\Iiller carried off the crew, and many of the other guests went at the same time, leaving their host and a small circle to make a niglit of it. Tom went to his rooms in high spirits, humming the air of one of the songs he had just heard ; but he had scarcely tlirown his gown on a chair when a thought struck him. and he ran down stairs again and across to Hardy's rooms. Hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but un- tasted, before him, and no books open — a very unusual thing with him at night. But Tom either did not or would not notice that there was anything unusual. He seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he could, without looking much at the other. He began by recounting all the complimentary things wliich had been said by Miller and others of Hardy's pulling. Then he went on to the supper party ; what a jolly evening they had had ; he did not remember anything so pleasant since he had been up, and he retailed tlie speeches and named the best songs. " You really ouglit to have been there. Why didn't you come 1 Drysdale sent over for you. I'm sure every one wished you had been there. Didn't you get his message ? " " I didn't feel up to going," said Hardy. "There's nothing the matter, eh?" said Tom, as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Hardy had hurt himself in the race, as he had not been regularl}' training. "No, nothing," .mswered the other. Tom tried to make play again, but soan came to an end of his talk. It was impossible to make head against that cold silence. At last he stopped, looked at Hardy for a minute, who was staring abstractedly at the sword over his mantel- piece, and then said, — " There is something the matter, though. Don't eit glowering as if you had swallowed a furze bush. Why, you haven't been smoking, old boy]" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the other's shoulder. " I see that's it Here, take one of my weeds, they're mild. Miller allows two of these a day." " No, thank'ee," said Hardy, roiicicg himself ; " MiHei A STOIIM BEEWS AND BREAKS. 167 hasn't interfered witli my smoking, and I will have a pipe, for I iliink I want it." " Well, I don't see that it does you any good," said Tom, after watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without saying a word. " Here, I've managed the one thing I had at heart. You are in the crew, and we are head of the river, and everybody is praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying that the bump was all your doing. And here I come to tell you, and not a word can I get out of you. Ain't you pleased ? Do you think we shall keep our place ?" He paused a moment. " Hang it all, I say," he added, losing all patience, ; " swear a little if you can't do anything else. Let's hear your voice j it isn't such a tender one that you need keep it all shut up." " Well," said Hardy, making a great effort ; " the real fact is I have something, and something very serious to say to you." " Then I'm not going to listen to it," broke in Tom ; " I'm not serious, and I won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious to-night. It's no use, so don't look glum. But isn't the alo at * The Choughs ' good ; and isn't it a dear little place?" " It's that place I want to talk to you about," said Ilardy^ turning his chair suddenly so as to front his ^.isit^^r. " Now, Brown, we haven't known one another long, but I think I understand you, and I know I like you, and I hope you like me." " Well, well, well," broke in Tom, " of course I like you, old fellow, or else I shouldn't come poking after you, and wasting so much of your time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in the middle of the races. What has liking to do with * The Choughs,' or ' The Choughs ' with long faces ? You ought to have had another glass of ale there." " I wish you had never had a glass of ale there," said Hardy, bolting out his words as if they were red hot. " Brown, you have no right to go to that place." " Why ? " said Tom, sitting up in his chair, and beginning to be nettled. "You know why," said Hardy, looking him full in the face, and puffing out huge volumes of smoke. In spite of the bluntness of the attack, there was a yearning look which spread over the rugged brow, and shone out of the deep-set Byes of the speaker, which almost conquered Tom. But first pride, and then the consciousness of what was coming next, which began to dawn on him, rose in his heart. It was aU he 168 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. could do to meet that look full, but he managed it, though he flushed to the roots of his hair, as he simply repeated through his set teeth, " Why ?" " I say again," said Hardy, " you know why." " I see what you mean," said Tom, slowly ; " as you say, we have not kno^ii one another long ; long enough, though, I should have thought, for you to have been more charitable. Why am I not to go to 'The Choughs 1 ' Because there happens to be a pretty bar maid there ? AU our crew go, and twenty other men besides." " Yes ; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do 1 Does she look at any one of them as she does at you ] " " How do I know ]" " That's not fair, or true, or like you, Brown," said Hardy, getting up, and beginning to walk up and down the room. "You do know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go there. You do know that she is beginning to care for you." " You seem to know a great deal about it," said Tom ; " I don't believe you were ever there before two days ago." " No, I never was." "Then I think you needn't be quite so quick at finding fault. K there were anything I didn't wish you to see, do you think I should have taken you there ? I tell you she is quite able to take care of herself." " So I believe," said Hardy ; " if she were a mere giddy, light girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't matter so much — for her at any rate. She can take care of herself well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it isn't so with you. You know it now, Brown ; tell the truth ; any one with half an eye can see it." "You seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two nights, anyhow," said Tom. "I don't mind your sneers. Brown," said Hardy, as he tramped up and down with his arms locked behind him ; " I have taken on myself to speak to you about this ; I should be no true friend if I shirked it. I'm four yeai-s older than you, and have seen more of the world and of tliis place than you. You sha'n't go on Avith tliis folly, this sin, for want of warning." " So it seems," said Tom, doggedly. " Xow I think I've nad warning enough ; suppose we drop the subject." Hardy stopped in his walk, and turned on Tom with a look of anger. " ^ot yet," he said, firmly ; " you know best how and why you have done it, but you know that somehow oi other you have made that girl like you " A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS. 169 '• Suppose I have, -what then ; whose business is that but mine and hers 1 " " It's the business of every one who won't stand by and see the devil's game ]:)layed under his nose if he can hinder it." "What right have you to talk about the devil's game to me?" said Tom. "I'll tell you what, if you and I are to keep friends, we had better drop this subject." " If we are to keep friends we must go to the bottom of it. There are only two endings to this sort of business, and you know it as well as I." " A right and a wrong one, eh ? and because you call me your friend you assume that my end will be the wrong one." " I do call you my friend, and I say the end must be the wrong one here. There's no right end. Think of your family. You don't mean to say — you dare not tell me, that you will marry her 1 " " I dare not tell you ! " said Tom, starting up in his turn ; " I dare tell you or any man anything I please. 13ut I won't tell you or any man anything on compulsion." " I repeat," went on Hardy, " you dare not say you meau to marry her. You don't mean it— and, as you don't, to kis3 her as you did to-night — " " So you were sneaking behind to watch me ! " burst out Tom, chafing with rage, and glad to find any handle for a quarrel. The two men stood fronting one another, the younger writhing with the sense of shame and outraged pride, and longing for a fierce answer — a blow — anything to give vent to the furies which were tearing him. But at the end of a few seconds the elder answered, calmly and slowly, — " I will not take those words from any man ; you had better leave my rooms." " If I do, I shall not come back till you have altered your opinions." " You need not come back tiU you have altered yours." The next moment Tom was in the passage ; the next, striding up and down the side of the inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight. Poor fellow ! it was no pleasant walking ground for him. Is it worth our while to follow him up and down in his tramp ? We have most of ua walked the like marches at one time or another of our lives. The memory of them is by no means one which we can dwell on with pleasure. Times they were of blinding and driving storm, and howling winds, out of -which voices as of evil spirits spoke close in our ears — tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the mischievous wild 170 TOM BROWN AT OXI-'ORD. beast -whicli lurks in the bottom of all our hearts, now, " Rouse up ! art thou a man and darest not do this thing 1 " now, '' Eiso, kill and eat — it is thine, wilt thou not take it 1 Shall the films}' scruples of this teacher, or the sanctified cant of that, bar thy way, and baulk thee of thine own 1 Thou hast strength to brave them — to brave all things in earth, or heaven, or liell ; put, out thy strength, and be a man ! " Then did not the wild beast within us shake itself, arrd feel its power, sweeping away all the " Thou shalt not's " which the Law wrote up before us in letters of fire, with the " I vjill " of hardy, godless, self-assertion ? And all the while — which alone made the storm really dreadful to us — was there not the still small voice — never to be altogether silenced by the roarings of the tempest of passion, by the evil voices, by our own violent attempts to stifle it — the still small voice appealing to the man, the true man, within us, which is made in the image of God — calling on him to assert his dominion over the wild beast — to obey, and conquer, and live 1 Ay ! and though we may have followed the other voices, have we not, while folloAving them, confessed in our hearts, that all true strength, and nobleness, and manliness, was to be found in the other path ? Do I say that most of us have had lu tread this path, and fight this battle ? Surely I might have said all of us ; all, at least, who have passed the bright days of their boyhood. The clear and keen intellect no less than the dull and heavy ; the weak, the cold, the nervous, no less than the strong and passionate of body. The arms and the field have been divers ; can have been the same, I suppose, to no two men, but the battle must have been the same to all. One here and there may have had a foretaste of it as a boy ; but it is the young man's battle, and not the boy's, thank God for it ! Tliat most hateful and fearful of all realities, call it by what name we will — self, the natural man, the old Adam — must have risen up before each of us in early manhood, if not sooner, challenging the true man within us, to wliich the Spirit of God is speaking, to a struggle for hfe or death. Gird yourself, then, for the fight, my young brother, and take up the pledge which was made for you when you were a helpless child. This world, and all others, time and eternity, for you hang upon the issue. This enemy must be met and vanquished — not finally, for no man while on earth, I suppose, can say that he is slain ; but, when once known and recognised, met and vanquished he must be, by God's help, in this and that encounter, before you can be truly called a man ; before you can really enjoy any one even of this world's good things. The strife was no light one for our hero on the ni^rht in bis A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS. 171 life at whicli vro, liave arrived. The quiet sky overhead, the quiet solemn old IniUdings, under the shadow of which he stood, brought him no peace. He fled from them into his own rooms ; he lighted his candles and tried to rend, and force the whole matter from his thoughts ; but it was useless : back it came again and again. The more impatient of its presence he became, the less could he shake it oft Some decision he must make ; what should it be 1 He could have no peace till it was taken. The veil had been drawn aside thoroughly, and once for all. Twice he was on the point of returning to Hardy's rooms to thank liim, confess, and con- sult ; but the tide rolled back again. As the truth of the warning sank deeper and deeper into him, the irritation against him who had uttered it grew also. He could not and would not be fair yet. It is no easy thing for any one of us to put the whole burden of any folly or sin on our own backs all at once. " If he had done it in any other way," thought Tom, " I might have thanked him." Another elfort to shake off the whole question. Down into the quadrangle again ; lights in Drysdale's rooms. He goes up, and finds the remains of the supper, tankards full ol egg-flip and cardinal, and a party playing at vingt-un. He drinks freely, careless of traniing or boat-racing, anxious only to drown thought. He sits doAvn to play. The boisterous talk of some, the eager keen looks of others, jar on him equally. One minute he is absent, the next boisterous, then irritable, then moody. A college card-party is no place to- night for him. Ho loses his money, is disgusted at last, and gets to his own rooms by midnight ; goes to bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with all tlie world. The inexorable question pursues him even into the strange helpless land of dreams, demanding a decision, when he has no longer power of will to choose either good or CAdl. Eut how fared it all this time with the physician 1 Alas ! little better than with his patient. His was the deeper and more sensitive nature. Keenly conscious of his own position, he had always avoided any but the most formal inteicourse with the men in his college whom he would have liked most to live with. This was the first friendship he had made amongst them, and he valued it accordingly ; and now it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless fragments, and cast down too by his own hand. Bitterly he blamed himself over and over again, as he recalled every word that had passed — not for having spoken — that he felt had been a sacred duty — but for the harshness and suddenness with which he seemed tc aimself to have done it. l72 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " One touch of gentleness or sympathy, and I might have won him. As it was, how could he have met me otherwise than he did — hard word for hard word, hasty answer for proud reproof 1 Can I go to him and recall it all ? No ! I can't trust myself ; I shall only make matters worse. Be- sides, he may tliink that the servitor — Ah ! am I there again 1 The old sore, self, self, self ! I nurse my own pride ; I value it more than my friend ; and yet — no, no ! I cannot go, though I think I could die foi him. The sin, if sin there must be, be on my head. Would to God I could bear the sting of it ! But there will be none — how can I fear 1 he is too true, too manly, liough and brutal as my words have been, they liave sliown him the gulf. He will, he must escape it. But will he ever come back to me ? I care not, so he escape." How can my poor words follow the strong loving man in the wrestlings of his spirit, till far on in the quiet night he laid the whole before tlie Lord and slept ! Yes, my brother, even so : the old, old story ; but start not at the phrase, though you may never have found its meaning. — He laid the whole before the Lord, in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the whole world. And you, too, if ever you are tried as he v/as — as every man must be in one way or ac other — must learn to do the like with every burthen on your soul, if you would not have it hanging round you heavily, and ever more heavily, and dragging you down lower and lower till your dying day. CHAPTER XVL THE STORM RAGES. Hardy was early in the chapel the next morning. It was his week for pricking in. Every man who entered — from the early men who strolled in quietly while the bell was still ringing, to the hurrying, half-dressed loiterers who crushed in as the portt-r was closing the doors, and disturbed the con- gregation in the middle of the confession — gave him a turn (as the expressive phrase is), and every turn only ended in disappointment. He put by his list at last, when the doors tvero fairly shut, with a sigh. He had half expected to see Tom come into morning chapel with a face from which he miglit have gathered hope-tliPt his friend had taken the right pat ii. But Tom did not come at all, and Hardy felt it was a bad sign. THE STORM ilAGES. 178 They did not meet till the evening, at the river, when the boat went down for a steady pull, and then llardy saw at once tliat all was going wrong. Keither spoke to or looked at the other. Hardy expected some one to remark it, but nobody did. After ihe pull they walked up, and Tom as usual led the way, as if nothing had happened, into " The Choughs.'' Hardy paused for a moment, and then went in too, and stayed till the rest of the crew left. Tom delibe- rately stayed after them all. Hardy turned for a moment as he was leaving the bar, and saw him settling himself down in his chair with an air of defiance, meant evidently for him which would have made most men angry. He was irritated for a moment, and then was filled with ruth for the poor wrong-headed youngster who was heaping up coals of fire for his own head. In his momentary anger Hardy said to himself, " Well, I have done what I can ; now he must go his o^vn way ; " but such a thought was soon kicked in dis- grace from his noble and well-disciplined mind. He resolved, that, let it cost what it might in the shape of loss of time and trial of temper, he would leave no stone unturned, and spare no pains, to deliver his friend of yesterday from the slough into which he was plunging. How he might best work for this end occupied his thoughts as he walked towards college. Tom sat on at " The Choughs," glorifying himself in the thought that now, at any rate, he had shown Hardy that he wasn't to be dragooned into doing or not doing anything. He had had a bad time of it all day, and his good angel had fought hard for victory ; but self-will was too strong for the time. When he stayed behind the rest, it was more out of bravado than from an}'" defined purpose of pursuing what he tried to persuade himself was an innocent ilirtation. When he left the house some hours afterwards he was deeper in the toils than ever, and dark clouds were gathering over his heart. From that time he was an altered man, and altering as rapidly for the worse in body as in mind. Hardy saw the change in both, and groaned ovei it in secret. Miller's quick eye detected the bodily change. After the next race he drew Tom aside, and said, — " Why, Brown, what's the matter 1 What have you been about 1 You're breaking down. Hold on, man ; there's only one more night." " Never fear," said Tom, proudly, " I shall last it out." And in the last race he did his Avork again, though it cost him more than all the preceding ones put together, and when he got out of the boat he could scarcely walk or see. He 174 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOIID. felt a fierce kind of j.oy in his own distress, and wished that there were more races to come. But ]\Iiller, as he walked up arm-in-arm with the Captain, took a dilferent view of the subject. " Well, its all right, you see," said the Captain ; " but we're not a boat's length better than Oriel over the course after all. How was it we bumped them 1 If anything, they drew a little on us to-night." "^^y, lialf a boat's length, I should say," answered Miller. " I'm uncommonly glad it's over ; Brown is going all to pieces ; he wouldn't stand another race, and we haven't a man to put in his place." " It's odd, too," said the Captain ; " I put him down as a laster, and he has trained well. Perhaps he has overdone it a little. However, it don't matter now." So the races were over ; and that night a great supper was held in St. Ambrose Hall, to which were bidden, and came, the crews of all the boats from Exeter upwards. The Dean, with many misgivings and cautions, had allowed the hall to be used, on pressure from !Miller and Jcrvis. Miller was a bachelor and had taken a good degree, and Jervis bore a high character and was expected to do well in the schools. So the poor Dean gave in to them, extracting many promises in exchange for his permission : and flitted uneasily about all the evening in his cap and gown, instead of working on at his edition of the Fathers, which occupied every minute of his leisure, and was making an old man of him before his time. From eight to eleven the fine old pointed windows of St. Ambrose Hall blazed with light, and the choruses of songs, and the cheers which followed the short intervals of silence which the speeches made, rang out over the quadrangles, and made the poor Dean amble about in a state of nervous be- v.'ildermeut. Inside there was hearty feasting, such as had not been seen there, for I aught I know, since the day when the king came back to " enjoy his own again." The one old cup^ relic of the IMiddle Ages, which had survived the civil wars, — St. Ambrose's had been a right loyal college, and the plate had gone without a murmur into Charles the First's war-chest, — went round and round ; and rival crews pledged one another out of it, and the massive tankards of a later day, in all good faith and good fellowship, flailed knights, grave bishops, royal persons of either sex, and "other our bene- factors," looked down on the scene from their hea\y gdded frames, and, let us hope, not unkindly. All passed off well and quietly ; the out-college men were gone, the lights THE STOEM RAGES. 175 w^ere out, and tlie butler had locked the hall door by a quarter past eleven, and the Dean returned in peace to liis own rooms. Had Tom been told a week before that he would not have enjoyed that night, that it would not have been amongst the happiest and proudest of his life, he would have set his in- former down as a madman. As it was, he never once rose to the spirit of the feast, and wished it all over a dozen times. lie deserved not to enjoy it ; but not so Hardy, who was nevertheless almost as much out of tune as Tom ; though the University coxswain had singled him out, named him in his speech, sat by him and talked to him for a quarter of an hour, and asked him to go to the Henley and Thames regattas in the Oxford crew. The next evening, as usual, Tom found himself at *' The Choughs " with half a dozen others. Patty was in the bar by herself, looking prettier than ever. One by one the rest of the men dropped off, the last saying, " Are you coming, Brown ? " and being answered in the negative. He sat still, watching Patty as she flitted about, washing up the ale glasses and putting them on their shelves, and getting out her work-basket ; and then she came and sat down in her aunt's chair opposite him, and began stitching away demurely at an apron she was making. Then he broke silence, — ''Where's your aunt to-night, Patty 1 " " Oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a visit to some friends." " You and I will keep house, then, together ; you shall teach me all the tricks of tne trade. I shall make a famous barm.an, don't you tliink 1 ' " You must learn to behave better, then. But I promised aunt to shut up at nine ; so you must go when it strikes. Is^'ow promise me you will go." " Go at nine ! what, in half an hour 1 The first evening I have ever had a chance of spending alone with you ; do vou think it likely 1 " and he looked into her eyes. She tamed away with a slight shiver, and a deep blush. His nervous system had been so unusually excited in the last few days, that he seemed to know everything that v/as passing in her mind. He took her hand. " Why, Patty, you're not afraid of me, surely 1 " he said, gently. " 'No, not Avlien you're like you are now. But you frightened me just this minute. I never saw you look so before. Haa anything happened to you ? " " NOf nothing. Now then, we're going to have a j- )IIy 176 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. evening, and play Darby and Joan together," he said, turning away, and going to the bar window : " shall I shut up, Patty 1 " " !N"o, it isn't nine yet ; somebody may come in." "That's just why I mean to put the shutters up ; I don't want anybody." " Yes, but I do, though. Now I declare, Mr. Brown, 11 you go on shutting up, I'll run into the kitchen and sit with Dick." " Why will you call me * Mr. Brown ' 1 " " Wliy, what should I call you ? " " Tom, of course." " Oh, I never ! one would think you was my brother," said Patty, looking up with a pretty pertness which she had a most bewitching way of putting on. Tom's rejoinder, and the little squabble which they had afterwards about where her work-table should stand, and other such matters, may be passed over. At last he was brought to reason, and to anchor opposite his enchantress, the work-table between them ; and he sat leaning back in his chair, and watching her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. He was in no hurry to break the silence. The position was particu- larly fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being interrupted. At last he roused himself. ** Any of our men been here to-day, Patty ? " he said, sitting up. " There now, I've won," she laughed ; " I said to myself, I wouldn't speak first, and I haven't. What a time you were ! I thought you would never begin." " You're a little goose ! Xow I begin then ; who've been here to-day 1 " " Of your college 1 let me see ; " and she looked away across to the bar window, pricking her needle into the table. " There was Mr. Drysdalo and some others called for a glass of ale as they passed, going out driving. Then there was Mr. Smith and them from the boats about four : and that ugly one — I can't mind his name — " " What, Hardy ? " " Yes, that's it; he was here about half-past six, and — " " What, Hardy here after hall 1 " interrupted Tom, utterly astonished. " Yes, after your dinner up at college. He's been here two or three times lately." " The deuce he has ! " " Yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too. I'm eure ha THE STORM RAGES. 177 is a very nice gentleman, after all. He sat and talked to- nigl.t for half an Lour. I should think." " What did ho talk about 1 " said Tom, with a sneer. " Oh, he asked me whether I had a mother, and where I came from, and all about my bringing up, and made me feel quite pleasant. He is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like most of you. I'm going to like him very much, as yon told me." " I don't tell you so now," *' But you did say he was your great friend." '* Well, he isn't that now." " What, have you quarrelled 1 " "Yes." " Dear, dear ; how odd you gentlemen are ! " Why, it isn't a very odd thing for men to quarrel, is itf" " Ko, not in the public room. They're always quarrelling there, over their drink and the bagatelle-board ; and Dick has to turn them out. But gentlemen ought to know better." " They don't, you see, Patty." " But what did you quarrel about ? " " Guess." " How can I guess 1 What was it about ? " " About you." " About me ! " she said, looking up from her work in wonder. " How could you quarrel about me ? " " Well, I'll tell you ; he said I had no right to come here. You won't like liim after that, will you Patty 1 " " I don't know, I'm sure," said Patty, going on with her work, and looking troubled. They sat still for some minutes. Evil thoughts crowded into Tom's head. He was in the humour for thinking evil thoughts, and, putting the worst construction on Hardy's visits, fancied he came there as his rival. He did not trust himself to speak till he had mastered his precious discovery, and put it away in the back of his heart, and weighted it down there with a good covering of hatred and revenge, to be brought out as occasion should serve. He was plunging down rapidly enough now ; but he had new motives foi making the most of his time, and never played his cards better or made more progress. When a man sits down to such a game, the devil will take good care he slia'n't want cunning or strength. It was ten o'clock instead of nine be- fore he left, which he did with a fecUng of triumph. Poor Patty remained behind, and shut up the bar, while Dick was 178 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. locking the front door, her heart in a flutter, and her hands ghaking. She hardly knew whether to laugli or cry ; she felt the change which had come over him, and was half fascinated and haK repelled by it. Tom walked quickly back to college, in a mood which I do not care to describe. The only one of his thoughts which my readers need be troubled with, put itself into some such words as these in his head : — " So, it's Abingdon fair next Thursday, and she has half-promised to go with me. I know I can make it certain. Who'll be going besides 1 Drysdale, I'll be bound. I'll go and see him." On entering college he went straight to Drysdale's rooms, and drank deeply, and played high into the short hours of the night, but found no opportunity of speaking. Deeper and deeper yet for the next few days, downwards and ever faster downwards he plunged, the light getting fainter and ever fainter above his head. Little good can come of dwelling on those days. He left off pulling, shunned his old friends, and lived with the very worst men he knew in college, who were ready enough to let him share all their brutal orgies. Drysdale, who was often present, wondered at the change, which he saw plainly enough. He was sorry for it in his way, but it was no business of his. He began to think that Brown was a good enough fellow before, but would make a devilish disagreeable one if he was going to turn fast man. At " The Choughs " all went on as if the downward path knew how to make itself smooth, ^ow that the races were over, and so many other attractions going on in Oxford, very few men came in to interfere with him. He was scarcely eve? away from Patty's side, in the evenings while her aunt was absent, and gained more and more power over her. He might have had some compassion, but that he was spurred on by hearing how Hardy haunted the place now, at times when he could not be there. He felt that there was an influence struggling with his in the girl's mind ; he laid it to Hardy's door, and imputed it still more and more to motives as base as his own. But Abingdon fair was coming on Thursday. "When he left " The Choughs " on Tuesday night, he had ex- tracted a promise from Patty to accompany him there, and had arranged their place of mectmg. All that remained to be done was to see if Drysdale was going. Somehow he felt a disinclination to go alone with Patty. Drysdale was the only man of those he was now living mth to whom he felt the least attraction. In a vague way he clung to him ; and though he never faced the thought of what he was about fairly, yet it passed through his muid THE STOIUl RAGES. 179 that even in Diysdalc's company he would be safer than ii alone. It was all pitiless, blind, wild work, without rudder or compass ; the wish that nothing very bad might come out of it all, however, came up in spite of him now and again, and he looked to Drysdale, and longed to become even as he. Drysdale was going. He was very reserved on the subject, but at last confessed that he was not going alone. Tom per- sisted. Drysdale was too lazy and careless to keep anything from a man who was bent on knowing it. In the end, it was arranged that he should drive Tom out the next afternoon. He did so. They stopped at a small public-houre some two miles out of Oxford. The cart was put up, and after care- fully scanning the neighbourhood they walked quickly to the door of a pretty retired cottage. As they entered, Drysdale said, " By Jove, I thought I caught a glimpse of your friend Hardy at that turn." " Friend ! he's no friend of mine." " But didn't you see him ? " «No." They reached college again between ten and eleven, and parted, each to his own rooms. To his surprise, Tom found a candle burning on his table. Round the candle was tied a piece of string, at the end of which hung a note. Whoever had put it there had clearly been anxious that he should in no case miss it when he came in. He took it up, and saw that it was in Hardy's hand. He paused, and trembled as he stood. Then with an effort he broke the seal and read — " I must speak once more. To-morrow it may be too late. If you go to Abingdon fair with her in the company of Drysdale and his mistress, or, I believe, in any company, you ^vill return a scoundrel, and she — ; in the name of the honour of your mother and sister, in the name of God, I warn you. Jilay He help you tlu'ough it. — John Hardy." Here we wiU drop the curtain for the next hour. At the end of that time, Tom staggered out of his room, dowu the staircase, across the quadrangle, up Drysdale's staircase. He paused at the door to gather some strength, ran his hands through his hair, and arranged his coat ; notwithstandijig, when he entered, Drysdale started to his feet, upsetting Jack from his comfortable coil on the sofa. " Why, Brown, you're ill ; have some brandy," he said, and went to his cupboard for the bottle. 180 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. Tom leant his arm on the fireplace ; his head on it. Tho other hand hung down by his side, and Jack licked it, and he loved the dog as he felt the caress. Then Drysdale came to his side with a glass of brandy, which he took and tossed off as though it had been water. " Thank you," he said, and as Drysdale went back with the bottle, reached a large arm- chair and sat himself down in it. " Drysdale, I sha'n't go with you to Abingdon fair to- morrow." " Iluilo ! what, has the lovely Patty thrown you over 1 " said Drysdale, turning from the cupboard, and resuming his lounge on the sofa. " jS^o : " he sank back into the chair, on the arms of which his elbows rested, and put his hands up before nis face, pres- sing them against his burning temples. Drysdale looked at him hard, but said nothing ; and there was a dead sUence of a minute or so, broken only by Tom's hea\^'' breathing, which he was labouring in vain to control. " No," he repeated at last, and the remaining words came out slowly as they were trying to steady themselves, " but, by God, Drysdale 1 caii't take her with you, and that — " a dead pause. *' The young lady you met to-night, eh ? " Tom nodded, but said nothing. " Well, old fellow," said Drysdale, " now you've made up your mind, I tell you, I'm devilish glad of it. I'm no saint, as you know, but I think it would have been a d d shame if you had taken her with us." " Thank you," said Tom, and pressed his fingers tighter on liis forehead ; and he did feel thankful for the words, though, coming from such a man, they went into him like coals of fire. Again there was a long pause, Tom sitting as before. Drysdale got up, and strolled up and down his room, with his hands in the pockets of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each turn a steady look at the other. Presently he stopped, and took his cigar out of liis mouth. " I say, l>rown," he said, after another minute's contemplation of the figure before him, which bore such an unmistakable impress of wretchedness, that it made him quite uncomfortable, " why don't you cut that concern 1 " " IIow do you mean ? " said Tom. " AVhy that ' Choughs ' business — I'll be hanged if it won't kill you, or make a devil of you before long, if you go on with it." " It's not far fi'om that now." THE BTORM RAGES. 181 " So J see — aud I'll tell you what, you're not the sort of follow lo go in for this kind of thing. You'd better leave it to cold-blooded brutes, like some avc know — I needn't men- tion names.*' " I'm awfully wretched, Drysdale ; I've been a brute my- self to you and everybody of late." "Well, I own I don't like the new tiide of you. Now make up your mind to cut the whole concern, old fellow," he said, coming up goodnaturedly, and putting his hand on Tom's shoulder ; " it's hard to do, I dare say, but you had better make a plunge and get it over. There's wickedness enough going about without your helping to shove another one into it." Tom groaned as he listened, but he felt that the man was trying to help liim hi liis own way, and according to his light, as Diysdale went on expounding his own curious code of morality. When it was ended, he shook Drysdale's hand, and, wishing him good night, went back to his own rooms. The first step upwards towards the light had been made, for he felt thoroughly humbled before the man on whom he had expended in his own mind so much patronizing pity for the last half-year — whom he had been fancying he was influencing for good. During the long hours of the night the scenes of the last few houi-s, of the last few days, came back to him and burnt into his soul. The gulf yawned before him now plain enough, open at his feet — black, ghastly. He shuddered at it, won- dered if he should even yet fall in, felt wildly about for strength to stand firm, to retrace his steps ; but found it not. He found not yet the strength he was in search of, but in th^ grey morning he wrote a short note : — " I shall not be able to take you to Abingdon fair to-day. You will not see me perhaps for some days. I am not welL I am very sorry. Don't thinlv that I am changed. Don't be unhappy, or I don't know what I may do." There was no address and no signature to the note. "WTien the gates opened he hurried out of the college, and, having left it and a shilling witli Dick (whom he found clearing the yard, and mach astonished at his appearance, and who promised to deliver it to Patty v/ith his own hands before eight o'clock), he got back again to his own rooms, went to bed, worn out in mind and body, and slept till mid- day. 182 TOM BL'OWN AT OXFORD. CHAPTER XVII. NEW GROUND. My readers have now been steadily at Oxford for six niontha without moving. Most people find such a spell of the place without a change quite as much as they care to take ; perhaps too, it may do our hero good to let him alone for a little, that he may have time to look steadily into the pit which he has been so near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path ; moreover, the exigencies of a story-teller must lead him away from home now and then. Like the rest oi us, his family must have change of air, or he has to go off to see a friend properly married, or a connexion buried ; to wear white or black gloves with or for some one, carrying such sympathy as he can with him, that so he may come back from every journey, however short, with a T\dder horizon. Yes ; to come back home after every stage of life's journeying with a wider horizon — more in sympathy with men and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws wliich govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is above all, and around all, and beneath all — this must be the end and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold, and spending time and labour and journey- money on that which profiteth nothing. So now I must ask my readers to forget the old buildings and quadrangles of the fairest of England's cities, the caps and the gowns, the reading and rowing, for a short space, and take a flight with me to other scenes and pastures new. The nights are pleasant in May, short and pleasant for travel. We will leave the ancient city asleep, and do our flight in the night to save time. Trust yourselves, then, to the story-teller's aerial machine. It is but a rough affair, I own, rough and humble, unfitted for high or great flights, with no gOded panels, or dainty cushions, or C-springs — not that we shall care about springs, by the way, until we alight on lerra firma again — still, there is much to be learned in a thirrl-class carriage if we will only not look while in it for cusiiions, and fine panels, and forty miles an hour travelling, and will not be shocked at our fellow-passengers for being weak in their h's and smelling of fustian. Mount in it, then, you who will, after this warning; the fares are holiday fares, the tickets return tickets. Take with you nothing but the poet's luggage, " A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain, A breath to swell the voice of Prayer, " NEW GROUND. 183 and may you have a pleasant journey, for it is time that the stoker should be looking to his going gear ! So now we rise slowly m the moonlight from St. Ambrose's quadrangle, and, when we are clear of the clock-tower, steer away soutiiwards, over Oxford city and all its sleeping wisdom and folly, over street and past spire, over Christ Church and the canons' houses, and the fountain in Tom quad ; over St. Aldate's and the river, along which the moonbeams lie in a pathAvay of twinkling silver, over the railway sheds — no, there was then no railway, but oidy the quiet fields and foot- paths of Hincksey hamlet. Well, no matter; at any rate, the hills beyond, and Bagley Wood, were there then as now : and over hills and wood we rise, catcliing tbe purr of the night-jar, the trill of the nightingale, and the first crow of ihe earUest cock-pheasant, as he stretches his jewelled wings, conscious of his strength and his beauty, heedless of the fellows of St. John's, who slumber within sight of his perch, on whose hospitable board he shall one day lie, prone on his back, with fair larded breast turned upwards for the carving knife, having crowed his last crow. He knows it not ; what matters it to him 1 If he knew it, could a Bagley Wood cock-pheasant desire a better ending ? We pass over the vale beyond ; hall and hamlet, church, and meadow, and copse, folded in mist and shadow below us, each hamlet holding in its bosom the materials of three- volumed novels by the dozen, if we could only pull off the roofs of the houses and look steadily into the interiors ; but our destination is farther yet. The faint white streak behind the distant Chilterns reminds us that we have no time for gossip by the way ; May nights are short, and the sun will be up by four-, ^o matter; our journey will now be soon over, for the broad vale is crossed, and the chalk hiUs and downs beyond. Larks quiver up by us, " higher, ever higher," hastening up to get a first glimpse of the coming monarch, careless of food, flooding the fresh air with song. Steady plodding rooks labour along below us, and lively starlings rush by on the look-out for the early worm ; lark and swallow, rook and starHng, each on his appointed round. The sun arises, and they get them to it ; he is up now, and these breezy uplands over which we hang are swimming in the light of horii^ontal rays, though the shadows and mists still lie on the wooded dells which slope away southwards. Here let us bring to, over the village of Englebourn, and try to get acquainted with the outside of the place before the good folk are about, and we have to go down among them and their sayicgs and doings. 184 TOM BE OWN AT OXFOKD. The village lies on the southern slopes of the Berkshire hills, on the opposite side to that under which our hero was born. Another soil altogether is here, we remark in the first place. This is no chalk, tliis high kiioU which rises above — one may abnost say hangs over — the village, crowned with Scotch firs, its sides tufted with gorse and heather. It is the Hawk's Lynch, the favourite resort of Englebourn folk, who come up for the view, for the air, because their fathers and mclhera came up before them, because they came up them- selves as children — from an instinct whicli moves them all in leisure hours and Sunday evenings, when the sun shines and the birds sing, whether they care for view or air or not. Something guides all their feet hitherward ; the children, to play hide-and-seek and look for nests in the gorse-bushcs , young men and maidens, to saunter and look and talk, as they will till the world's end — or as long, at any rate, as the Hawk's Lynch and Englebourn last — and to cut their initials, inclosed in a true lover's knot, on the short rabbit's turf; steady mpjried couples, to plod along together consulting on hard times and growing families ; even old tottering men, who love to sit at the feet of the firs, with chins leaning on their sticks, prattling of days long past, to any one who will listen, or looking silently with dim eyes into the summer air, feeling perhaps in their spirits after a wider and more peace- ful view which will soon open for them. A common knoll, open to all, up in the silent air, well away from every-day Englebourn life, with the Hampshire range and the distant Beacon Hill lying soft on the horizon, and nothing higher between you and the southern sea, what a blessing the Hawk's Lynch is to the village folk, one and all ! May Heaven and a thankless soil long preserve it and them from an inclosure under the Act ! There is much temptation lying about, though, for the inclosers of the world. The rough common land stretches over the whole of the knoll, and doAvn to its base, and away along the hills behind, of which the Hawk's Lynch is an outlying spur. Rough common land, broken only by pine woods of a few acres each in extent, an occasional woodman's or squatter's cottage and little patch of attempted garden. But immediately below, and on each flank of the spur, and half-way up the slopes, come small farm inclosures, breaking here and there the belt of woodlands, Avliich generally lies between the rough wild upland, and the cultivated country below. As you stand on the knoll you can see the common land just below you at its foot narrow into a mere road, with a border of was*.e on each side which runs into Englebouru NEW GKOUND. 185 street. At the end of tlie straggling village stands the church with its square tower, a lofty grey stone building, with bits of fine decorated architecture about it, but much of churchwarden Gothic supervening. The churchyard is large, and the graves, as you can see plainly even from this distance, are all crowded on the southern side. The rector's sheep are feeding in tlie northern part, nearest to us, and a small gate at one corner opens into his garden. The Eectory looks large and comfort- able, and its grounds well cared for and extensive, with a rookery of elms at the lawn's end. It is the chief house of the place, for there is no resident squire. The principal street contains a few shops, some dozen, perhaps, in all ; and several farm houses lie a little back from it, with garden in front, and yards and barns and orchards behind ; and there are two public-houses. The other dwellings are mere cottages, and very bad ones for the most part, Avith floors below the level of the street. Almost every house in the village is thatched, which adds to the beauty though not to the comfort of the place. The rest of the population "who do not live in the street are dotted about the neighbouring lanes, chiefly towards the "west, on our right as we look down from the Hawk's Lynch. On this side the country is more open, and here most of the farmers live, as we may see by the number of homesteads. And there is a small brook on that side too, which with careful damming is made to turn a mill, there where you see the clump of poplars. On our left as we look down, the country to the east of the village is thickly wooded ; but we can see that there is a village green on that side, and a few scattered cottages, the farthest of which stands looking out like a little white eye, from the end of a dense copse. Beyond it there is no sign of habitation for some two miles ; then you can see the tall chimneys of a great house, and a well-timbered park round it. The Grange is not in Engle- bourn parish — happily for that parish, one is sorry to remark. It must be a very bad squire who does not do more good than harm by living in a country village. But there are very bad squires, and the owner of the Grange is one of them. He is, however, for the most part, an absentee, so that we are little concerned with him, and in fact, have only to notice this one of his bad habits, that he keeps that long belt of woodlands, which runs into Englebourn parish, and comes almost up to the village, full of hares and pheasants. He has only succeeded to the property some three or four years, and yet the head of game on the estate, and above aU in the woods, has trebled or quadrupled. Pheasants by hundreds nre reared under hens, from eggs bought in London, and run 186 TOM BROT^^ AT OXFORD. about the keepers' houses as tame as barn-door fowls all the summer. "When the first party comes down for the first hattue early in October, it is often as much as the beaters can do to persuade these pampered fowls that they are wild game, whose duty it is to get up, and fly away, and be shot at. However, they soon learn more of the world — such of them, at least, as are not slain — and are unmistakable wild birds in a few days. Then they take to roosting farther from their old haunts, more in the outskirts of the woods, and the time comes for others besides the squire's guests to take their education in hand, and teach pheasants at least that they are no native British birds. These are a wild set, living scattered about the wild country ; turf-cutters, broom-makers, squatters, with indefinite occupations and nameless habits, a race hated of keepers and constables. These have increased and flou- rished of late years ; and, notwithstanding the imprisonments and transportations which deprive them periodically of the most enterprising members of their community, one and all give thanks for the day when the owner of the Grange took to pheasant breeding. If the demoralization stopped with them, little harm might come of it, as they would steal fowls in the homesteads if there were no pheasants in the woods — which latter are less dangerous to get, and worth more when gotteiL But, unhappily, this method of earning a livelihood has strong attractions, and is catching ; and the cases of farm labourers who get into trouble about game are more frequent season by season in the neighbouring parishes, and Engle- bourn is no better than the rest. And the men are not likely to be much discouraged from these practices, or taught better by the farmers ; for, if there is one thing more than another that drives that stuixly set of men, the Englebourn yeomen, into a frenzy, it is talk of the game in the Grange covers. Kot that they dislike sport ; they like it too well, and, more- over, have been used to their fair share of it. For the late squire left the game entirely in their hands. " You know best how much game your land will carry without serious damage to the crops," he used to say. " I like to show my friends a fair day's sport when they are with me, and to have enough game to supply the house and make a fe^v presents. Beyond that it is no alfair of mine. You can course whenever you like 5 and let me know when you want a day's shooting, and you shall have it." Under this system the yeomen became keen sportsmen ; they and all their labourers took an interest in preserving, and the whole district would have risen on a poacher. The keeper's place became a sinecure, and the squire had as much game as he wanted without NEW GROUND. 187 expense, and was, moreover, the most jDopular man in the county. Even after the new man came, and all was changed, the mere revocation of their sporting liberties, and the increase of game, unpopular as these things were, would not alone have made the farmers so bitter, and have raised that sense of outraged justice in them. But with these changes came in a custom new in the country — the custom of selling the game. At first the report was not believed ; but soon it became notorious that no head of game from the Grange estates was ever given away, that not only did the tenants never get a brace of birds or a hare, or the labourers a rabbit, but not one of tlie gentlemen who helped to kill the game ever found any of the bag in his dog-cart after the da3^'s shooting. Nay, so shameless had the system become, and so highly was the art of turning the game to account cultivated at the Grange, that the keepers sold powder and shot to any of the guests who had emptied their o^vn belts or flasks at something over the market retail price. The light cart drove to the market- town UvicG a week in the season, loaded heavily with game, but more heavily with the hatred and scorn of the farmers ; and, if deep and bitter curses could break patent axles or necks, the new squii-e and his game-cart would not long have vexed the country-side. As it was, not a man but his own tenants would salute him in the market-place ; and these repaid ilicmselves for the unwilling courtesy by bitter reflections on a squire who was mean enough to pay his butcher's and poulterer's bill out of their pockets. Alas, that the manly instinct of sport which is so strong in all of us Englishmen — which sends Oswell's single-handed against the mightiest beasts that v\'^alk the earth, and takes the poor cockney journeyman out a ten miles' walk almost before daylight on the rare summer holiday mornings, to angle with rude tackle in reservoir or canal — should be dragged through such mire as this in many an English shu'e in our day. If English landlords want to go on shooting game much longer, they must give up selling it. For if selling game becomes the rule, and not the exception (as it seems likely to do before long), good-bye to sport in England. Every man who loves his country more than his pleasures or his pocket — and, thank God, that includes the great majority of us yet, however much we may delight in gun and rod, 1 it any demagogue in the land say what he pleases — wUl cry, " Down with it," and lo.^d a liand to put it down for ever. But, to return to our perch on the Hawk's Lynch above Englebourn village. The rector is the fourth of his race who holds the family living — a kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old 188 TOM BKOWN AT OXl^ORD. man, a Doctor of Divinity, as becomes Lis position, though he onl}^ went into orders because there was the living ready for liim. In his day he had been a good magistrate and neighbour, living with and much in the same way as, the squires round about. But his contemporaries had dropped off one by one ; his own health had long been failing ; his wife was dead ; and the young generation did not seek him. His work and the parish had no real hold on him ; so he had nothing to fall back on, and had become a confirmed invaUd, seldom leaving the house and garden, even to go to church, and thinking more of his dinner and his health than of all other things in earth or heaven. The only child who remained at home with him was a daughter, a girl of nineteen or thereabouts, whoso acquaintance we shall make presently, and who was doing all that a good heart and sound head prompted in nursing an old hypochon- driac, and filling his place in the parish. But though the old man was weak and selfish, he was kind in his way, and ready to give freely or to do anything which his daughter suggested for the good of his people, provided the trouble were taken ofl his shoulders. In the year before our tale opens, he had allowed some thirty acres of his glebe to be parcelled out in allotments amongst the poor ; and his daughter spent almost what she pleased in clothing-clubs, and sick-clubs, and the school, without a word from him. "Whenever he did remon- strate, she managed to get what she wanted out of the house- money, or her own allowance. We must make acquaintance with such other of the inha- bitants as it concerns us to know in the course of the story ; for it is broad daylight, and the villagers vnll be astir directlj^ Folk who go to bed before nine, after a hard day's work, get into the habit of turning out soon after the sun calls them. So now, descending from the Hawk's Lynch, we will alight at the east end of Englebourn, opposite the little white cottage which looks out at tlie end of the great wood, near the village greeru Soon after five on that bright Sunday morning, Harry Winburn unbolted the door of his mother's cottage, and stepped out in his shirt-sleeves on to the little walk in front, paved with pebbles. Perhaps some of my readers will recog- nise the name of an old acquaintance, and wonder how he got here; so let us explain at once. Soon after our hero went to scnool, Harry's father had died of a fever. He had been a journeyman blacksmith, and in the receipt, consequently, of rather better wages than generally fall to the lot of the peasantry, but not enough to leave much of a margin over curieut exjienditure. Moreover, the Winburns bed always NT.W GROUND 189 been open-banded Avitli whatever money tliey had ; so that all he left for his widow and child, of worldly goods, was their " few sticks " of fiirnitare, £5 in the savings' bank, and the money from his burial-club, which was not more than enough to give him a creditable funeral — that object of honourable ambition to all the independent poor. He left, however, another in- heritance to them, which is in price above rubies, neither shall silver be named in comparison thereof, — the inheritance oi an honest name, of which his widow was proud, and which was rot likely to suffer in her hands. After the funeral, she removed to Engleboum, her own native \illage, and kept her old father's house till his death. He was one of the woodmen to the Grange, and lived in the cottage at the corner of the wood in which his work lay. When he, too, died, hard times came on Widow Winburn. The steward allowed her to keep on the cottage. The rent was a sore burthen to her, but she would sooner have starved than leave it. Parish relief was out of the question for her father's child and her husband's widow ; so she turned her hand to every odd job which offered, and went to work in the fields when nothing else could be had. T\Tienever there was sickness in the place, she was an untii-ing nurse ; and, at one time, for some nine months, she took the office of postman, and walked daily some nine miles through a severe winter. The fatigue and exposure had broken down her health, and made her an old woman before her time. At last, in a lucky hour, the Doctor came to hear of her praiseworthy struggles, and gave her the Eectory wasliing, which had made her life a comparatively easy one again. During all this time her poor neighbours had stood by her as the poor do stand by one another, helping her in number- less small ways, so that she liad been able to realize the great object of her life, and keep Harry at school till he was nearly fourteen. By this time he had learned all that the village pedagogue could teach, and iiad in fact become an object of mingled pride and jealousy to that worthy man, who had his misgivings lest Harry's fame as a scholar should eclipse his own before many years were over. Mrs. Winburn's character was so good, that no sooner was her son ready for a place than a place was ready for him ; ho stepped at once into the dignity of carter's boy, and his earnings, when added to his mother's, made them comfortable enough. Of course she was wrapped up in him, and believed that there was no such boy in the parish. And indeed she was nearer the truth than most mothers, for he soon grew into ?i famons sjjecimeii of a countryman ; tall and lithe, full of 190 TOM BROWN AT OXTOUD. nervous strength, and not yet bowed down or stiffened by the constant toil of a labourer's daily rife. In these matters, how- ever, he had rivals in the village ; but in intellectual accom- plishments he was unrivalled. He %vas full of learning according to the village standard, could write and cipher well, was fond of reading such books as came in his w^ay, and spoke his native English almost without an accent. He is one-and-twenty at the time when our story takes him up, a thoroughly skilled labourer, the best hedger and ditcher in the parish ; and, when his blood is up, he can shear twenty sheep in a day, without razing the skin, or mow for sixteen hours at a stretch, ^vith rests of half an hour for meals twice in the day. Harry shaded his eyes with his hand for a minute, as he stood outside the cottage drinking in the fresh pure air, laden with the scent of the honeysuckle which he had trained over the porch, and listening to the chorus of linnets and finches from the copse at the back of the house ; and then set about the household duties, which he always made it a point of honoiu' to attend to himself on Sundays. First he unshuttered the little lattice-window of the room on the ground-floor ; a simple operation enough, for the shutter was a mere wooden flap, which was closed over the window at night, and bolted with a Avooden bolt on the outside, and thrown back against the wall in the daytime. Any one who would could have opened it at any moment of the night ; but the poor sleep sound without bolts. Then he took the one old bucket of the esta- blishment, and strode aw^ay to the well on the village green, and filled it v/ith clear cold water, doing the same kind office for the vessels of two or three rosy httle damsels and boys, of ages varying from ten to fourteen, avIio were already astir, and to whom the winding-up of the parish chain and bucket would have been a work of difficulty. Returning to the cottage, he proceeded to fill his mother's kettle, sweep the heartli, strike a light, and make up the fire v/ith a faggot from the little stack in the corner of the garden. Then he hauled the three- legged round table before the fire, and dusted it carefully over, and laid out the black japan tea-tray with two delf cups and saucers of gorgeous pattern, and diminutive plates to match, and placed the sugar and slop basins, the big loaf and small piece of salt butter, in tlieir accustomed places, and the little black teapot on the hob to get properly warm. There was little more to be done indoors, for the furniture was scanty enough ; but everything in turn received its fair share of attention, and the little room, with its sunken tiled floor and yellow-washed walls, looked clieeifid and homely. Theii ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE. 19V Harry turned his attention to the shed of his own contriv ing, which stood beside the faggot-stack, and from which expostu- latory and plaintive grunts had been issuing ever since his tirst appearance at the door, telUng of a faitliful and useful friend who was sharp set on Sunday mornings, and desired his poor breakfast, and to be dismissed for the day to pick up the reist of his livelihood with his brethren porkers of the village on the green and in the lanes. Harry served out to the porker the poor mess which the wasli of the cottage and the odds and ends of the little garden afforded ; which that virtuous animal forthwith began to discuss with both fore-feet in the trough — by way, probably, of adding to the flavour — while his master scratched him gentl}' between the ears and on the back with a short stick till the repast was concluded. Then he opened the door of the stye, and the grateful animal rushed out into the lane, and away to the green with a joyful squeal and flirt of his hind- quarters in the air ; and Harry, after picking a bunch of wall-flowers, and pansies, and hyacinths, a line of which flowers skirted the narrow garden walk, and putting them in a long-necked glass which he took from the mantel-piece, proceeded to his morning ablutions, ample materials for which remained at the bottom of the family bucket, which he had put do^vn on a little bench by the side of the porch. These finished, he retired indoors to shave and dress himself. CHAPTEE XVIIL ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE. Dame Winburn was not long after her son, and they sat down together to breakfast in their best Sunday clothes — she, in plain large white cap, which covered all but a line of grey hair, a black stuff go^vn reaching to neck and v>^ri3ts, and small silk neckerchief put on like a shawl ; a thin, almost gaunt old woman, whom the years had not used tenderly, and who showed marks of their usage — but a resolute, high-couraged soul, who had met hard times in the ^ce, and could meet them again if need were. She spoke in broad Berkshire, and was otherwise a homely body, but self-possessed and without a shade of real vulgarity in her composition. The widow looked with some anxiety at Harry as he took his seat. Although something of a rustic dandy, of late he had not been so careful in the matter of dress as usual ; but^ in consequence of her reproaches, on this Sunday there was 192 TOM brow:; at oxford. nothing to complain of. His black velveteen shooting-coat and cotton plush waistcoat, his brown corduroy knee-breeches and gaiters, sat on him well, and gave the world assurance of a well-to-do man, for few of the Englebourn labourers rose above smock-frocks and fustian trousers. He wore a blue bird's-eye handkerchief round his neck, and his shirt, though coarse in texture, was as white as the sun and the best laundress in Englebourn could manage to bleach it. There was nothing to find fault with in his dress therefore, but still his mother did not feel quite comfortable as she took stealthy glances at him. Harry was naturally rather a reserved fellow, and did not make much conversation himself, and his mother felt a little embarrassed on this particular morning. It was not, therefore, until Dame Winburn had finished her first slice of bread and butter, and had sipped the greater part of her second dish of tea out of her saucer, that she broke silence. " I minded thy business last night, Harry, when I wur up at the Rectory about the washin'. It's my belief as thou'lt get t'othi;" I 'lotment next quarter-day. The Doctor spoke very kind about it, and said as how he heer'd as high a character o' the^ young as thee bist, as of are' a man in the parish, and as hoT» he wnr set on lettin' the lots to thaay as'd do best by 'em ; only he said as the farmers went agin gi\'in' more nor an acre to any man as worked for them, and the Doctor, you see, he don't like to go altogether agin the vestry folk." "What business is it o' theirs," said Harry, "so long as they get their own work done 1 There's scarce one on 'em as hasn't more land already nor he can keep as should be, and for all that they want to snap up every bit as falls vacant, so as no poor man shall get it." " 'Tis mostly so with them as has," said his mother, with a half -puzzled look ; " Scriptur says as to them shaU be given, and they shall have more abundant." Dame Winburn spoke hesitatingly, and looked doubtfully at Harry, as a person who has shot with a strange gun, and knows not what effect the bolt may have. Harry was brought up all standing by this unexpected quotation of his mother's ; but, after thinking for a few moments while he cut himself a slice of bread, replied : — " It don't say as those shall have more that can't use what they've got already. 'Tis a deal more like Kaboth's vineyard for aught as I can see. But 'tis Httle odds to me which way it goes." "How canst talk so, Harry?" said his mother, reproach- fully ; •• thou know'st thou v>ast set on it last fall, like o ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE. 193 wapso on sugar. Why, scarce a day past but thou wast up to the Rectory, to see the Doctor about it ; and now thou'rt like to get th' lotment tliou'lt not go anyst 'un." Harry looked out at the open door, without answering. It was quite true that, in the last autumn, he had been very anxious to get as large an allotment as he could into his ovm. hands, and that he had been for ever up towards the Rectory, but perhaps not always on the allotment business. He was naturally a self-rehant, shrewd fellow, and felt that if he could put his hand on three or four acres of land, he could soon make himself independent of the fai-mers. He knew that at harvest-times, and whenever there was a pincli for good labourers, they would be glad enough to have him ; while at other times, with a few acres of his own, he would be his own master, and could do much better for himself. So he had put his name down first on the Doctor's list, taken the largest lot he could get, and worked it so well, that his crops, amongst others, had been a sort of village-show last harvest- time. Many of the neighbouring allotments stood out in sad contrast to those of Harry and the more energetic of the peasantry, and lay by the side of these latter, only half worked and full of weeds, and the rent v/as never ready. It was worse than useless to let matters go on thus, and the question arose, what was to be done with the neglected lots. Harry, and all the men like him, applied at once for them ; and their eagerness to get them had roused some natural jealousy amongst the farmers, who began to foresee that the new system might shortly leave them with none but the worst labourers. So the vestry had pressed on the Doctor, as Dame Winburn said, not to let any man have more than an acre, or an acre and a half ; and the well-meaning, easy-going, invalid old man couldn't make up his mind what to do. So here was May come again, and the neglected lots were still in the nominal occupation of the idlers. The Doctor got no rent, and was annoyed at the partial failure of a scheme which he had not indeed originated, but for which he had taken much credit to himself. The negligent occupiers grumbled that they were not allowed a drawback for manure, and that no pigstyes were put up for them. " 'Twas allers understood so," they maintained, " and they'd never ha' took to the lots but for that." The good men grumbled that it would be too late now for them to do more than clean the lots of weeds this year. The farmers grumbled that it was always understood no man should have more than one lot. The poor rector had led his flock into a miry place with a vengeance. People who cannot make up their minds breed trouble in other plafceB 194 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. besides country villages. However quiet and out-or-t]ie--u'ay the ]ilace may be, there is always some quasi public topic wliich stands, to the rural Englishman, in the place of treaty, or budget, or reform-bill. So tlie great allotment question, for the time, was that which exercised the minds of the inha- bitants of Englebourn ; and until lately no one had taken a keener interest in it than Harry Winburn. But that interest had now much abated, and so Harry looked through the cottage-door, instead of answering his mother. " 'Tis my belief as you med amost hev it for the axin'," Dame Winburn began again, when she found that he would not re-open the subject himself. " Tlie young missus said as much to me herself last night. Ah ! to be sure, things 'd go better if she had the guidin' on 'em." " I'm not going after it any more, mother. We can keep the bits o' sticks here together without it while you be alive ; and if anything was to happen to you, I don't tliink I should stay in these parts. But it don't matter what becomes o' me ; I can earn a livelihood anywhere." Dame Winburn paused -a moment before answering, to subdue her vexation, and then said, '' How can 'ee let han- kerin' arter a lass take the heart out o' thee so ? Hold up thy head, and act a bit measterful. The more thou makest o' thyself, the more Hke thou art to win." " Did you hear aught of her, mother, last night ? " replied Harry, taking advantage of this ungracious opening to speak of the subject which was uppermost in his mind. " I heer'd she wur goin' on well," said his mother. " No likelihood of her comin' home 1 " " Not as I could make out. Why, she hevn't been gone not four months. Now, do ee' pluck up a bit, Harry ; and be more like thyself." '' Why, mother, I've not missed a day's work since Christ- mas ; so there ain't much to find fault with." " Nay, Harry, 'tisn't thy work. Thou wert always good at thy work, praise God. Thou'rt thy father's own son for that. I)ut thou dostn't keep about like, and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em since Christmas. Thou look'st bagged at times, and folk'll see't, and talk about thee afore long." " Let 'em talk I mind their talk no more than last year's wind," said Harry, abruptly. " But thy old mother does," she said, looking at him with eyes full of pride and love ; and so Harry, who was a right good son, began to inquire what it was which was specially weighing on his mother's mind, determined to do anything in reason to re-placo her on the liltio harmless social pinnacle from whicli EXGLEBOURN VILLAGE. 195 she v/as wont to look down on all the other mothers and sons of the parish. He soon found out that her present grievance arose from liis having neglected his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the village peal on the two preceding Sundays ; and, as this post was in some sort the corresponding one to stroke of the boat at Oxford, her anxiety was reasonable enough. So Harry promised to go to ringing in good time that morning, and then set about little odds and ends of jobs till it would be time to start. Dame Winburn went to hex cooking and other household duties, which were pretty well got under when her son took his hat and started for the belfry. She stood at the door with a half-peeled potato in one hand, shading her eyes with the other, as she watched him striding along the raised footpath under the elms, when the sound of light footsteps and pleasant voices coming up from the other direction made her turn round and drop a curtsey as the rector's daughter and another young lady stopped at her door. ** Good morning, Betty," said the former ; " here*s a bright Sunday morning at last-, isn't it 1 " " 'Tis indeed, miss ; but where hev'ee been to 1 " " Oh, we've only been for a little walk before school-time. This is my cousin, Betty. She hasn't been at Engleboum since she was quite a child ; so Tve been taking her to the Hawk's Lynch to see our view." " And you can't think how I have enjoyed it," said her cousin ; " it is so still and beautiful" " I've heer'd say as there ain't no such a place for thretty mile round," said Betty, proudly. " But do'ee come in, tho', and sit'ee down a bit," she added, bustling inside her door, and beginning to rub down a chair with her apron ; " 'tis a smart step for gentlefolk to walk afore church." Betty's notions of the walking powers of gentlefolk were very limited. " 'No, thank you, we must be getting on," said IVIiss Winter; " but how lovely your flowers are ! Look, Mary, did you ever see such double pansies? We've nothing like them at the Rectory." "Do'ee take some," said Betty, emerging again, and be- ginning to pluck a handful of her finest flowers ; " 'tis all our Harry's doing ; he's mazing partickler about seeds." " He seems to make everything thrive, Betty. There, that's plenty, thank you. We won't take many, for fear they should fade before church is over." " Oh, dwont'ee be afeared, there's plenty more ; «ind you be as welcom' as the day." o2 196 TOM BIJOWN AT OXFORD. Betty never said a truer word ; she was one of the real open-handed sort, who are found mostly amongst those whc have the least to give. They or any one else were welcome to the best she had. So the young ladies took the flowers, thanked her again, and passed on towards the Sunday-schooh The rector's daughter might have been a jeav or so older than her companion : she looked more. Her position in the village had been one of much anxiety, and she was fast getting an old head on young shoulders. The other young lady was a slip of a girl just coming out ; in fact, this was the first visit which she had ever paid out of leading strings. She had lived in a happy home, where she had always been trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought too much petted. There are some natures which attract petting ; you can't help doing your best to spoil them in this way, and it is satis- factory, therefore, to know (as the fact is) that they are just the ones which cannot be so spoilt. Miss INIary was one of these. Trustful, for she had never been tricked ; fearless, for she had never been cowed ; pure and bright as the Engleboum brook at fifty yards from its parent spring in the chalk, for she had a pure and bright nature, and had come in contact as yet with nothing which could soil or cast a shadow. What wonder that her life gave forth light and music as it glided on, and that every one who knew her was eager to have her with them, to warm them- selves in the light and rejoice in the music ! Besides all her other attractions, or in consequence of them for anything I know, she was one of the merriest young women in the world, always ready to bubble over and break out into clear laughter on the slightest provocation. And provocation had not been wanting durmg the last two days which she had spent with her cousin. As usual she had brDught sunshine with her, and the old Doctor had half- forgotten his numerous complaints and grievances for the tima So the cloud wliich generally hung over the house had been partially lifted, and Mary, knowing and suspecting nothing of the dark side of life at Englebourn Kectory, rallied her cousin on her gravity, and laughed till she cried at the queer ways and talk of the people about the place. As soon as they were out of hearing of Dame "Winbum, Mary began — " Well, Katie, I can't say that you have mended your case at all." "Surely you can't deny that theje is a great deal of character in Betty's face 1 " said Miss Wint-er. ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE. 197 " Oh, plenty of character : all your people, as soon as they begin to stiffen a little and get wrinldes, seem to be full of character, and I enjoy it niucli more than beauty : but we were talking about beauty, you know." " Betty's son is the handsomest young man in the parish," said Miss Winter ; " and I must say I don't think you could find a better-looldng one anywhere." " Then I can't have seen him." " Indeed you have ; I pointed him out to you at the post- office yesterday. Don't you remember 1 he was waiting for a letter." " Oh, yes ! now I remember. Well, he was better than most. But tlie faces of your youjig people in general are not interesting — I don't mean the children, but the young men and women — and they are awkward and clownisli in their manners, witliout the quamtness of the elder generation, who are the funniest old dears in the world." " They will all be quaint enough as they get older. You must remember the sort of life tliey lead. They get their notions very slowly, and they must have notions in their heads before they can show them on their faces." " Well, your Betty's son looked as if he had a notion of hanging himself yesterday." " It's no laughing matter, Mary. I hear he is desperately in love." " Poor fellow ! that makes a difference, of course. I hope he won't carry out his notion. Who is it, do you know 1 Do tell me all about it." " Our gardener's daughter, I believe. Of course, I never meddle with these matters ; but one can't help hearing the servants' gossip. I think it likely to be true, for he was about our premises at all sorts of times until lately, and I never see him now that she is away." " Is she pretty 1 " said Mary, who was getting interested. " Yes, she is our belle. In fact, they are the two beauties of the parish." "Fancy that cross-grained old Simon having a pretty daughter. Oh, Katie, look licre ! who is this figure of fun 1 " The figure of fun was a middle-aged man of smaU stature, and very bandy-legged, dressed in a blue coat and brass but- tons, and carrying a great bass-\nol bigger than himself, in a rough baize cover. lie came out of a footpath into the road just before them, and, on seeing them, touched his hat to Miss Winter, and then fidgeted along with his load, and jerked his head in a deprecatory manner away from them as he walked on, with the sort of look and action which a favourite terriei 198 TOM BROAVN AT OXrOKD. uses when his master holds out a lighted cigar to his nose. He was the village tailor and constable, also the principal performer in the church-music which obtained in Englebourn. In the latter capacity he had of late come into collision with Miss AVinter. For this was another of tlie questions which divided tlie pariah — The great church-music question. From time im- memorial, at least ever since the gallery at the west end had been built, the village psalmody had been in the hands of the occu]ners of tliat Protestant structure. In the middle of the front row sat the musicians, three in number, who played respectively a bass-\T[ol, a 'fiddle, and a clarionet. On one side of them were two or three young women, who sang treble — shrill, ear-piercing treble — with a strong nasal Berkshire drav/1 in it. On the other side of the musicians sat the blacksmith, the wheelwright, and other tradesmen of the place. Tradesmen means in that part of the country what we mean by artisan, and these were naturally allied with the labourers, and consorted with them. So far as church-going was con- cerned, they formed a sort of independent opposition, sitting in the gallery, instead of in the nave, where the farmers and the two or three principal shopkeepers — the great landed and commercial interests — regularly sat and slept, and where the two publicans occupied pews, but seldom made even the pre- tence of worshipping. The rest of the gallery was filled by the able-bodied male peasantry. The old worn-out men generally sat below in the free seats ; the women also, and some few boys. But the hearts of these latter were in the gallery — a seat on the back benches of which was a sign that they had indued the toga VL7'ilis, and were thenceforth free from maternal and pastoral tutelage in the matter of church-going. The gallery thus constituted had gradually usurped the psalmody as their par- ticular and special portion of the service : they left the clerk and the school children, aided by such of the aristocracy below as cared to join, to do the responses ; but, when singiug time came, they reigned supreme. The slate on which the Psalms were announced was hung out from before the centre of the gallery, and the clerk, leaving his place under the reading desk, marched up there to give them out. He took this method of preserving his constitutional connexion with the singing, knowing that otherwise he could not have main- tained the rightful position of his office ia this matter. So matters had stood until shortly before the time of our story. The present curate, however, backed by Miss Winter, had tried a reform. He was a quiet man, with a ^vife and several ENGLEBOUKN VILLAGE. 199 ciildren, and small means. He had served in the diocese ever since he had heen ordained, in a hum-drum sort of way, going where he was sent for, and performing his routine duties reasonably well, but without showing any great aptitude for his work, lie had little interest, and had almost given up expecting promotion, which he certainly had done nothing particular to merit. But there was one point on which he was always ready to go out of his way, and take a Uttle trouble. He was a good musician, and had formed choirs at all his former curacies. Soon after his arrival, therefore, he, in concert with Miss Winter, had begun to train the children in church-music. A small organ, which had stood in a passage in the Eectory for many years, had been repaired, and appeared first at the schoolroom, and at length under the gallery of the church ; and it was announced one week to the party in possession, that, on the next Sunday, the constituted authorities would take the church-music into their own hands. Then arose a strife, the end of which had nearly been to send the gallery off, in a body, headed by the offended bass-viol, to the small red-brick little Bethel at the other end of the village. Fortu- nately the curate had too much good sense to drive matters to extremities, and so alienate the parish constable, ajid a large part of his Hock, though he had not tact or energy enough to bring them round to his own views. So a compromise was come to ; and the curate's choir were allowed to chant the Psalms and Canticles, which had always been read before, while the gallery remained triumphant masters of the regular Psalms. My readers will now understand why ]\Iiss Winter's salu- tation to the musical constable was not so cordial as it was to the other villagers whom they had come across previously. Indeed, Miss Winter, though she acknowledged the con- stable's salutation, did not seem inclined to encourage him to accompany them, and talk his mind out, although he was going the same way with them ; and, instead of drawing him out, as was her wont in such cases, went on talking herseK to her cousin. The little man walked out in the road, evidently in trouble of mind. He did not like to drop behind or go ahead without some further remark from Miss Winter and yet could not screw up his courage to the point of opening the conversation himself. So he ambled on alongside the footpath on which they were walking, showing his discomfort by a twist of hia neck every iV.w seconds, and perpetual shiftings of his bass- viol, and hunchmg up of one shoulder. The conversation of the young ladies under these circum- 200 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. stances was of course forced ; and Miss Mary, though infinitely delighted at the meeting, soon began to pity their involuntary companion. She "vvas full of the sensitive instinct which the best sort of women have to such a marvcJlous extent, and which tells them at once and infallibly if any one in their company has even a creased rose-leaf next their moral skin. Before they had walked a hundred yards she was inter- ceding for the rebellious constable. " Katie," she said softly, in French, " do speak to hiin. The poor man h frightfully uncomfortable." " It serves him right," answered Miss Winter, in the same language : " you don't know how impertinent he was the other day to ]\Ir. AYalker. And he won't give way on the least point, and leads the rest of the old singers, and makes them as stubborn as himself." " Eut do look how he is winking and jerking his head at you. You really mustn't be so cruel to him, Katie. I shall have to begin talking to him if you don't." Thus urged. Miss Winter opened the conversation b, asking after his wife, and when she had ascertained " that his missus wur pretty middlin," made some other common-place remark, and relapsed into silence. By the help of Mary, however, a sort of disjointed dialogue was kept up till they came to the gate which led up to the school, into which the children were trooping by twos and threes. Here the ladies turned in, and were going up the walk, towards the school door, when the constable summoned up courage to speak on the matter which was troubling him, and, resting the bass-viol carefully on his right foot, called out after them, " Oh, please marm ! jVIiss Winter !" "Well," she said quietly, turning round, "what do you wish to say 1" " Why, please marm, I hopes as you don't think I be any ways unked 'bout this here quire-singin' as they calls it — I'm sartin you knows as there ain't amost nothing I wouldn't do to please ee." " WeU, you know how to do it very easily," she said when he paused. " I don't ask you even to give up your music and try to work with us, though I think you might have done that. I only ask you to use some psalms and tunes which are fit to be used in a church." " To be sure us ooL 'Taint we as wants no new-fangled tunes ; them as we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been used in our church ever since I can mind. But you only choose thaay as you likes out o' the book, a^d we be ready to kep to thaay." ENGLEBOUIJN VILLAGE. 201 " I think Mr. Walker made a selection for you some weeks ago," said Miss Winter ; " did noi he ?" " 'Ees, but 'tis narra niossel o' use for we to try his 'goriums and sicli like. I hopes you wunt be offended wf me, miss, for I be telling nought but truth." He spoke louder as they got nearer to the school door, and, as they were opening it, shouted his last shot after them, " 'Tis na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n, miss. When us praises God, us likes to praise un joyful." " There, you hear that, Mary," said Miss Winter. " You'll soon begin to see why I look grave, lliere never was such a hard parish to manage. Nobody will do what they ought. I never can get them to do anything. Perhaps we may manage to teach the children better, that's my only comfort." " But, Katie dear, what do the poor things sing ] Psalms, I hope." " Oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones on purpose, I believe. Which class will you take ?" And so the young ladies settled to their teaching, and the children in her class all fell in love with Mary before church- time. The bass-viol proceeded to the church and did the usual rehearsals, and gossipped with the sexton, to whom he con- fided the fact that the young missus was " terrible vexed," The bells soon began to ring, and Widow Winburn's heart was glad as she listened to the full peal, and thought to herself that it was her Harry who was making so much noise in the world, and speaking to all the neighbourhood. Then the peal ceased as church-time drew near, and the single bell began, and the congregation came flocking in from all sides. The farmers, letting their wives and children enter, gathered roand the chief porch and compared notes in a ponderous manner on crops and markets. The labourers collected near the door by which the gallery was reached. All the men of the parish seemed to like standing about before church, until they had seen the clergyman safely inside. He came up with the school children and the young ladies, and in due course the bell stopped and the service began. There was a very good congregation still at Engleboum ; the adult genera- tion had been bred up in times when every decent person in the parish went to church, and the custom was still strong, notwithstanding the rector's bad example. He scarcely ever came to church himself in the mornings, though his wheel- chair might be seen going up and down on the gravel before his house or on the la^^ n on warm days, and this was one oi his daughter's greatest troubles. 202 TOM BROV/N AT OXFORD. rhe little choir of children gang admirably, led by the schoolmistress, and Miss Winter and the curate exchanged approving glances. They performed the liveliest chant ia their collection, that the opposition might have no cause to complain of their want of joyfulness. And in turn Miss Winter was in hopes that, out of deference to her, the usual rule of selection in the gallery might have been modified. It was with, no small annoyance, therefore, that, after the Litany was over, and the tuning finished, she heard the clerk give out that they would praise God by singing part of the ninety- first Psalm. ^lary, who was on the tiptoe of expectation as to what was coming, saw the curate give a slight shrug with his shoulders and lift of his eyebrows as he left the reading- desk, and in another minute it became a painful effort for her to keep from laughing as she slyly watched her cousin's face ; while the gallery sang with vigour worthy of any cause or occasion — ** On the old lion He shall go, The adder fell and long ; On the young lion tread also, With dragons stout and strong." The trebles took up the last line, and- repeated — " With dragons stout and strong ;" and then the whole strength of the gallery chorused again — ".With dra,-gons stout and strong," and the bass-viol seemed to her to prolong the notes and to gloat over them as he droned them out, looking triumphantly at the distant curate. Mary was thanlvful to kneel down to compose her face. The first trial was the severe one, and she got through the second psalm much better ; and by the time Mr. Walker had plunged faiiiy into his sermon she was a ruodel of propriety and sedateness again. But it was to be a Sunday of adventures. The sermon had scarcely begun when there was a stir do-vvn by the door at the west end, and people began to look round and whisper. Presently a man came softly up and said something to the clerk ; the clerk jumped up and wliispered to the curate, who paused for a moment with a puzzled look, and, instead of finishing his sentence, said in a loud voice, " Farmer Groves' house is on fire ! " The curate probably anticipated the effect of his words ; in a minute he was the only person left in the church except the cleric and one or two very infirm old folk. He shut up and pocketed liis sermon, and followed his fiock. It proved luckily to be only Farmer Groves' chimney and not his house which was on fire. The farmhouse was only KNGLEBOURN VILLAGE. 203 two fields from tlie village, and the congregation rushed across there, Harry "Win burn and two or three of the most active young men and boys leading. As they entered the yard the flames were rushing out of the chimney, and any moment the thatch might take fire. Here was the real danger. A ladder had just been reared against the chimney, and, while a frightened farm-girl and a carter-boy held it at the bottom, a man was going up it carrying a bucket of water. It shook with his Aveight, and the top was slipping gradually along the face of the chimney, and in another moment would rest against nothing. Harry and his companions saw the danger at a glance, and shouted to the man to stand still till they could get to the ladder. They rushed towards him with the rush which men can only make under stiong excitement ; but as the foremost of them caught a spoke wdth one hand, and, before he could steady it, the top slipped clear of the chimney, and ladder, man, and bucket came heavily to the ground. Then came a scene of bewildering confusion, as women and children trooped into the yard — "Who was it?" "Was he dead 1 " " The fire was catcliing the thatch." " The stables were on fire." "Who done it?" — all sorts of cries and all sorts of acts except the right ones. Fortunately, tw^o or three of the men, with heads on their shoulders, soon organized a line for handing buckets ; the flue was stopped below, and Harry Winburn, standing nearly at the top of the ladder, which was now safely planted, was deluging the thatch round the chimney from the buckets handed up to him. In a few minutes he was able to pour water down the chimney itself, and soon afterwards the whole affair was at an end. The farmer's dinner w^as spoilt, but otherwise no damage had been done, except to the clothes of the foremost men ; and the only accident was that first fall from the ladder. The man had been carried out of the yard while the fire was still burning ; so that it was hardly knov»'n who it was. Now, in answer to their inquiries, it proved to be old Simon, the rector's gardener and head man, who had seen the fire, and sent the news to the churcli, Vvdiile he himself went to the spot, with such result as we have seen. Tlic surgeon had not yet seen him. Some declared he was dead ; others, that he was sitting up at home, and quite well. Little by little the crowd dispersed to Sunday's dinners ; and, when tbey met again before the afternoon's service, it was ascertained that Simon was certainly not dead, but all else was still nothing more than rumour. Public opinion was much divided, some holding that it would go hard with a man of his age and heft ; but the common belief seemed to 204 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. be that he was of that sort *' as'd take a deal o' killin'," and that he would be none the worse for such a fall as that. The two young ladies had been much shocked at the acci- dent, and had accompanied the hurdle on which old Simon was carried to his cottage door ; after afternoon service they went round by the cottage to inquire. The two girls knocked at the door, which was opened by his wife, Avho dropped a curtsey and smoothed down her Sunday apron when she found who were her visitors. She seemed at first a little unTvoLling to let them in ; but Miss Winter pressed so kindly to see her husband, and Mary made such sympathizing eyes at her, that the old woman gave in and conducted them through the fi'ont room into that beyond, where the patient lay. " I hope as you'll excuse it, miss, for I knows the place do smell terrible bad of baccer; only my old man he said as how—" " Oh, never mind, we don't care at aU about the smell. Poor Simon ! I'm sure if it does him any good, or soothes tlie pain, I shall be glad to buy him some tobacco myself.'' The old man was lying on the bed with his coat and boots off, and a Avorsted nightcap of his wife's knitting pulled on to his head. She had tried hard to get him to go to bed at once, and take some physic, and his present costume and position was the compromise. His back was turned to them as they entered, and he was evidently in pain, for he drew his breath heavily and with difficulty, and gave a sort of groan at every respiration. He did not seem to notice their entrance ; so his wife touched him on the shoulder, and said, *' Simon, here's the young ladies come to see how you be." Simon turned himself round, and winced and groaned as he pulled off his nightcap in token of respect. " We didn't like to go home without coming to see how you were, Simon. Has the doctor been 1 " " Oh, yes, thank'ee, miss. He've a been and feel'd un all over, and listened at the chest on un," said his wife. " And what did he say ? " " He zem'd to zay as there wur no bwones bruk — ugh, ugh," put in Simon, who spoke his native tongue with a buzz, imported from farther west, " but a couldn't zay wether or no there warn't som infarnal injury — " " Etarnal, Simon, etarnal ! " interrupted his wife ; *' how canst use such words afore the young ladies ? " " I tell'ee wife, as 'twur infarnal — ugh, ugh," retorted the gardener. ENGLEBOURN ^^LLAGE. 206 " Internal injury 1 " suggested Miss Winter. " I'm very fiorry to hear it." " Zummut inside o' me like, as wur got out o' place,' explained Simon ; " and I thenks a must be near about the mark, for I feels mortal bad here when I trios to move ; " and he put his hand on his side. " Hows'm'ever, as there's nc bwones bruk, I hopes to be about to-morrow mornin', please the Lord — ugh, ugh." " You mustn't think of it, Simon," said Miss Winter. " You must be quite quiet for a week, at least, till you get rid of this pain." "So I tells un. Miss Winter," put in the wife. "Yon hear what the young missus says, Simon 1 " '" And wut's to happen to Tiny 1 " said the contumacious Simon, scornfully. " Her'll cast her calf, and me not by. Her's calving may be this minut. Tiny's time wur up, miss, two days back, and her's never no gurt while arter her time." *' She mil do very well, I dare say," said I^Iiss Winter. " One of the men can look after her." The notion of any one else attending Tiny in her interest- ing situation seemed to excite Simon beyond bearing, for he raised himself on one elbow, and was about to make a demonstration with his other hand, when the pain seized him again, and he sank back gToaning. " There, you see, Simon, you can't move without pain. You must be quiet till you have seen the doctor again." " There's the red spider out along the south wall — ugh, ugh," persisted Simon, without seeming to hear her ; " and your new g'raniums a'most covered wi' blight. I wur a tackUn' one on 'em just afore you cum in." Following the direction indicated by his nod, the girls became aware of a plant by his bed-side, which he had been fumigating, for his pipe was leaning against the flower-pot in which it stood. " He wouldn't lie still Eohow, miss," explained his wife, " till I went and fetched un in a pipe and one o' thaay plants from the greenhouse." " It was very thoughtful of you, Simon," said Miss Winter; " you know how much I prize these new plants : but we will manage them ; and you mustn't think of these thmgs now. You have had a wonderful escape to-day for a man of your age. I hope we shall find that there is nothing much the matter with you after a few days, but you might have been killed, you know. You ought to be very thankful to God that you were not killed in that fall." " So I be, miss, werry thankful to un-— ugh, ugh ; — and if 20f) TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD, it plaase the Lord to spare my life till to-morrow momin'j — ugh, ugh, — we'll smoke them cussed insects." This last retort of the incorrigible Simon on her cousui'e attempt, as the rector's daughter, to improve the occasion, was too much for Miss iNIary, and she slipped out of the room lest she should bring disgrace on herself by an explosion of laugh- ter. She was joined by her cousin in another minute, and the two walked together towards the Rectory. " I hope you were not faint, dear, mth that close room, smelling of smoke 1 " " Oh dear," no ; to tell you the truth, I was only afraid of laughing at your quaint old patient. What a rugged old dear it is. 1 hope he isn't much hurt." " I hope not, indeed ; for he is the most honest, faithful old servant in the world, but so obstinate. He never will go to church on Sunday mornings ; and, when I speak to him about it, he says papa doesn't go. Which is very wrong and impertinent of him." CHAPTEE XIX. A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER, All dwellers in and about London are, alas, too well ac- qualnjted with that ncver-to-be-enough-hated change which we have to undergo once, at least, in every spring. As each succeeding winter wears away, the same thing happens to us. For some time wo do not trust the fair lengthening days, and cannot believe that the dirty pair of sparrows vho live opposite our window are really making love and going to build, notwithstanding all tJieir twittering. But morning after morning rises fresh and gentle ; there is no -longer any vice in the air ; we drop our over-coats ; we rejoice in the green shoots which the privet hedge is making in the square garden, and had the returning tender-pointed leaves of the plane-trees as friends ; we go out of our way to M^alk through Covent Garden Market to see the ever-brightening show of flowers from the happy country. This state of things goes on sometimes for a few days only, sometimes for weeks, till we make sure that we are safe for this S})ring at any rate. Don't we ^vish we may get it ! Sooner or later, but sure — sui'e as Chiistmas bdls, or the income-tax, or anything, if there be anything, surer than these — comes the morning when we are suddenly conscious as soon as we rise that there is something the matter. We do not feel A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER. 207 comfortable in our clothes ; nothing tastes quite as it should at breakfast ; though the day looks bright enough, there is a fierce dusty taint about it as we look out through windows, which no instinct now prompts us to throw open, as it has done every day for the last month. But it is only when we open our doors and issue into the street, that the hateful reality comes right home to us. All moisture, and softness, and pleasantness has gone clean out of the air since last night ; we seem to inhale yards of horsehair instead of satin ; our skins dry up ; our eyes, and hair, and whiskers, and clothes are soon filled with loathsome dust, and our nostrils with the reek of the great city. We glance at the weather-cock on the nearest steeple, and see that it points N.E. And so long as the change lasts, we carry about with us a feeling of anger and impatience as though we personally were being ill-treated. We could have borne with it well enough in IS'ovember ; it would have been natural, and all in the day's work in !March ; but now, when Rotten-row is bcginniug to be crowded, when long lines of pleasure- vans are leaving town on Monday mornings for Hampton Court or the poor remains of dear Epping Forest, when the exhibitions are open or about to open, when the religious public is up, or on its way up, for May meetings, when the Thames is already sending up faint warnings of what we may expect as soon as his dirty old life's blood shall have been thoroughly warmed up, and the Ship, and Trafalgar, and Star and Garter are in full swing at the antagonist poles of the cockney system, we do feel that this blight which has come over us and everything is an insult, and that while it lasts, as there is nobody who can be made particularly responsible for it, we are justified in going about in general disgust, and ready to quarrel with any- bod}^ we may meet on the smallest pretext. This sort of east-windy state is perhaps the best physical analogy for that mental one in which our hero now found himself. The real crisis was over ; he had managed to pass through the eye of the storm, and drift for the present at least into the sldrts of it, where he lay rolling under bare poles, comparatively safe, but without any power as yet to get the ship well in hand, and make her obey her helm. The storm might break over him again at any minute, and would find him almost as helpless as ever. For he could not follow Drysdale's advice at once, and break off his visits to " The Choughs " altogether. He went back again after a day or two, but only for short visits ; he never stayed behind now after the other men left the bar, and avoided interviews with Fatty alone as diligently as he had 208 TO jr. BROWN AT OXFORD. sought taem before. She Avas puzzled at his change of man- Tier, and not being able to account for it, was piqued, and read)^ to revenge lierself and pay him out in the hundred little ways which the least practised of her sex know how to employ for the discipline of any of the inferior or trousered half of the creation. If she had been really in love with him, it would have been a different matter ; but she was not. In the last six weeks she had certainly often had visions of the pleasures of being a lady and keeping servants, and riding in a carriage like the squires' and rectors' wives and daughters about her home. She had a liking, even a sentiment for him, which might very well have grown into something dangerous before long ; but as yet it was not more than skin deep. Of late, indeed, she had been much more frightened than attracted by the conduct of her admirer, and really felt it a relief, notwithstanding her pique, when he retired into the elder brother sort of state. Eut she would have been more than woman if she had not resented the change ; and so very soon the pangs of jealousy were added to his other troubles. Other men were beginning to frequent " The Choughs " regularly. Drysdale, besides dividing with Tom the prestige of being an original discoverer, was by far the largest customer. St. Cloud came, and brought Chanter with him, to whom Patty was actually civil, not because she liked him at all, but because she saw that it made Tom furious. Though he could not fix on any one man in particu- lar, he felt that manldnd in general were gaining on him. In his better moments, indeed, he often Mdshed that she would take the matter into her own hands and throw him over for good and all ; but keep away from the place altogether he could not, and often, when he fancied himself on the point of doing it, a pretty toss of her head or kind look of her eyes would scatter all his good resolutions to the four winds. And so the days dragged on, and ho dragged on through them ; hot fits of conceit alternating in him with cold fit? of despondency and mawkishness and discontent ^vith everything and everybody, which were all the more intolerable from their entire strangeness. Instead of seeing the bright side of all things, he seemed to be looking at creation through yellow spectacles, and saw faults and blemishes in all his acquaintance which had been till now invisible. But the more he was inclined to depreciate all other men, the more he felt that there was one to whom he had been grossly unjust. And, as he recalled all that had passed, he began to do justice to the man who had not flinched from warning him and braving him, who he felt had been watching A TEOMISE OP FAIRER WEATHER. 209 over him, and trying to guide him straight, when he had lost all power or will to keep straight himself. From this time the dread increased on him lest any of the other men should find out his quarrel with Hardy. Their utter ignorance of it encouraged him in the hope that it might all pass off like a bad dream. While it remained a matter between them alone, he felt that all might come straight, though he could not think how. He began to loiter by the entrance of the passage which led to Hardy's rooms ; some- times he would find something to say to his scout or bed- maker which took him into the back regions outside Hardy'5 window, glancing at it sideways as he stood giving his orders. There it was, wide open, generally — he hardly knew whether he ho])ed to catch a glimpse of the owner, but he did hope that Hardy might hear his voice. He watched him in chapel anil hall furtively, but constantly, and was always fancying what he was doing and thinking about. Was it as painful an effort to Hardy, he wondered, as to him to go on speaking, as if nothing had happened, when they met at the boats, as they did now again almost daily (for Diogenes was bent on training some of the torpids for next year), and yet never to look one another in the face ; to live together as usual during part of every day, and yet to feel all the time that a great wall had risen between them, more hopelessly dividing them for the time than thousands of miles of ocean or continent 1 Amongst other distractions wliich Tom tried at this crisis of his life, was reading. For three or four days running, he really worked hard — very hard, if we were to reckon by the number of hours he spent in his own rooms over his books with his oak sported — hard, even though we should only reckon by results. For, though scarcely an hour passed that he v/as not balancing on the hind legs of his chair with a vacant look in his eyes, and thinking of anything but Greek roots or Latin constructions, yet on the whole he managed to get through a good deal, and one evening, for the first time since his quarrel with Hardy, felt a sensation of real comfort — it hardly amounted to pleasure — as he closed his Sophocles some hour or so after hall, having just finished the last of the Greek plays which he meant to take in for his first examination. He leaned back in his chair and sat for a few minutes, letting his thoughts follow their own bent. They soon took to going wrong, and he jumped up in fear lest he should be chiftixig back into the black stormy sea, in the trough of which he had been labouring so lately, and which he felt he was by no means clear of yet. At first he caught up his cap and P 210 TOxM BROWN AT OXFORD. gown as thougli he were going out. There was a wine party at one of his acquaintance's rooms; or he could go and smoke a cigar in the pool room, or at any one of a dozen other places. On second thoughts, however, he threw his academicals back on to the sofa, and went to his book-case. The reading had paid so well tliat evening that he resolved to go on with it. He had no particular object in selecting one book more than another, and so took down carelessly the first that came to hand. It happened to be a volume of Plato, and open^.d of its own accord in the "Apology." He glanced at a few lines. What a flood of memories they called up ! This was almost the last book he had read at school ; and teacher, and friends, and lofty oak-shelved library stood out before him at once. Then the blunders that he himself and others had made rushed thi'ough his mind, and he almost burst into a laugh as he wheeled his chair round to the window, and began reading where he had opened, encouraging every thought of the old times when he first read that marvellous defence, and throwing himseK back into them with aJi his might. And still, tis he read, forgotten words of wise comment, and strange thoughts of wonder and longing, came back to him. The great truth which he had been led to the brink of in those early days rose in all its awe and all its attractiveness before him. He leant back in his chair, and gave himself up to his tliougiit ; and how strangely that thought bore on the struggle which had been raging in him of late ; how an answer seemed to be trembling to come out of it to all the cries, now defiant, now plaintive, which had gone up out of his heart in this time of trouble ! For his thought was of that spirit, dit^tinct from himself, and yet communing with his inmost soul, always dwelling in him, knowing him better than he knew himself, never misleading him, always leading him to light and truth, of which the old philosopher spoke. " The old heathen, Socrates, did actually believe that — there can be no question about it ; " he thought, " Has not the testimony of the best men through these two thousand years borne witness that he was right — that he did not believe a lie I That was what we were told. Surely I don't mistake ! Were we not told, too, or did I dream it, that what was true for him is true for every man — for me 1 That there is a spirit dwelling in me, striving with me, ready to lead me into all truth if I will submit to his guidance ? " Ay ! submit, submit, there's the rub ! Give yourself up to his guidance I Throw up the reins, and say you've made a mess of it. Well, why not 1 Haven't I made a mess of it 1 Am I fit to hold the reins l A PROMISE OF FAIEEE WEATHER. 211 " Not I " — ^lie got up and began walking about bis rooms — " I give it up." " Give it up ! " he went on presently ; " yes, but to whom I Not to the da3inon, spirit, whatever it was, who took up his abode in tlie old Athenian — at least, so he said, and so I believe. No, no ! Two thousand years and all that they have seen have not passed over the world to leave us just where he was left. We want no daemons or spirits. And yet the old heathen was guided right, and what can a man want more 1 and who ever wanted guidance more than I now — here — in this room — at this minute? I give up the reins; who will take them ? " And so there came on him one of those seasons when a man's thoughts cannot be followed in words. A sense of awe came on him, and over him, and wrapped him round ; awe at a presence of which he was becoming suddenly conscious, into which he seemed to have wandered, and yet which lio folt must have been there, aroimd him, in his own heart and soul, though he knew it not. There was hope and longing in his heart mingling with the fear of that presence, but withal the old reckless and daring feeling which he knew so weU, still bubbling up untamed, untamable it seemed to him. The room stilled him now ; so he threw on his cap and gown, and hurried down into the quadrangle. It was very quiet ; probably there were not a dozen men in college. He walked across to tlie low dark entrance of the passage which led to Hardy's rooms, and there paused. Was he there by chance, or was he guided there 1 Yes, this was the right way for him, he had no doubt now as to that ; doAvn the dark passage and into the room he knew so well — and what then ? He took a short turn or tw^o before the entrance. How could he be sure that Hardy was alone 1 And, if not, to go in would be worse than useless. If he w^ere alone, w^hat should he say 1 After all, must he go in there 1 was there no way but that 1 The college clock struck a quarter to seven. It was his usual time for " The Choughs ; " the house would be quiet now ; was there not one looking out for him there who would be grieved if he did not come ? After all, might not that bo his way, for this night at least 1 He might bring pleasure to one human being by going there at once. That he knew ; what else could he be sure of? At this moment he heard Hardy's door open, and a voice saying " Good night," and the next Grey came out of tlie passage, and was passing close to him. "Join yourself to him." The impulse came so ^'trongly p2 212 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. into Tom's mind this time, that it was like a voice speaking to him. He yielded to it, and, stepping to Grey's side, wished him good evening. The other returned his salute in hi£ shy wa}^, and was hurrying on, hut Tom kept hy him. " Have you been reading wdth Hardy ? " " Yes." " How is he ? I have not seen anything of him for some time." " Oh, very well, I think," said Grey, glancing sideways at his questioner, and adding, after a moment, "I have wondered rather not to see you there of late." " Are you going to your school 1 " said Tom, breaking away from the subject. " Yes, and I am rather late ; I must make haste on ; good night." " Will you let me go with you to-night 1 It would be a real kindness. Indeed," he added, as he saw how embarrassing his proposal was to Grey, " I will do whatever you tell me — you don't know how grateful I shall be to you. Do let me go — ^ju3t for to-night. Try me once." Grey hesitated, turned his head sharply once or twice as tliey walked on together, and then said with something like a sigh — " I don't know, Fm sure. Did you ever teach in a night- school ? " " Xo, but I have taught in the Sunday-school at home sometimes. Indeed, I vnll do whatever you tell me." " Oh ! but this is not at all like a Sunday-school. They are a very rough, wild lot." " The rougher the better," said Tom ; " I shall know how to manage them then." " But you must not really be rough ^vith them." " No, I won't ; I didn't mean that," said Tom hastily, for he saw his mistake at once. " I shall take it as a great favour, if you will let me go with you to-night. l''ou won't repent it, I'm sure." Grey did not seem at all sure of this, but saw no means of getting rid of his companion, and so they walked on together and turned down a long narrow court in the lowest part of the toAvn. At the doors of the houses, labouring men, mostly Irish, lounged or stood about, smoking and talking to one another, or to the women who leant out of the windows, or passed to and fro on their various errands of business or pleasure. A group of half-grown lads were playing at pitch- farthing at the farther end, and all over the court were scattered children of all ages, ragged and noisy little creatures A PROMISE OF FAIKER WEATHER, 213 most of tliem, on whom paternal and maternal admonitions and cuffs were constantly being expended, and to all appear- ances in vain. At the sight of Grej a shout arose amongst the smallei boys, of '* Here's the teacher ! " and they crowded round him and Tom as they went up the court. Several of the men gave him a half-surly half- respectful nod, as he passed along, wishing them good evening. The rest merely stared at him and his companion. They stopped at a door which Grey opened, and led the way into the passage of an old tumble- down cottage, on the ground floor of which were two low rooms which served for the school-rooms. A hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who kept the house, was waiting, and said to Grey, " j\Ir. Jones told me to say, sir, he would not be here to-night, as he has got a bad fever case — so you was to take only the lower classes, sir, he said ; and the policeman would be near to keep out the big boys if you wanted him. Shall I go and tell him to step round, sirl" Grey looked embarrassed for a moment, and then said, " i!^o. never mind : you can go ; " and then, turning to Tom, added, " Jones is the curate ; he won't be here to-night ; and some of the bigger boys are very noisy and troublesome, and only come to make a noise. However, if they come we must do our best." Meantime, the crowd of small ragged urchins had filled the room, and were swarming on to the benches and squabbling for the copy-books which were laid out on the thin desks. Grey set to work to get them into order, and soon the smallest were draughted off into the inner room with slates and sj)elling-books, and the bigger ones, some dozen in number, settled to their writing. Tom seconded him so readily, and seemed so much at home, that Grey felt quite relieved. " You seem to get on capitally," he said ; " I will go into the inner room to the little ones, and you stay and take these. There are the class-books when they have done their copies," and so went off into the inner room and closed the door. Tom set himself to work with a will, and as he bent over one after another of the pupils, and guided the small grubby hands which clutched the inky pens with cramped fingers, and went spluttering and blotching along the lines of the copy- books, felt the yellow scales dropping from his eyes, and more warmth coming back into his heart than he had known there for many a day. All went on well inside, notwithstanding a few small out* 214 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. breaks between tbe scholars, but every now and tlien mud was thrown against the window, and noises outside and in the passage threatened some interruption. At last, w^hen the writing was finished, the copj^-books cleared away, and the class-books distributed, the door opened, and two or three big boys of fifteen or sixteen lounged in, Avith then- hands in their pockets and their caps on. There was an insolent look about them which set Tom's back up at once ; however, he kept his temper, made them take their caps off, and, as they said they wanted to read with the rest, let them take their places on the benches. But now^ came the tug of war. He could not keep his eyes on the whole lot at once, and, no sooner did he fix his attention on the stammering reader for the time being and try to help him, than anarchy broke out all round him. Small stones and shot were thown about, and cries arose from tlie smaller fiy, "Please, sir, he's been and poured some ink down my back," " He's stole my book, sir," " He's gone and stuck a pin in my leg." The evil-doers were so cunning that it w^as im- possible to catch them ; but, as he w^as hastily turning in his ow^n mind what to do, a cry arose, and one of the benches w^ent suddenly over backwards on to the floor, carrying Avith it its whole freight of boys, except two of the bigger ones, who w^ere the evident authors of the mishap. Tom sprang at the one nearest him, seized him hy the collar, hauled him into the passage, and sent him out of the street- door with a sound kick ; and then, rushing back, caught hold of the second, who went dow^n on his back and clung round Tom's legs, shouting for help to his remaining companion, and struggling and swearuig. It was all the work of a moment, and now the door opened, and Grey appeared from the umer room. Tom left ofl' hauling his pri2;e towards the passage, and felt and looked very foolish. " This fellow, and another w^hom I have turned out, upset that form with all the little boys on it," he said, apolo- getically. " It's a lie, 'twasn't me," roared the captive, to whom Tom administered a sound box on the ear, while the smaU boys, rubbing different parts of their bodies, chorused, " 'twas him, teacher, 'twas him," and heaped further charges of pinching, pin-sticking, and other atrocities on him. Grey astonished Tom l)y his firmness. " Don't strike him again," he said. "Now, go out at once, or I will send for your father." The fellow got up, and, after standing a moment and considering his chance of successful resistance to physical force in the person of Tom, and moral in that of A PROMISE OP FAIRER WEATHER. 215 Grey, slunk out. " You must go too, Murphy," went on Grey to another of the intruders. " Oh, your honour, let me bide. I'll be as quiet as a mouse," pleaded the Irish boy ; and Tom would have given in, but Grey was unyielding. " You were turned out last week, and Mr. Jones said you were not to come back for a fortnight." " Well, good night to your honour," said Murphy, and took himself off. "The rest may stop," said Grey. "You had better take the inner room now ; I will stay here." " I am very sorr}'-," said Tom. " You couldn't help it ; no one can manage those two. !Murphy is quite diflerent, but I should have spoiled him if I had let him stay now." The remaining half-hour passed off quietly. Tom retired into the inner room, and took up Grey's lesson, which he had been reading to the boys from a large Bible with pictures. Out of consideration for their natural and acquired restless- ness, the little fellows, who were all between eight and eleven years old, were only kept sitting at their pot-hooks and spelling for the first half-hour or so, and then were allowed to crowd round the teacher, who read and talk to them, and showed them the pictures. Tom found the Bible open at the story of the prodigal son, and read it out to them as they clustered round his knees. Some of the outside ones fidgeted about a little, but those close round him listened with ears, and eyes, and bated breath ; and two little blue-eyed boys without shoes — their ragged clothes concealed by long pinafores which theif widowed mother had put on clean to send them to school — leaned against him and looked up in his face, and his heart warmed to the touch and the look. " Please, teacher, read it again," they said when he finished ; so he read it again, and sighed when Grey came in and lighted a candle (for the room was getting dark) and said it was time for prayers. A few collects, and the Lord's Prayer, in which all the young voices joined, drowning for a minute the noises from the court outside, finished the evening's schooling, llie chil- dren trooped out, and Grey went to speak to the woman who kept the house. Tom, left to himself, felt strangely happy, and, for something to do, took the snuffers and commenced a crusade against a large family of bugs, who, taking advantage of the quiet, came cruising out of a crack in the otherv/ise neatly papered wall. Some dozen had fallen on his spear when Grey re-appeared, and was much liorrified at the sight, 216 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. ITe called the woman, and tcld her to have the hole careftilly fumigated and mended. " I thought we had killed them all long ago," he said j "but the place is tumbling down." " It looks well enough," said Tom. " Yes, we have it kept as tidy as possible. It ought to be at least a little better than what the children see at home." And so thej left the school and court and vralked up to college. " Where are you going 1 " Tom said, as they entered the gate. " To Hardy's rooms ; will you come ]" "Ko, not to-night," said Tom, "I know that you want to be reading ; I should only interrupt." *■ WeU, good-night, then," said Grey, and werd< (m, leaving Tom standing in the porch. On the way up from the school he had almost made up his mind to go to Hardy's rooms that night. He longed, and yet feared to do so ; and, on the whole, was not sorry for an excuse. Their first meeting must be alone, and it would be a very emban-assing one, for him at any rate. Grey, he hoped, would tell Hardy of his visit to the school, and that would show that he was coming round, f\nd make the meeting easier. His talk with Grey, too, had removed one great cause of uneasiness from his mind. It was now quite clear that he had no suspicion of the quarrel, and, if Hardy had not told him, no one else could know of it. Altogether, he strolled into the quadrangle a happier and sounder man than he had been since his first visit to " The Choughs," and looked up and answered with his oid look and voice when he heard liis name called from one of the first- floor windows. The hailer was Drysdale, who was leaning out in loimging- coat and velvet cap, and enjoying a cigar as usual, in the midst of the flowers of his hanging garden. "You've heard the good news, I suppose ?" " No, what do you mean 1 " " Why, Blake has got the Latin verse." ** Hurrah ! I'm so glad." " Come up and have a weed," Tom ran up the staircase and into Drysdale's rooms, and was leaning out of the window at his side in another minute. " What does he get by it 1 " he said, " do you know '? " " No ; some books bound in Russia, I dare say, with the Oxford arms, and *Domiaus illuminatio mea' on the back. " No money ] " A. TEOMISE OF FAIKER WEATHER. 217 " N"ot much — perhaps a ten'ner," answered Diysdale, but no end of kvSoc, I suppose." " It makes it look well for his first, don't you think ? But I wish he had got some money for it. I often feel very uncomfortable about that bill, don't you 1 " " Not I, what's the good 1 It's nothing when you are used to it. Besides, it don't fall due for another six weeks." " But if Blake can't meet it then 1 " said Tom. " Well, it will be vacation, and I'U trouble greasy Benjamin to catch me then." ''But you don't mean to say you won't pay it?" said Tom in horror. " Pay it ! You may trust Benjamin for that. He'U pull round his little usuries somehoAv." " Only we have promised to pay on a certain day, you know." " Oh, of course, that's the form. That only means that he can't pinch us sooner." " I do hope, though, Drysdale, that it will be paid on the day," said Tom, who could not quite swallow the notion of forfeiting his word, even though it were only a promise to pay to a scoundrel. " AU right. You've nothing to do with it, remember. He won't bother you. Besides, you can plead infancy, if the worst comes to the worst. There's such a queer old bird gone to your friend Hardy's rooms." The mention of Hardy broke the disagreeable train of thought into which Tom was falling, and he listened eagerly as Drysdale went on. " It was about half an hour ago. 1 was looking out here, and saw an old fellow come hobbling into quad on two sticks, in a shady blue uniform coat and white trousers. The kind of old boy you read about in books, you know. Commodore Trunnion, or Uncle Toby, or one of that sort. Well, I watched him backing and filing about the quad, and trying one staircase and another ; but there was nobody about. So down I trotted, and went up to him for fun, and to see what he was after. It was as good as a play, if you could have seen it. I was ass enough to take off my cap and make a low bow as I came up to him, and he pulled off his uniform cap in return, and we stood there bowing to one another. He was a thorough old gentleman, and I felt rather foolish for fear he should see that I expected a lark when I came out. But I don't think he had an idea of it, and only set my capping him down to the wonderful good manners of the college. So we got quite thick, and I piloted 218 TOM BROWX AT OXFORD. him across to Hardy's staircase in the back quad. I wanted him to come up and quench, but he declined, with many apologies. I'm sure he is a character," " He must be Hardy's father," said Tom. " I shouldn't wonder. But is his father in the navy 1 " " He is a retired captain." •■* Then no doubt you're right. Whsit shall we do 1 Have a hand at picquet. Some men will be here directly. Oiily for love." Tom declined the proffered game, and went off soon after to his own rooms, a happier man than he had been since hi?? first night at " The Choughs." CHAPTER XX. THE RECONCILIATION. Tom rose in the morning with a presentiment that all would be over now before long, and, to make his presentiment come true, resolved, before night, to go himself to Hardy and give in. All he reserved to himself was the liberty to do it in the manner which would be least painful to himself. He was greatly annoyed, therefore, when Hardy did not appear at morning chapel j for he had fixed on the leaving chapel as the least un- pleasant time in which to begin his confession, and was going to catch Hardy then, and follow him to his rooms. All the morning, too, in answer to his inquiries by his scout Wiggins, Hardy's scout replied that his master was out, or busy. He did not come to the boats, he did not appear in hall ; so that, after hall, when Tom went back to his own rooms, as he did at once, instead of sauntering out of college, or going to a wine party, he was quite out of heart at his bad luck, and began to be afraid that he would have to sleep on his unhealed wound another night. He sat down in an arm-chair, and fell to musing, and thought how wonderfully his hfe had been changed in these few short weeks. He could hardly get back across the gulf which separated him from the self who had come back into those rooms after Easter, full of anticipations of the pleasures and delights of the coming summer term and vacation. To his own sur])rise he didn't seem much to regret the loss of his chdteaux en Espagne, and felt a sort of grim satisfaction in their utter overthrow. While occupied Avith these thoughts, he heard talking on his stairs, accompanied by a strange lumbering tread. These THE RECONCILIATION. 2lS eame nearer ; and at last stopped jnst outside his door, which opened in another niom-ent, and Wiggins announced — " Capting Hardy, sir." Tom jumped to his legs, and felt himself colour painfully. *' Here, Wiggins," saM he, " wheel round that arm-chair for Captain Hardy. I am so very glad to see you, sir," and he hastened round himself to meet the old gentleman, holding out his liand, which the visitor took very cordially, as soon as he had passed his heavy stick to his left hand, and balanced himself safely upon it. "Thank you, sir ; thank you," said the old man after a few moments' pause, " I find your companion ladders rather steep ;" and then he sat down with some difficulty. Tom took the Captain's stick and undress cap, and put them reverentially on his sideboard ; and then, to get rid of some little nervousness which he couldn't help feeling, bustled to his cupboard, and helped Wiggins to place glasses and biscuits on the table. " Now, sir, what will you take 1 I have port, sherry, and whiskey here, and can get you any- thing else. Wiggins, run to Hinton's and get some dessert." " No dessert, thank you, for me," said the Captain ; " I'll take a cup of cofi'ec, or a glass of grog, or anything you have ready. Don't open wine for me, pray, sir." " Oh, it is all the better for being opened," said Tom, working away at a bottle of sherry ^vith his corkscrew — " and, Wiggms, get some cofi'ec and anchovy toast in a quarter of an hour ; and just put out some tumblers and toddy ladles, and bring up boiling water with the cofiee." "V\^ile making his hospitable preparations, Tom managed to get many side-glances at the old man, who sat looking steadily and abstractedly before him into the fireplace, and was much struck and touched by the picture. The sailor wore a well-preserved old undress uniform coat and waistcoat, and white drill trousers ; he was a man of middle height, but gaunt and massive, and Tom recognised the framework of the long arms and grand shoulders and chest which he had so often admired in the son. His right leg was quite stiff from an old wound on the kneecap ; the left eye was sightless, and the scar of a cutlass travelled down the drooping lid and on to the weather-beaten cheek below. His head was high and broad, his hair and whiskers silver white, while the shaggy eyebrows were scarcely grizzled. His face was deeply Uned, and the long clean-cut lower jaw, and di*awn look about the mouth, gave a grim expression to the face at the first glance, which wore off as 3'ou looked, leaving, however, on most men who thought about it, the impressiou which fastened on our 220 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. hero, " An awkward man to have met at the head of hoarders towards the end of the great war," In a minute or tw^o Tom, having completed his duties, faced the old sailor, much reassured by his covert inspection ; and, pouring himself out a glass of sherry, pushed the decanter across, and drank to his guest. " Your hcdth, sir," he said, "and tliank you very much foi coming up to see me." " Thank you, sir," said the Captain, rousing himself and tilling, " I di'ink to you, sir. The fact is, I took a great liberty in coming up to your rooms in this off-hand way, without calling or sending up, but you'll excuse it in an old Bailor." Here the Captain took to his glass, and seemed a little embarrassed. Tom felt embarrassed also, feeling that something was coming, and could only think of asking how the Captain liked the sherry. The Captain liked the sheixy very nmch. Then, suddenly clearing his tliroat, he went on. " I felt, sir, that you would excuse me, for I have a favour to ask of you." He paused again, while Tom muttered some- thing about " gi'eat pleasure," and then went oru "You know my son, Mr. Brown ?" " Yes, sir ; he has been my best friend up here ; I owe more to him than to any man in Oxford." The Captain's eye gleamed with pleasure as he replied, " Jack is a noble fellow, Mr. Brown, though I say it who am his father. I've often promised myself a cniise to Oxford since he has been here. I came here at last yesterday, and have been having a long j^arn w^ith him. I found there was something on his mind. He can't keep anything from his old father : and so I drew out of him that he loves you as David loved Jonathan. lie made my old eye very dim while he w^as talking of you, Mr. Brown. And then I found that you two are not as you used to be. Some coldness sprung up between you ; but what about I couldn't get at. Young men are often hasty — I know I was, forty years ago-^Jack says he has been hasty with you. Now, that boy is all I have in the world, Mr. Brown. I know my boy's friend will like to send an old man home with a light heart. So I made up my mind to come over to you and ask you to make it up with' Jack. I gave him the slip after dinner and here I am." " Oh, sir, did he really ask you to come to me ?" " Ko, sir," said the Captain, " he did not — I'm sorry for it — I think Jack must be in the wrong, for he said he had been too hasty, and yet he wouldn't ask me to come to you and make it up. But he is young, sir ; young and proud. He eaid he couldn't move in it, his mind was made up ; he was THE RECONCILIATION. 221 wretclicd enongli over it, but the move must come from you And so that's the favour I have to ask, that you will make it up with Jack. It isn't often a young man can do such a favour to an old one — to an old father with one son. You'll not feel the worse for having done it, if it's ever so hard to do, when you come to be my age." And the old man looked wistfully across the table, the nCiuscles about his mouth quivering as he ended. Tom sprang from his chair, and grasped the old sailor's hand, as he felt the load pass out of his heart. " Favour, sir!" he said, "I have been a mad fool enough already in this business — I should have beeu a double-dyed scoundrel, like enough, by this time but for your son, and I've quarrelled with him for stopping me at the pit's mouth. Favour ! If God will, I'll prove somehow where the favour lies, and what I owe to him ; and to you, sir, for coming to me to-night. Stop here two minutes, sii*, and I'll run down and bring him over." Tom tore away to Hardy's door and knocked. There was no pausing in the passage now. " Come in." He opened the door but did not enter, and for a moment or two could not speak. The rush of associations which the sight of the well- known old rickety furniture, and the figure which was seated, book in hand, with its back to the door and its feet up against one side of the mantel-piece, called up, choked him. " May I come in ?" he said at last. He saw the figure give a start, and the book trembled a little, but then came the answer, slow but firm — " I have not changed my opinion." " No ; dear old boy, but I have," and Tom rushed across to his friend, dearer than ever to him now, and threw his arm round his neck ; and, if the un-English truth must out had three parts of a mind to kiss the rough face which was now working with strong emotion. " Thank God ! " said Hardy, as he grasped the hand which hung over his shoulder. " And now come over to my rooms ; your father is there waiting for us." " ^Vllat, the dear old governor ? That's what he has been after, is it ? I couldn't think where he could have * hove to,' as he would say." Hardy put on his cap, and the two hui-ried back to Toni'fi rooms, the lightest hearts in the University of Oxford. 222 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. CHAPTER XXI. CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE. There are moments in the life of the most self-containad and sober of us all, when wo fairly bubble over, like a full bottle of champagne with the cork out ; and this was one of them for our hero, who, however, be it remarked, was neither self-contained nor sober by nature. ^■Vl^.en they got back to his rooms, he really hardly knew what to do to give vent to his Ughtness of heart ; and Hardy, though self-contained and sober enough in general, was on this occasion almost as bad as his friend. They rattled on, talked out the thing which came uppermost, whatever the subject might chance to be ; but, whether grave or gay, it always ended after a minute or two in jokes not always good, and chaff, and laughter. The poor Captain was a little puzzled at first, and made one or two endeavours to turn the talk into improving channels. But very soon he saw that Jack was thoroughly happy, and that was always enough for him. So he hstened to one and the other, joining cheerily in the laugh whenever he could ; and, when he couldn't catch the joke, looking like a benevolent old lion, and making as much belief that he had understood it ail as the simplicity and truthfulness of his character would allow. The spirits of the two friends seemed inexhaustible. They lasted out the bottle of sherry which Tom had uncorked, and the remains of a bottle of liis famous port. He had tried hard to be allowed to open a fresh bottle, but the Captain had made such a point of his not doing so, that he had given in for hospitality's sake. They lasted out the coffee and anchovy toast ; after which the Captain made a little effort at moving, which was supplicatingly stopped by Tom. " Oh, pray don't go. Captain Hardy. I haven't been so happy for months. Besides, I must brew you a glass of grog. I pride myself on my brew. Your son there will tell you that I am a dead hand at it. Here, Wiggins, a lemon I " shouted Tom. " Well, for once in a way, I suppose. Eh, Jack ? " said the Captain, looking at his son. " Oh yes, father. You mayn't know it, Brown, but, if there is one thing harder to do than another, it is to get an old sailor like my father to take a glass of grog at night." The Captain laughed a little laugh, and shook his thick stick at his son, who went on, " And as for asking him to take a pipe with it — " CAPTAIN HARDY AT ST. AMBllOSE. 223 " Dear me," said Tom, " I quite forgot. I really beg your pardon, Captain Hardy ;" and he put down the lemon he was squeezing, and produced a box of cigars. " It's all Jack's nonsense, sir," said the Captain, holding out his hand, nevertheless, for the box. " Now, father, don't be absurd," interrupted Hardy, snatch- ing the box awe.y from him. " You might as well give him a glass of absinthe. He is churchwarden at home, and can't smoke anything but a long clay." " I'm very sorry I haven't one here, but I can send out in a minute." And Tom was making for the door to shout fo^* Wiggins. " No, don't call. I'll fetch some from my rooms." When Hardy left the room, Tom squeezed away at his lemon, and was preparing himself for a speech to Captain Hardy full of confession and gratitude. But the Captain was before him, and led the conversation into a most unexpected channel " I supi^ose, now, Mr. Brown," he began, " you don't find any difficulty in construing your Thucydides 1 " " Indeed, I do, sir," said Tom, laughing. " I find him a very tough old customer, except in the simplest narrative." " For my part," said the Captain, " I can't get on at all, I find, without a translation. But you see, sir, I had none of the advantages which you young men have up here. In fact, Mr. Brown, I didn't begin Greek till Jack was nearly ten years old." The Captain in his secret heart was prouder of his partial victory over the Greek tongue in his old age, than of his undisputed triumphs over the French in his youth, and was not averse to talking of it. " I wonder that you ever began it at all, sir," said Tom. " You wouldn't wonder if you knew how an uneducated man Kke ms feels, when he comes to a place like Oxford." " Uneducated, sir ! " said Tom. " Why your education has been worth twice as much, I'm sure, as any we get here." " No, sir ; we never learnt anything in the navy when I was a youngster, except a little rule-of-thumb mathematics. One picked up a sort of smattering of a language or two knocking about the world, but no grammatical knowledge, nothing scientific. If a boy doesn't get a method, he is beat- ing to windward in a crank craft all his life. He hasn't ,^ot any regular place to stow away what he gets into his brams, and so it lies tumbling about in the hold, and he loses it, or it gets damaged and is never ready for use. You see what I mean, Mr. BroAvn ? " ' Yes, sir. But I'm afraid we don't all of us get much 224 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. metliod up here. Do you really enjoy reading Thucydidea now, Captain Hardy 1 " " Indeed I do, sir, very much," said the Captain. " There'a a great deal in his history to interest an old sailor, you know 1 dare say, now, that I enjoy those parts about the sea-fights more than you do." The Captain looked at Tom as if he had made an audacious remark. " I am sure you do, sir," said Tom, smiling. " Because you see, Mr. Brown," said the Captain, " when one has been in that sort of thing oneself, one likes to read how people in other times managed, and to think what one would have done in their place. I don't believe that the Greeks just at that time were very resolute fighters, though. Kelson or Collingwood would have finished that war in a year or two." " 'Not with triremes, do you think, sir 1 " said Tom. " Yes, sir, with any vessels which were to be had," said the Captain. " But you are right about triremes. It has always been a great puzzle to me how those triremes could have been worked. How do you understand the three banks of oars, Mr. Brown ? " " Well, sir, I suppose they must have been one above the other somehow." " But the upper bank must have had oars twenty feet If^ng, and more, in that case," said the Captain. " You must allow for leverage, you see." " Of course, sir. When one comes to think of it, it isn't easy to see how they were manned and worked," said Tom. "Now my notion about triremes — " began the Captain, holding the head of his stick with both hands, and looking across at Tom. " Why, father ! " cried Hardy, returning at the moment with the pipes, and catching the Captain's last word, "on one of your hobby horses already ! You're not safe ! — I can't leave you for two minutes. Here's a long pipe for you. How in the world did he get on triremes ? " " I liardly know," said Tom ; " but I want to hear what (■aptain Hardy thinks about them. You were saying, sir, that the upper oars must have been twenty feet long at least." " My notion is — " said the Captain, taking the pipe and tabacco-pouch from his son's hand. " Stop one moment," said Hardy ; " I found Blake at my rooms, and asked him to come over here. You don't objects" " Object, my dear fellow ! I'm much obliged to you. Now, Hardy, would you like to have any one else ? I can send iu a minute." CAPTAIN HAKDY AT ST. AMBROSE. 225 "No one, thank you." " You won't stand on ceremony now, will you, mth me ? " said Tom. " You see I haven't." " And you never will again 1 " " No, never. Now, father, you can heave ahead about those oars." The Captain went on charging his pipe, and proceeded : " You see, Mr. Bro\^^l, they must have been at least twenty feet long, because, if you allow the lowest bank of oars to have been three feet above the water-line, which even Jack thinks they must have been — " ** Certainly. That height at least to do any good," said Hardy. "Not that I think Jack's opinion worth much on the point," went on his father. " It's very ungrateful of you, then, to say so, father," said Hardy, " after all the time I've wasted trying to make it all clear to you." " I don't say that Jack's is not a good opinion on most things, Mr, Brown," said the Captain ; " but he is all at sea about triremes. He believes that the men of the uppermost bank rowed somehow Uke lightermen on the Thames, walking up and dov^TL" " I object to your statement of my faith, father," said Hardy. " Now you know, Jack, you have said so, often." "I have said they must have stood up to row, and so—" "You would have had awful confusion. Jack. You must have order between decks when you're going into action. Besides, the rowers had cushions." "That old heresy of yours again." " Well, but Jack, they had cushions. Didn't the rowers who were marched across the Isthmus to man the ships which were to surprise the Piraeus, carry their oars, thongs, and cushions 1 " " If they did, your conclusion doesn't foUow, father, that they sat on them to row." " You hear, ISIr. Brown," said the Captain ; " he admits my point about the cushions." " Oh, father, I hope you used to fight the French more fairly," said Hardy. "But, didn't he 1 Didn't Jack admit my point ? " " Tmplicity, sir, I think," said Tom, catching Hardy's eye which was dancing with fun. 226 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " Of course he did. You hear that, Jack. !N'ow my notiot about tru"emes — " A knock at the door interrupted the Captain again, and Blake came in and was introduced. ** Mr. Blake is almost our best scholar, father ; you should appeal to him about the cushions." " I am very proud to make your acquaintance, sir," said the Captain ; " I have heard my son speak of you often." " We were talking about triremes," said Tom ; " Captain Hardy thinks the oars must have been twenty feet long." " iS^ot easy to come forward well with that sort of oar," said Blake ; " they must have pulled a slow stroke." " Our torpid would have bumped the best of them," said Hardy. " I don't think they could have made more than six knots," said the Captain ; " but yet they used to sink one another, and a light boat going only six knots couldn't break another in two amid -ships. It's a puzzling subject, Mr. Blake." " It is, sir," said Blake ; " if we only had some of their fo'castle songs we should know more about it. I'm afraid they had no Dibdin." " I wish you would turn one of my father's favourite songs into anapa3sts for him," said Hardy. " What are they 1 " said Blake. " * Tom Bowling,' or ' The wind that blows, and the ship that goes, and the lass that loves a sailor. ' " " By the way, why shouldn't we have a song 1 " said Tom. " What do you say. Captain Hardy 1 " The Captain winced a little as he saw his chance of expounding his notion as to triremes slipping away, but answered, " By all means, sir ; Jack must sing for me though. Did you ever hear him sing ' Tom Bowling ' ? " ''No, never, sir. Why, Hardy, you never told me you could sing." " You never asked me," said Hardy, laughing ; " but if I smg for my father, he must spin us a yarn." " Oh yes ; will you, sir 1 " " I'U do my best, Mr. Brown ; but I don't know that you'll care to listen to my old yarns. Jack thinks everybody must like them as weU as he, who used to hear them when he was a child." "Thank you, sir; that's famous. Now Hardy, strike up." "After you. You must set the example in your own •^oms." CAPTAIN IIAKDY AT ST. AMBROSE. 227 So Tom sang his song. And tlie noise brought Drysdale and another man up, who were loitering in quad on the look- out for something to do. Drysdale and the Captain recog nised one another, and were friends at once. And then Hardy sang " Tom Bowling," in a style which astonished the rest not a little, and as usual nearly made his father cry ; and Blake sang, and Drysdale and the other man. And then the Captain was called on for his yarn ; and, the general voice bemg for "something that had happened to him," "the strangest thing that had ever happened to him at sea," the old gentleman laid down his pipe and sat up in his chair with his hands on his stick and began. THE captain's STORY. It will be forty years ago next month since the ship I was then in came home from the AVest Indies station, and was paid off. I had nowhere in particular to go just then, and so was very glad to get a letter, the morning after I went ashore at Portsmouth, asking me to go down to Plymouth for a week or so. It came from an old sailor, a friend of my family, who had been Commodore of the fleet. He lived at Plymouth ; he was a thorough old sailor — what you young men would call " an old salt " — and couldn't live out of sight of the blue sea and the shipping. It is a disease that a good many of us take who have spent our best years on the sea. I have it myself — a sort of feeling that we must be under another kind of Providence, when we look out and see a hill on this side and a hill on that. It's wonderful to see the trees come out and the corn grow, but then it doesn't come so home to an old sailor. I know that we're all just as much under the Lord's hand on shore as at sea ; but you can't read in a book you haven't been used to, and they that go down to the sea in ships, they see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. It isn't their fault if they don't see His wonders on the land so easily as other people. But, for all that, there's no man enjoys a cruise in the country more than a sailor. It's forty years ago since I started for Pl}Tnouth, but I haven't forgotten the road a bit, or how beautiful it was ; all through the New Forest, and over Salis- bury Plain, and then on by the mail to Exeter, and through Devonshire. It took me three days to get to Plymouth, for we didn't get about so quick in those days. The Commodore was very kind to me when I got there, and I went about with him to the ships in the bay, and through the dock-yard, and picked up a good deal that was of use to me afterwards. I was a lieutenant in those days, and q2 228 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. had seen a good deal of service, and I found the old Commo- dore had a great nephew whom he had adopted, and had set his whole heart upon. He was an old bachelor himself, but the boy had come to live with him, and was to go to sea ; so he wanted to put him under some one who would give an eye to him for the first year or two. He was a light slip of a boy then, fourteen years old, with deep set blue eyes and long eyelashes, and cheeks like a girl's, but as brave as a lion and as merry as a lark. The old gentleman was very pleased to see that we took to one another. We used to bathe and boat together ; and he was never tired of hearing my stories about the great admirals, and the fleet, and the stations I had been on. "Well, it was agreed that I should apply for a ship again directly, and go up to London with a letter to the Admiralty from the Commodore, to help things on. After a month or two I was appointed to a brig, lying at Spithead ; and so I wrote off to the Commodore, and he got his boy a midship- man's berth on board, and brought him to Portsmouth him- self a day or two before we sailed for the Mediterranean. The old gentleman came on board to see his boy's hammock slung, and went below into the cockpit to make sure that all was right. He only left us by the pilot-boat when we were weL out in the Channel. He was very low at parting from his boy, but bore up as well as he could ; and we promised to write to him from Gibraltar, and as often afterwards as we had a chance. I was soon as proud and fond of little Tom Holds worth as if he had been my own younger brother ; and, for that matter, so were all the crew, from our captain to the cook's boy. Ho was such a gallant youngster, and yet so gentle. In one cutting-out business we had, he climbed over the boatswain's shoulders, and was almost first on deck ; how he came out of it without a scratch I can't think to this day. But he hadn't a bit of bluster in him, and was as kind as a woman to any one who was wounded or down with sickness. After we had been out about a year we were sent to cruise off Malta, on the looK-out for the French fleet. It was a long business, and the post wasn't so good then as it is now. We were sometimes for months without getting a letter, and knew nothing of what was happening at home, or anywhere else. We had a sick time too on board, and at last he got a fever. He bore up against it like a man, and wouldn't knock off duty for a long tima He was midshipman of my watch ; so 1 used to make him turn in early, and tried to ease things to him as much as I could ; but he didn't pick up, and I began CAPTAUJ HARDY AT ST. AMBROSE. 229 to get \eiy anxious about him. I talked to the doctor, and turned matters over in my own mind, and at last I came to think he wouldn't get any better unless he could sleep out of the cockpit. So, one night, the 20th of October it was — I remember it well enough, better than I remember any day since ; it was a dirty night, blowing half a gale of wind from the southward, and we were under close-reefed topsails — I had the first watch, and at nine o'clock I sent him down to my cabin to sleep there, where he would be freslier and quieter, and I was to turn into his hammock when my watch was over. I was on deck three hours or so after he went down, and the weather got dirtier and dirtier, and the scud drove by, and the wind sang and hummed through the rigging — it made me melancholy to listen to it. I coidd think of nothing but the youngster down below, and what I sliould say to his poor old uncle if anything happened. Well, soon after mid- night I went down and turned into his hammock. I didn't go to sleep at once, for I remember very well listening to the creaking of the ship's timbers as she rose to the swell, and watching the lamp, which was slung from the ceiling, and gave light enough to make out the other hammocks swinging slowly all together. At last, however, I dropped off, and I reckon I must have been asleep about an hour, when I woke with a start. For the first moment I didn't see anything but the swinging hammocks and the lamp ; but then suddenly I became aware that some one was standing by my hammock, and I saw the figure as plainly as 1 see any one of you now, for the foot of the hammock was close to the lamp, and the light struck full across on the head and shoulders, which was all that I could see of him. There he was, the old Commodore ; his grizzled hair coming out from under a red woollen nightcap, and his shoidders wrapped in an old tln^ead- bare blue dressing-gown which I had often seen him in. His face looked pale and drftwn, and there was a wistful dis- appointed look about the eyes. I was so taken aback I could not speak, but lay watching him. He looked full at my face once or twice, but didn't seem to recognise me ; and, just as I was getting back my tongue and going to speak, he said slowly : "Where's Tom? this is his hammock. I can't see Tom ;" and then he looked vaguely about and passed away somehow, but how I couldn't see. In a moment or two I jumped out and hurried to my cabin, but young Holds worth was fast asleep. I sat down, and wrote down just what I had seen, making a note of the exact time, twenty minutes to two. I didn't turn in again, but sat wat^urged his guests to dinnk, which was a superfluous courtesy for the most part. Many of th^men left his rooms considerably excited. They had dispersed for an hour or so to billiards, or a stroll in the town, and at ten o'clock reassembled at sufoer parties, of which there were several in college this evenii."^, especially a monster one at Chanter's rooms — a " champagne supper," as he had carefully and ostentatiously announced on the cards of invitation. This flaunting the champagne in their faces had been resented by Drysdale and others, who drank his champagne in tumblers, and then abused it and clamoured for beer in the middle of the supper. Chanter, whose prodigality in some ways was only exceeded by his general meanness, had lost his temper at this demand, and insisted that, if they wanted beer, they might send for it themselves, for ho wouklL't pay for it. This protest was treated with up- roarious contemjDt, and gallons of ale soon made their ap- pearance in coUege jugs and tankards. The tables were cleared, and songs (most of them of more than doubtful character), cigars, and all sorts of compounded drinks, from claret cup to egg flip, succeeded. The company, recruited constantly as men came into college, was getting more and more excited every minute. The scouts cleared away and carried oil all relics of the supper, and then left ; still thu THE SCHOOLS. 261 revel went on, till, by midnight, the men were ripe for any mischief or folly which those among them who retained any brains at all could suggest. Thb signal for breaking up was gi^ en by the host's falling from his seat. Some of the men rose with a shout to put him to bed, which they accom- plished with difficulty, after dropping him several times, and left him to snore off the effects of his debauch with one of his boots on. Others took to doing what mischief occurred to them in his rooms. One man, mounted on a chair with a cigar in his mouth which had gone out, was employed in pouring the contents of a champagne bottle with unsteady hand into the clock on the mantel-piece. Chanter was a particular man in this sort of furniture, and his clock was rather a speciality. It was a large bronze figure of Atlas, supporting the globe in the shape of a time-piece. Un- luckily, the maker, not anticipating the sort of test to which his work would be subjected, had ingeniously left the hole for winding up in the top of the clock, so that unusual facilities existed for drowning the world-carrier, and he was already almost at his last tick. One or two men were morally aiding and abetting, and physically supporting the experimenter on clocks, who found it difficult to stand to his work by himself Another knot of young gentlemen stuck to the tables, and so continued to shout out scraps of song, sometimes standing on their chairs, and sometimes tumbling off them. Another set were employed on the amiable work of pouring beer and sugar into three new pairs of polished leather dress boots, with coloured tops to them, which they discovered in the dressing-room. Certainly, as they remarked, Chanter could have no possible use for so many dress boots at once, and it was a pity the beer should be wasted ; but on the whole, perhaps, the materials were never meant for com- bination, and had better have been kept apart. Others had gone away to break into the kitchen, headed by one who had just come into college and vowed he would have some supper ; and others, to screw up an unpopular tutor, or to break into the rooms of some inoffensive freshman. The remainder mustered on the grass in the quadrangle, and began playing leap-frog and larking one another. Amongst these last was our hero, who had been at Blake's wine and osie of the quieter supper parties ; and, though not so far gone as most of his companions, was by no means in a state in which he would have cared to meet the Dean. He lent his hearty aid accordingly to swell the noise and tumult^ which was becoming something out of the way even for St. Ambrose's. As the leap-frog was flagging, Drysdalo 2G2 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. suddenly appeared carrying some silver plates which were used on solemn occasions in the common room, and allowed to be issued on special application for gentlemen-commoners' parties. A rush was made towards him. " Halloa, here's Drysdale with lots of swag," shouted one. " "Wliat are you going to do Avith it ? " cried another. Drys- dale paused a moment with the peculiarly sapient look of a tipsy man who has suddenly lost the thread of his ideas, and then suddenly broke out with — " Ilang it ! I forget. But let's play at quoits with them." The proposal was received with applause, and the game began, but Drysdale soon left it. He had evidently some notion in his'head which would not suffer him to turn to anything else till he had carried it out. He went off accord- ingly to Chanter's rooms, while the quoits went on in the front quadrangle. About this time, however, the Dean and bursar, and the tutors who lived in college, began to be conscious that some- thing unusual was going on. They were quite used to distant choruses, and great noises in the men's rooms, and to a fair amount of shouting and skylarking in the quadrangle, and were long-suffering men, not given to interfering ; but there must be an end to all endurance, and the state of things which had arrived could no longer be met by a turn in bed and a growl at the uproars and follies of undergraduates. Presently some of the rioters on the grass caught sight of a figure gliding along the side of the quadrangle towards the Dean's staircase. A shout arose that the enemy was up, but little heed was paid to it by the greater number. Then another figure passed from the Dean's staircase to the porter's lodge. Those of the men v/ho had any sense left saw that it was time to quit, and, after warning the rest, went off towards their roc^ms. Tom on his way to his staircase caught sight of a figure seated in a remote corner of the inner quad- rangle, and made for it, impelled by natural curiosity. He found Drysdale seated on the ground with several silver tankards by his side, employed to the best of his powers m digging a hole with one of the college carving-knives. " Halloa, Drysdale ! what are you up to ? " he shouted, laying his hand on his shoulder. " Providing for poshterity," replied Drysdale, gravely, ?7ithout looking up. " \Vhat the deuce do you mean 'i Don't be such an ass. The Dean will be out in a minute. Get up and come along." " I tell you, old fellow," said Drysdale, somewhat inar- ticulately, and drivLng his knife into the ground again, " the THF. SCHOOLS. 263 dons aro going to spout the college plate. So I am burying these articles for poshterity — " " Hang posterity," said Tom ; " come along directly, or you'll be caught and rusticated." " Go to bed, Brown — you're drunk, Brown," replied iJrys- dale, continuing his work, and strildng the carving-knife into the ground so close to his own thigh that it made Tom shudder, " Here they are then," he cried the next moment, seizing Drysdale by the arm, as a rush of men came through the passage into the back quadrangle, shouting and tumbling along, and making in small groups for the different stair- cases. The Dean and two of the tutors followed, and the })orter bearing a lantern. There was no time to be lost ; so Tom, after one more struggle to pull Drysdale up and hurry him off, gave it up, and leaving him to his fate, ran across to his own staircase. For the next half-hour the Dean and his party patrolled the college, and succeeded at last in restoring order, though not without some undignified and disagreeable passages. The lights on the staii'cases, which generally burnt all night, were of course put out as they approached. On the fu'st staircase which they stormed, the porter's lantern was knocked out of his hand by an unseen adversary, and the light put out on tlie bottom stairs. On the first landing the bursar trod on a small terrier belonging to a fast freshman, and the dog naturally thereupon bit the bursar's leg; while his master and other enfants perdus, taking advantage of the diversion, rushed down the dark stairs, past the party of order, and into the quadrangle, where they scattered amidst a shout of laughter. While the porter was gone for a light, the Dean and his party rashly ventured on a second ascent. Here an unexpected catastrophe awaited them. On the top landing lived one of the steadiest men in coUege, whose door had been tried shortly before. He had been roused out of his first sleep, and, vowing vengeance on the next comers, stood behind his oak, holding his brown George, or huge earthen- ware receptacle, half full of dirty water, in which his bed- maker had been washing up his tea-things. Hearing stealthy steps and whisperings on the stairs below, he suddenly threw open his oak, discharging the whole contents of his brown George on the approaching authorities, with a shout of, " Take that for your skulking." The exasperated Dean and tutors rushing on, seized their astonished and innocent assailant, and after receiving ex planations, and the ofier of clean towels, hurried off ag;xiD 264 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. after tlie roal enemy. And now the porter appeared again with a light, and, continuing their rounds, they apprehended and disarmed Drysdale, collected the college plate, niaiked down others of the rioters, visited Chanter's rooms, held a parley with the one of their number who was screwed up in his rooms, and discovered that the bars had been wrenched out of the kitchen window. After which they retired to sleep on their indignation, and quiet settled do%vn again on the ancient and venerable college. The next morning at chapel many of the revellers met ; in fact, there was a fuller attendance than usual, for every one felt that something serious must be impending. After such a night the dons must make a stand, or give up altogether. Tha most reckless only of the fast set were absent. St. Cloud was there, dressed even more precisely than usual, and looking as if he were in the habit of going to bed at ten, and had never heard of milk punch. Tom turned out not much the worse himself, but in his heart feeling not a little ashamed of the whole business ; of the party, the men, but, above all, of himself. He thrust the shame back, however, as well as he could, and put a cool face on it. Probably most of the men were in much the same state of mind. Even in St. Ambrose's, reckless and vicious as the college had become, by far the greater part of the undergraduates would gladly have seen a change in the direction of order and decency, and were sick of the wretched licence of doing right in their own eyes, and wrong in every other person's. As the men trooped out of chapel, they formed in corners of the quadrangle, except the reading set, who went otf quietly to their rooms. There was a pause of a minute or two. ^Neither principal, dean, tutor, nor fellow followed as on ordinary occasions. " They're hatching something in the outer chapel," said one. " It'll be a coarse time for Chanter, I take it," said anothei " Was your name sent to the buttery for } is supper ? " "1^0, I took d — d good care of that," said St. Cloud, who was addressed. " Drysdale was caught, wasn't he ? " " So I hear, and nearly frightened the Dean and the porter out of their wits by staggering after them with a carving- knife." " He'll be sacked, of course." " ]\Iuch he'll care for that." " Here they come, then ; by Jove, how black they look ! " The authorities now came out of the antechapel door, and (talked sloAvly across towards the PrincTjfal's house in a body. IHE SCHOOLS. 265 At this moment, as ill-luck would have it, Jack trotted into the front quadrangle, dragging after him the light steel chain with which ho was usually fastened up in Drysdale's scout's room at night. He came innocently towards one and another of the groups, and retired from each much astonished at the low growl with which his acquaintance was repudiated on all sides. " Porter, whose dog is that ] " said the Dean, catching sight of him. " Mr. Drysdale's dog, sir, I think, sir," answered the porter. "Probably the animal who bit me last night," said the bursar. His knowledge of dogs was small ; if Jack had fastened on him he would probably have been in bed from the effects. " Turn the dog out of college," said tlie Dean. " Please, sir, he's a very savage dog, sir," said the porter, whose respect for Jack was unbounded. " Turn him out immediately," replied the Dean. The -wretched porter, arming himself with a broom, ap- proached Jack, and after some coaxing managed to catch hold of the end of his chain, and began to lead him towards the gates, carefully holding out the broom towards Jack's nose with his other hand, to protect himself. Jack at first hauled away at his chain, and then began circling round the porter at the full extent of it, evidently meditating an attack. Not- withstanding the seriousness of the situation the ludicrous alarm of the porter set the men laughing. ** Come along, or Jack will be pinning the wretched Copas," said Jervis ; and he and Tom stepped up to the terrified little man, and, releasing him, led Jack, who knew; them both well, out of college. "Were you at that supper party?" said Jervis, as they deposited Jack with an ostler, who was lounging outside the gates, to be taken to Drysdale's stables. " No," said Tom. " I'm glad to hear it ; there will be a pretty clean sweep after last night's doings." " But I was in the quadrangle when they cam© out." " Not caught, eh ? " said Jervis. " No, luckily, I got to my own rooms at once." " Were any of the crew caught 1 "' " Not that I know of." " Well, wo shall hear enough of it before lecture-time." Jervis was right. There was a meeting in the common room directly after breakfast. Drysdale, anticipating hia 2CG TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. fate, took his name off before tLey sent for liim. Chanter and three or four others were rusticated for a year, and Blake was ordered to go down at once. He was a scholar, and what was to be done in his case would be settled at the meeting at the end of term. For twenty-four hours it was supposed that St. Cloud had escaped altogether ; but at the end of that time he was ■ summoned before a meeting in the common room. The tutor whose door had been so effectually screwed up that he had been obliged to get out of his window by a ladder to attend morning chapel, proved wholly unable to appreciate tlie joke, and set himself to work to discover the perpetrators of it. The door was fastened with long gimlets, which had been screwed firmly in, and when driven well home, their heads knocked off. The tutor collected the shafts of the gimlets from the carpenter, who came to effect an entry for him ; and, after careful examination, discovered the trade mark. So, putting them in his pocket, he walked off into the town, and soon came back with the information he required, which resulted in the rustication of St. Cloud, an event which was borne by the college mth the greatest equanimity. Shortly afterwards Tom attended in the schools' quad rangle again, to be present at the posting of the class list. This time there were plenty of anxious faces ; the quadrangle was full of them. He folt almost as nervous himself as if he were waiting for the third gun. He thrust himself forward, and was amongst the first who caught sight of the document. One look was enough for him, and the next moment he was off at full speed to St. Ambrose, and, rushing headlong into Hardy's rooms, seized him by the hand, and shook it vehemently. " It's all right, old fellow," he cried, as soon as he could catch his breath; "it's all right. Four firsts; you're one of them : well done ! " " And Grey, where's he ; is he all right 1 " " Bless me, I forgot to look," said Tom ; *' I only read the firsts, and then came off as hard as I could." " Then he is not a first." "No; I'm sure of that." " I must go and see him ; li6 deserved it far more than I." " No, by Jove, old boy," said Tom, seizing him again by the hand, " that he didn't ; nor any man that ever went into the schools." "Thank you. Brown," said Hardy, returning his warm grip. " You do one good. Now to see poor Grey, and to write 10 my dear old father before hall. Fancy him opening COMIVrEMORATION. 267 the letter at breakfast the day after to-morrow ! I only hope it won't hurt him." " Xever fear. I don't believe in people dying of joy, and anything short of sudden death he won't mind at the price." Hardy hurried off, and Tom went to his o^vn rooms, and smoked a cigar to allay his excitement, and thought about his friend, and all they had felt together, and laughed and mourned over in the short months of their friendship. A pleasant dreamy half-hour he spent thus, till the hall bell roused him, and he made his toilette and went to his dinner. It was with very mixed feelings that Hardy walked by the servitors' table and took his seat with the bachelors, an equal at last amongst equals. No man who is worth his salt can leave a place where he has gone through hard and searching discipline, and been tried in the very depths of his heart, without regret, however much he may have winced under the discipline. It is no light thing to fold up and lay by for ever a portion of one's life, even when it can be laid by with honour and in thankfulness. But it was with no mixed feelings, but with a sense of entire triumph and joy, that Tom watched his friend taking his new place, and the dons one after another coming up and congratulating him, and treating him as the man who had done honour to them and his college. CHAPTER XXV. COMMEMORATION. The end of the academic year was now at hand, and Oxford was beginning to put on her gayest clothing. The college gardeners were in a state of unusual activity, and the lawns and flower-beds, which form such exquisite settings to many of the venerable grey, gabled buildings, were as neat and as bright as hands could make them. Cooks, butlers, and their assistants were bestirring themselves in kitchen and buttery, under the direction of bursars jealous of the fame of their houses, in the preparation of the abundant and solid fare with which Oxford is wont to entertain all comers. Every- thing the best of its kind, no stint but no nonsense, seems to be the wise rule which the University hands down and lives up to in these .matters. However we may differ as to her degeneracy in other departments, all who have ever visited her will admit that in this of hospitality she is still a great national teacher, acknowledging and preaching by exampi'a 268 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. the fact, that eating and drinking axe important parts of man's life, which are to be allowed their due prominence, and not thrust into a corner, but are to be done soberly and thankfully, in the sight of God and man. The coaches were bringing in heavy loads of visitors ; carriages of all kinds were coming in from the neighbouring counties; and lodgings in the High-street were going up to fabulous prices. In one of these High-street lodgings, on the evening of the Saturday before Commemoration, Miss Winter and her cousin are sitting. They have been in Oxford during the greater part of the day, having posted up from Englebourn ; but they have only just come in, for the younger lady is still in her bonnet, and INIiss Winter's lies on the table. The windows are wide open, and Miss Winter is sitting at one of them ; while her cousin is busied in examining the furniture and decorations of their temporary home, now commenting upon these, now pouring out praises of Oxford. " Isn't it too charming 1 I never dreamt that any town eould be so beautiful. Don't you feel ^vdld about it, Katie ? " " It is the queen of towns, dear. But T know it well, you see, so that I can't be quite so enthusiastic as you." " Oh, those dear gardens ! what was the name of those ones Avith the targets up, where they were shooting ] Don't you remember 1 " " New College Gardens, on the old city wall, you mean 1 " " No, no. They Avere very nice and sentimental. I should like to go and sit and read poetry there. But I mean the big ones, the gorgeous, princely ones, with wicked old Bishop Laud's gallery looking into them." " Oh ! St. John's, of course." " Yes, St. John's. Why do you hate Laud so, Katie t " " I don't hate liim, dear. He was a Berksliire man, you know. But I think he did a great deal of harm to the Church." " How did you think my new silk looked in the gardens ? How lucky I brought it, wasn't it? I shouldn't have liked to have been in nothing but muslins. They don't suit here ; you want something richer amongst the old buildings, and on the beautiful velvety turf of the gardens. How do you think I looked ? " " You looked like a queen, dear ; or a lady-in-waiting at least." ''Yes, a lady-in-Avaiting on Henrietta IMaTia. Didn't you hear one of the gentlemen say that she was lodged in St. John's when Cliarles marched to reheve Gloucester ? Ah ! ean't you fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her COMIMEMORATION. 2 G 9 ladies following her, and Bishop Laud walking just a littlo behind her, iind talking in a low voice about — let me see — something very important ? " " Oh, Mary, where has your history gone 1 He was Arch- bishop, and was safely locked up in the Tower." " Well, perhaps he was ; then he couldn't be with her, of course. How stupid of you to remember, Katie. Why can't you make up your mind to enjoy yourself when you come out for a holiday 1 " "I shouldn't enjoy myself any the more for forgetting dates," said Katie, laughing. "Oh, you would though; only try. But let me see, it can't be Laud. Then it shall be that cruel drinking old man, with the wooden leg made of gold, who was governor of Oxford when the king was away. He must be hobbling along aftei the queen in a buff coat and breast-plate, holding his hat with a long drooping white feather in his hand." " But you wouldn't like it at all, Mary ; it would be too serious for you. The poor queen would be too anxious for gossip, and you ladies-in-waiting would be obliged to walk after her without saying a word." " Yes, that would be stupid. But then she would have to go away with the old governor to write despatches ; and some of the young officers with long hair and beautiful lace sleeves^ and large boots, whom the king had left behind, wounded, might come and walk perhaps, or sit in the sun in the quiet gardens." Mary looked over her shoulder with the merriest twinkle in her eye, to see how her steady cousin would take this last picture. "The college authorities would never allow that," she said quietly, still looking out of window; "if you wanted beaus, you must have had them in black gowns." " They would have been jealous of the soldiers, you think ] Well, I don't mind ; the black gowns are very pleasant, onlv a little stiff. But how do you think my bonnet looked ? " " Charmingly. But when are j'ou going to have done looking in the glass? You don't care for the buildings, I l>elieve, a bit. Come and look at St. Mary's ; there is such a lovely light on the steeple ! " " I'll come directly, but I must get these flowers right. I'm sure there are too many in this trimming." Mary was trying her new bonnet on over and over again before the mantel-glass, and pulling out and changing the places of the blush-rose buds with which it was trimmed. Just then a noise of wheels, accompanied by a merry tune on a cornopean, came in from the street. 270 TOM B^iO^^^T at oxford. " What's that, Katie 1 " she cried, stopping her work for a moment. " A coach coming up from Magdalen Bridge. I think it is a cricketing party coming home." " Oh, let me see," and she tripped across to the window, bonnet in hand, and stood beside her cousin. And, then, sure enough, a coach covered with cricketers returning from a match, drove past the window. The young ladies looked out at first with great curiosity ; but, suddenly finding them- selves the mark for a whole coach-load of male eyes, shrank back a little before the cricketers had passed on towards the " Mitre." ^Vs the coach passed out of sight, Mary gave a pretty toss of her head, and said. — " Well, they don't want for assurance, at any rate. I think they needn't have stared so." "It was our fault," said Katie ; "we shouldn't have been at the window. Besides, you know you are to be a lady-in- waiting on Henrietta Maria up here, and of course you must get used to being stared at." "Oh yes, but that was to be by young gentlemen wounded in the wars, in lace ruffles, as one sees them in pictures. That's a very different thing from young gentlemen in flan- nel trousers and straw hats, driving up the High Street on coaches. I declare one of them had the impudence to bow as if he knew you." " So he does. That was my cousin." " Your cousin ! Ah, I remember. Then he must be my cousin too." " N'o, not at all. He is no relation of yours." "Well, I sha'n't break my heart. But is he a good partner 1 " " I should say, yes. But I hardly know. We used to be a great deal together as children, but papa has been such an invalid lately." " Ah, I wonder how "•mcle is getting on at the Vice-Chan- cellor's. Look, it is past eight by St. Mary's. When were we to go 1 " " We were asked for nine." " Then we must go and dress. Will it be very slow and stiff, Katie ? I wish we were going to something not quite so grand." " You'll find it very pleasant, I dare say." " There won't be any dancing, though, I know ; will there ? " " No ; I should think certainly not." "Dear me ! I hope there will be some young men there COMTMEMORATIOTT. 271 — I shall be so shy, I know, if there are nothing but wise people. How do you talk to a Eegius Professor, Katie 1 It must be awful." " He will probably be at least as uncomfortable as you, dear," said Miss Winter, laughing, and rising from the window ; "let us go and dress." " Shall T wear my best gown ? — What shall I put in my hair?" At this moment the door opened, and the maid-servant introduced Mr. Brown. It was the St. Ambrose drag which had passed along shortly before, bearing the eleven home from a triumphant match. As they came over Magdalen Bridge, Drysdale, who had returned to Oxford as a private gentleman after his late catastrophe, which he had managed to keep a secret from his guardian, and was occupying his usual place on the box, called out — " 'Now, boys, keep your eyes open, there must be plenty of lionesses about ; " and thus warned, the whole load, including the cornopean player, were on the look-out for lady visitors, profanely called lionesses, all the way up the street. They had been gratified by the sight of several walking in the High Street or looking out of the windows, before they caught sight of Miss Winter and her cousin. The appear- ance of these young ladies created a sensation. " I say, look ! up there in that first floor." "By George, they're something like." " The sitter for choice." " No, no, the standing-up one ; she looks so saucy." " Hullo, Brown ! do you know them 1 " " One of them is my cousin," said Tom, who had just been guilty of the salutation which, as wo saw, excited the indignation of the younger lady. " What luck ! — You'll ask me to meet them — when shaD it be ? To-morrow at breakfast, I vote." " I say, you'll introduce me before the ball on Monday 1 promise now," said another. " I don't know that I shall see anything of them," said Tom ; " I shall just leave a pasteboard, but I'm not in the humour to be dancing about lionizing." A storm of indignation arose at this speech : the notion that any of the fraternity who had any hold on lioness'^s, particularly if they were pretty, should not use it to the utmost for the benefit of the rest, and the glory and honour of the college, was revolting to the undergraduate mind. So the whole body escorted Tom to the door of the lodgings, 272 To:\i BROWN at oxfoed. impressing upon him the necessity of engaging both his lionesses for every hour of every day in Si. Ambrose's, and left him not till they had lieard him ask for the young ladies, and seen him fairly on liis way upstairs. They need not have taken so much trouble, for in his secret soul he was no little pleased at the appearance of creditable ladies, more or less belonging to him, and would have found his way to see th3m quickly and surely enough without any urging. More- over, he had been really fond of his cousin, years before, when they had been boy and girl together. So they greeted one another very cordially, and looked one another over as they shook hands, to see what changes time had made. He makes his changes rapidly enough at that age, and mostly for the better, as the two cousins thought. It was nearly three years since they had met, and then he was a fifth-form boy and she a girl in the school-room. They were both conscious of a strange pleasure in ineeting again, mixed with a feehng of shyness and wonder whether they should be able to step back into their old relations. Mary looked on demurely, really watching them, but osten- sibly engaged on the rosebud trimming. Presently Miss Winter turned to her and said, " I don't think you two ever met before ; I must introduce you, I suppose ; — my cousin Tom, my cousin Mary." " Then we must be cousins too," said Tom, holding out his hand. *' No, Katie says not," she answered. " I don't mean to believe her, then," said Tom ; "but what are you going to do now, to-night 1 Why didn't you write and tell me you were coming 1 " " We have been so shut up lately, omng to papa's bad health, that I really had almost forgotten you were at Oxford." " By the bye," said Tom, " where is uncle 1 " " Oh, he is dining at the Vice-Chancellor's, who is an old college friend of his. We have only been up here three or four hours, and it has done him so much good. I am so glad vs'e spirited him up to coming." '' You haven't made any engagements yet, I hope 1 " " Indeed we have ; I can't tell how many. We came in time for luncheon in JBalliol. Mary and I made it our dinner, and we have been seeing sights ever since, and have been asked to go to I don't know how many luncheons and breakfasts." " AVTiat, with a lot of dons, I suppose ? " said Tom, spite- fully ; " you won't enjoy Oxford, then ; they'll bore you bo death." COMMEMORATION. 273 *' There now, Katie ; that is just what I was afraid of," joined in Mary; "you remembei we didn't hear a word about Lalls all the afternoon." " You haven't got your tickets for the balls, then ? " said Tom, brightening up. " No, how sliall we get them 1 '* " Oh, I can manage that, I've no doubt." " Stop ; how are we to go 1 Papa will never take us." " You needn't think about that ; anybody will chaperone you. iN'obody cares about that sort of thing at Commemo- ration." " Indeed I think you had better wait till I have talked to papa." " Then all the tickets will be gone," said Tom. " You must go. Why shouldn't I chaperone you ? I know several men whose sisters are going with them." " Ko, that will scarcely do, I'm afraid. But really, Mary, we must go and dress." " 'SATiere are you going, then 1 " said Tom. " To an evening party at the Vice- Chancellor's ; we are asked for nine o'clock, and the half-hour has struck." " Hang the dons ; how unlucky that I didn't know before ! Have you any flowers, by the way 1 " ":Nrotone." "Then I will try to get you some by the time you are ready. ]\fay 1 1 " " Oh yes, pray do," said Mary. " That's capital, Katie, isn't it ? Now I shall have something to put in my hair ; I couldn't think what I was to wear." Tom took a look at the hair in question, and then left them and hastened out to scour the town for flowers, as if his life depended on success. In the morning, he would probably have resented as insulting, or laughed at as wildly improbable, the suggestion that he would be so employed before night. A double chair was drawn up opposite the door when he came back, and the ladies were coming down into the sitting- room. " Oh look, Katie ! What lovely flowers ! How very kind of you." Tom surrendered as much of his burden as that young lady's Uttle round white hands could clasp, to her, and deposited the rest on the table. "Now, Katie, which shall I wear — this beautiful white rose aU by itself, or a wreath of these pansies ? Here, I have a wire : I can make them up in a minute." She turned T 274 TOM BROAV^' AT OXFOKD. to the glass, and held the rich cream-white rose against her hair, and then turning on Tom, added, " What do you think 1 " '* I thought fern would suit your hair better than anything else," said Tom ; " and so I got these leaves," and he picked out two slender fern-leaves. " How very kind of you ! Let me see, how do you mean 9 Ah! I see ; it will be charming;" and so saying, she held the leaves one in each hand to the sides of her head, and then floated about the room for needle and thread, and with a few nimble stitches fastened together the simple green ciown, which her cousin put on for her, making the points meet above her forehead. Mary was wild with delight at the effect, and full of thanks to Tom as he helped them hastily to tie up bouquets, and then, amidst much laughing, they squeezed into the wheel chair together (as the fashions of that day allowed two young ladies to do), and went off to their party, leaving a last injunction on him to go up and put the rest of the flowers in water, and to call directly after breakfast the next day. He obeyed his orders, and pensively arranged the rest of the flowers in the china ornaments on the mantel-piece, and in a soup plate which he got and placed in the middle of the table, and then spent some minutes examining a pair of gloves and other small articles of women's gear which lay scattered about the room. The gloves particularly attracted him, and he flattened them out and laid them on his own large brown hand, and smiled at the contrast, and took other unjustifiable liberties with them ; after which he returned to college and endured much banter as to the time his call had lasted, and promised to engage his cousins, as he called them, to grace some festivities in St. Ambrose's at their first spare moment. The next day, being Show Sunday, was spent by the young ladies in a ferment of spiritual and other dissipation. They attended morning service at eight at the cathedral ; breakfasted at a Merton fello^Vs, from whence they adjourned to University sermon. Here Mary, after two or three utterly ineffectual attempts to understand what the preacher was meaning, soon relapsed into an examination of the bonnet:? present, and the doctors and proctors on the floor, and the undergraduates in the gallery. On the whole, she was, per- haps, better employed than her cousin, who knew enough of religious party strife to follow the preacher, and was mad© very uncomfortable by his discourse, which consisted of an attack upon the recent publications of the most eminent and COMMEMOKATION. 275 best men in the University. Poor Miss "Winter came away with a vague impression of the wickedness of all persons who dare to travel out of beaten tracks, and that the most unsafe state of mind in the world is that which inquires aud aspires, and cannot be satisfied with the regidation draught of spiritual doctors in high places. Being naturallj'- of a reverent turn of mind, she tried to think that the discourse had done her good. At the same time she was somewhat troubled by the thought that somehow the best men in all times of which she had read seemed to her to be just those whom the preacher w\as in fact denouncing, although in words he had praised them as the great lights of the Church. The words which she Lad heard in one of the lessons kept running in her head, " Tridy ye bear witness that ye do allow the deeds of your fathers, for they indeed killed them, but ye build their sepulchres." But she had little leisure to think on the subject, and, as her father praised the sermon as a noble protest against the fearful tendencies of the day to Popery and Pantheism, smothered the questionings of her own heart as well as she could, and w^ent off to luncheon in a common room ; after which her father retired to their lodgings, and she and her cousin were escorted to afternoon service at Magdalen, in achieving which last feat they had to encounter a crush only to be equalled by that at the pit entrance to the opera on a Jenny Lind night. But what will not a delicately nurtured British lady go through when her mind is bent either on pleasure or duty ? Poor Tom's feelings throughout the day may be more easily conceived than described. He had called according to order, and waited at their lodgings after breakfast. Of course they did not arrive. He had caught a distant glimpse of them in St. Mary's, but had not been able to approach. Hb had called again in the afternoon unsuccessfully, so far as seeing them was concerned ; but he had found his uncle at home, lying upon the sofa. At first he was much dismayed by this rencontre, but, recovering his presence of mind ho proceeded, I regret to say, to take the length of the old gentleman's foot, by entering into a minute and sympathizing inquiry into the state of his health. Tom had no faith what- ever in his uncle's ill-health, and believed — as many persons of robust constitution are too apt to do when brought face to face with nervous patients — that he might shake off the whole of his maladies at any time by a resolute effort, so that his sympathy w^as all a sham, though, perhaps, one may pardon it, considering the end in view, which was that of persuading the old gentleman to entrust the young ladies to T 2 276 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. his nepheVs care for that evening in tlie Long "Walk ; and generally to look upon Ms nephew, Thomas Brown, as his natural prop and supporter in the University, whose one object in life just now Avould be to take trouble off his hands, and who was of that rare and precocious steadiness of character that he might be as safely trusted as a Spanish duenna. To a very considerable extent the victim fell into the toils. He had many old friends at the colleges, and was very fond of good dinners, and long sittings afterwards. This very evening he was going to dine at St. John's, and had been much tioubled at the idea of having to leave the unrivalled old port of that learned house to escort his daughter and niece to Ihe Long AYaliv. Still he was too easy and good-natured not to wish that they might get there, and did not like the notion of their going with perfect strangers. Here was a com- promise. His nephew was young, but- still he was a near relation, and in fact it gave the poor old man a plausible excuse for not exerting himself as he felt he ought to do, which was all he ever required for shifting his responsibilities and duties upon other shoulders. So Tom waited quietly till the young ladies came home, which they did just before hall-time. JSIr. AYinter was getting impatient. As soon as they arrived he started for St. John's, after advising them to remain at home for the rest of the evening, as they looked quite tired and knocked up ; but if they were resolved to go to the Long Walk, his nephew would escort them. " llow can Uncle Robert say we look so tired ^" said Mary, consulting the glass on the subject ; " I feel quite fresh. Of course, Katie, you mean to go to the Long Walk?" " 1 hope you will go," said Tom ; " I think you owe me some amends. I came here according to order this morning, and you were not in, and I have been trying to catch you ever since." " W^e couldn't help it," said Miss Winter ; " indeed we have not had a minute to ourselves all day. I was very sorry to think that we should have brought you here for nothing this morning." " But about the Long Wallc, Katie?" " AVell, don't you think we have done enough for to-day? I should like to have tea and sit quietly at home, as papa suggested." " Do you feel very tired, dear ?" said Mary, seating herself by her cousin on the sofa, and taking her hand. " ;No, dear ; I only want a little quiet and a cnp of tea." COMMEMORATION. 277 •* Then let us stay here quietly till it is time to start. When ought we to get to the Long Walk?" ** About half-past seven," said Tom ; " you shouldn't be much later than that." " There you see, Katie, we shall have two hours' perfect rest. You shall lie upon the sofa, and I will read to you, and then we shall go on all fresh again." Miss \Yinter smiled and said, " Very well." She saw that her cousin was bent on going, and she could deny hei nothing. " May I send you in anything from college ?" said Tom, " you ought to have something more than tea, I'm sure." " Oh no, thank you. AVe dined in the middle of the day." " Then I may call for you about seven o'clock," said Tom, who had come unwillingly to the conclusion that he had better leave them for the present. " Yes, and mind you come in good time ; we mean to see the w^hole sight, remember. We are country cousins." " You must let me call you cousin then, just for the look of the thing." " Certainly, just for the look of the thing, we will bo cousins till further notice." " Well, you and Tom seem to get on together, Mary," said Miss Winter, as they heard the front door close. " I'm learning a lesson from you, though I doubt whether I shall ever be able to put it in practice. What a blessing it must be not to be shy !" "Are you shy, then?" said Mary, looking at her cousin with a playful loving smile. " Yes, dreadfully. It is positive pain to me to walk into a room where there are people I do not know." " But I feel that too. I'm siire, now, jou were much less embarrassed than I last night at the Vice Chancellor's. I quite envied you, you seemed so much at your ease." " Did I ? I would have given anything to be back hero quietly. But it is not the same thing with you. You havo no real shyness, or you would never have got on so fast with my cousin." " Oh ! I don't feel at all shy with him," said Mary, laughing. " How lucky it is that he found us out so soon. I like him so much. There is a sort of way about him as if he couldn't help himself. I am sure one could turn him round one's finger. Don't you think so 1 " " I'm not so sm-e of that. But he always was soft-hearted, poor boy. But he isn't a boy any longer. You must take care, Mary. Shall we ring for teaV 278 TOM Ei;owN at oxfohd. CIIAPTEE XXYI. THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS. " Do well unto thyself and men will speak good of thee," is a maxim as old as King Da\id's time, and just as true now as it was then. Hardy had found it so since the publication of the class list. Within a few days of that event, it was loiown that his was a very good first. His college tutor had made his own inquiries, and repeated on several occasions in a con- fidential way the statement that, " with the exception of a want of polish in his Latin and Greek verses, which we seldom get except in the most finished public-school men — Etonians in particular — there has been no better examination in the schools for several years." The worthy tutor went on to take glory to the college, and in a lower degree to himself. He called attention, in more than one common room, to the fact that Hardy had never had any private tuition, but had attained his intellectual development solely in the curriculum provided by St. Ambrose's College for the training of the youth intrusted to her. " He himself, indeed," he would add, " had always taken much interest in Hardy, and had, perhaps, done more for him than would be possible in every case, but only with direct reference to, and in supplement of the college course." The Principal had taken marked and somewhat pompous notice of him, and had graciously intimated his wish, or, perhaps I should say, his will (for he would have been much astonished to be told that a wish of his could count for less than a royal mandate to any man who had been one of his servitors), that Hardy should stand for a fellowship which had lately fallen vacant. A few w^eeks before, this excessive affabihty and condescension of the great man would have wounded Hardy ; but, somehow, the sudden rush of sunshine and prosperity, though it had not thrown him off his balance, or changed his estimate of men and things, had pulled a sort of comfortable sheath over his sensitiveness, and gave him a second skin, as it were, from which the Principal's shafts bounded off innocuous, instead of piercing and rankling. At first, the idea of standing for a fellowship at St. Ambrose's was not pleasant to him. He felt inclined to open up entirely new ground for himself, and stand at some other college, where he had neither acquaintance nor association. But on second thoughts, he resolved to stick to his old college, moved thereto partly by the lamentations of Tom, when he heard of his friend's meditated emigration, but chiefly by the unwilling- TElE long walk in CHllISTCIIURCn MEADOWS. 279 ness to quit a hard post for an easier one, which besets natures like his to their ovni discomfort, but, may one hope, to the signal benefit of the world at large. Such men may see clearly enough all the advantages of a move of this kind — may quite appreciate the ease which it would bring them — may be im- patient with themselves for not making it at once — but, when it comes to the actual leaving the old post, even though it may l)«3 a march out with all the honours of war, drums beating and colours flying, as it would have been in Hardy's case, somehow or another, nine times out of ten, they throw up the chance at the last moment, if not earlier ; pick up their old arms — growling perhaps at the price they are paying to keep their own self-respect — and shoulder back into the press to face their old work, muttering, " We are asses ; we don't know what's good for us ; but we must sec this job through somehow, come what may." So Hard}^ stayed on at St. Ambrose, waiting for the fellow- ship examination, and certainly, I am free to confess, not a little enjoying the change in his position and affairs. He had given up his low dark bade rooms to the new servitor, his successor, to whom he had presented all the rickety furniture, except his two Windsor chairs and Oxford reading-table. The intrinsic value of the gift was not great, certainly, but was of importance to the poor raw boy who was taking his place ; and it was made with the delicacy of one who knew the situation. Hardy's good ofiices did not stop here. Having tried the bed himself for upwards of three long years, he knew all the hard places, and was resolved while he stayed up that they should never chafe another occupant as they had him. So he set himself to provide stuffing, and took the lad about with him, and cast a skirt of his newly-acquired mantle of respectability over him, and put him in the way of making himself as comfortable as circum- stances would allow ; never disguising from him all the while that the bed was not to be a bed of roses. In which pursuit, though not yet a fellow, perhaps he was qualifying himself better for a fellowsliip than he could have done by any amount of cramming for polish in his versification. Not that the electors of St. Ambrose would be likely to hear of or appreciate tliis kind of training. Polished versification would no doubt have told more in that quarter. But we who are behind the scenes may disagree with them, and hold that he who is thus acting out and learning to understand the meaning of the word " fellowship," is the man for our votes. So Hardy had left his rooms and gone out of college, into lodgings near at )«ai:xd. Xhe sword, epaulettes, and picture of 280 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. his father's old ship — his tutelary divinities, as Tom called them — occupied their accustomed place in liis new rooms, except that there was a looking-glass over the mantel-piece here, hy the side of which the sword hung, instead of in the centre, as it had done while he had no such luxury. His Windsor chairs occupied each side of the pleasant wmdow of his sitting-room, and already the taste for luxuries of which he had so often accused himself to Tom began to peep out in the shape of one or two fine engravings. Altogether Fortune was smiling on Hardy, and he was making the most of her, like a wise man, having brought her round by proving that he could get on without her, and was not going out of his way to gain her smiles. Several men came at once, even before he had taken his B.A. degree, to read with him, and others applied to know whether he would take a reading party in the long vacation. In short, all things went well with Hardy, and the Oxford world recognised the fact, and tradesmen and college servants became obsequious, and began to bow before him, and recognise him as one of their lords and masters. It was to Hardy's lodgings that Tom repaired straightway, when he left his cousin by blood, and cousin by courtesy, at the end of the last chapter. For, running over in his mind all his acquaintance, he at once fixed upon Hardy as the man to accompany him in escorting the ladies to the Long Walk. Besides being his own most intimate friend, Hardy was the man whom he would prefer to all others to introduce to ladies now. " A month ago it might have been different," Tom thought ; " he was such an old guy in his dress. But he has smartened up, and wears as good a coat as I do, and looks well enough for anybody, though he never will be much of a dresser. Then he will be in a bachelor's gown too, which will look respectable." " Here you are ; that's ail right ; I'm so glad you're in," he said as he entered the room. " ^N'ow I want you to come to the Long Walk T\dth me to-night." " Very well — will you call for meV " Yes, and mind you come in your best get-up, old fellow : W3 shall have two of the prettiest girls who are up, with us." " You won't want me then ; they will have plenty of escort." "Kot a bit of it They are deserted by their natural guardian, my old uncle, who has gone out to dinner. Oh, it's all right; they are my cousins, more like sisters, and my uncle knows we are going. In fact it was he who settled that T should take them." " Yes, but you see I don't know them." " That doesn't matter. I can't take them both myself— I THE LONG WALK IN CIIEISTCHUKCH MEADOWS. 281 n.ust have somelbody with me, and I'm so glad to get tlie uliance of introducing you to some of my people. You'll know tliem all, I hope, before long." " Of course I should like it very much, if yon are sure it's all right." Tom was as perfectly sure as usual, and so the matter was arranged. Hardy v/as very much pleased and gratified at this proof of his friend's confidence; and I am not going to say that he did not shave again, and pay most unwonted attention to his toilet before the hour fixed for Tom's return, Tlie fame of Brown's lionesses had spread through St. Ambrose's already, and Hardy had heard of them as well as other men. There was something so unusual to him in being selected on such an occasion, when the smartest men in the college were wishing and plotting for that which came to him unasked, that he may be pardoned for feeling something a little like vanity, while he adjusted the coat which Tom had recently thought of with such complacency, and looked in the glass to see that hi? gown hung gracefully. The effect on the whole was so good, that Tom was above measure astonished when he came back, and could not help indulging in some gentle chaff as they walked towards the High-street arm in arm. The young ladies were quite rested, and sitting dressed and ready for their walk, when Tom and Hardy were announced, and entered the room. Miss Winter rose up, surprised and a little embarrassed at the introduction of a total stranger in her father's absence. But she put a good face on the matter, as became a well-bred young woman, though she secretly resolved to lecture Tom in private, as he introduced " My great friend, Mr. Hardy, of our college. My cousins." Mary dropped a pretty little demm-e courtesy, lifting her eyes for one moment for a glance at Tom, which said as plain as look could speak, " Well, I must say you are making the most of your new- found relationship." He was a little put out for a moment, but then recovered himself, and said ajDologebically, " Mr. Hardy is a bachelor, Katie — I mean a Bachelor of Arts, and he knows all the people by sight up here. We couldn't have gone to the Walk without some one to show us the lions." " Indeed, I'm afraid you give me too much credit,*' said Hardy. " I know most of our dons by sight, certainly, but scarcely any of the visitors." The Awkwardness of Tom's attempted explanation set every- thing wrong again. Then came one of those awkward pauses which wiU occui BO very provokingly at the most inopportune times. Miss 282 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Winter was seized with one of the uncontrollable fits of shy- ness, her bondage to which she had so lately been grieving over to Mary ; and in self-defence, and without meaning in the least to do so, drew herself up, and looked as proud as you please. Hardy, whose sensitiveness was almost as keen as a woman's, felt in a moment the awkwardness of the situation, and became as shy as Miss Winter herself. If the floor would have suddenly opened, and let him through into the dark shop, he would have been thankful ; but, as it would not, there he stood, meditating a sudden retreat from the room, and a tremendous onslaught on Tom, as soon as he could catch him alone, for getting him into such a scrape. Tom was provoked with them all for not at once feeling at ease with one another, and stood twirling his cap by the tassel, and looking fiercely at it, resolved not to break the silence. He had been at all the trouble of bringing about this charming situation, and now nobody seemed to like it, or to know what to say or do. They might get themselves out of it as they could, for anything he cared ; he was not going to bother himself any more. Mary looked in the glass, to see that her bonnet was quite right, and then from one to another of her companions, in a little wonder at their unaccountable behaviour, and a little pique that two young men should be standing there like unpleasant images, and not availiug themselves of the privilege of trying, at least, to make themselves agreeable to her. Luckily, however, for the party, the humorous side of the tableau struck her with great force, so that when Tom lifted his misanthropic eyes for a moment, and caught hers, they were so full of fun that he had nothing to do but to allow himself, not without a struggle, to break first into a smile, and then into a laugh. This brought all eyes to bear on him, and the ice, being once broken, dissolved as quickly as it had gathered. " 1 really can't see what there is to laugh at, Tom," said Miss Winter, smiling herself, nevertheless, and blushing a little, as she worked or pretended to work at buttoning one of her gloves. " Can't you, Katie 1 Well, then, isn't it very ridiculous, and enough to make one laugh, that we four should be standing here in a sort of Quakers' meeting, when we ought to be half- way to the Long Walk by this time 1" " Oh, do let us start," said Mary ; " I know we shall be missing all the best of the sight." "Come along, tlien," said Tom, leading the way down THE LONG WALK IN CIIEISTCIIUKCII MEADOWS. 283 stairs, and Hardy and the ladies followed, and they descended into the High Street, walking all abreast, the two ladies together, with a gentleman on either flank. This formation answered well enough in High Street, the broad pavement of that celebrated thoroughfare being favourable to an advance in line. But when they had wheeled into Oriel Lane the narrow pavement at once threw the line into confusion, and after one or two fruitless attempts to take up the dressing they settled down into the more natural formation of close column of couples, the leading couple consisting of Mary and Tom, and the remaining couple of iSliss Winter and Hardy. It was a lovely midsummer evening, and Oxford was looking her best under the genial cloudless sky, so that, what with the usual congratulations on the weather, and explanatory remarks on the buildings as they passed along. Hardy managed to keep up a conversation with his companion with- out much difficulty. Miss Winter was pleased with his quiet deferential manner, and soon lost her feeling of shyness ; and, before Hardy had come to the end of such remarks as it occurred to him to make, she was taking her fair share in the talk. In describing their day's doings she spoke wnth enthusiasm of the beauty of Magdalen Chapel, and betrayed a little knowledge of tiaceries and mouldings, which gave an opening to her companion to travel out of the weather and the names of colleges. Church architecture was just one of the subjects which was sure at that time to take more or less hold on every man at Oxford whose mind was open to the influences of the place. Hardy had read the usual text- books, and kept his eyes open as he walked about the town and neighbourhood. To ISIiss Winter he seemed so learned on the subject, that she began to doabt his tendencies, and was glad to be reassured by some remarks which fell from him as to the University sermon which she had heard. She was glad to find that her cousin's most intimate friend was not likely to lead him into the errors of Tractarianism. Meantime the leading couple were getting on satisfactorily in their own way. " Isn't it good of Uncle Robert ? ho says that he shall fee-' quite comfortable as long as you and Katie are with me. In fact, I feel quite responsible already, like an old dragon iii a story-book watching a treasure." " Yes, but what does Katie say to being made a treasure of? She has to think a good deal for herself; and I am afraid you are not quite certain of being our sole knight and guardian because Uncle Robert wants to get rid of us. Pool old uncle I" 284 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " But you wouldn't object, then ?" " Oh, dear, no — at least, not unless you take to looking as cross as you did just now in our lodgings. Of course, I'm all for dragons who are mad about dancing, and never think of leaving a ball-room till the band packs up and the old man shuffles in to put out the liglits." "Then 1 shall be a model dragon," said Tom. Twenty- four hours earlier he had declaied that nothing should induce him to go to the balls ; but his i-iews on the subject had been greatly modified, and he had been worrying all his acquaintance, not unsuccessfully, for the necessary tickets, ever since his talk with his cousins on the preceding evening. The scene became more and more gay and lively as they passed out of Christchurch towards the Long Walk. The town turned out to take its share in the show ; and citizens of all ranks, the poorer ones accompanied by children of all ages, trooped along cheek by jowl with members of the University, of all degrees, and their visitors, somewhat indeed to the disgust of certain of these latter, many of Avhom declared that the whole thing was spoilt by the miscellaneous- ness of the crowd, and that "those sort of people" ought not to be allowed to come to the Long Walk on Show Sunday. However, " those sort of people " abounded nevertheless, and seemed to enjoy very much, in sober fashion, the solemn march up and down beneath the grand avenue of elms in the midst of their betters. The University was there in strength, from the Vice- Chancellor downwards. Somehow or another, though it might seem an unreasonable thing at first sight for grave and reverend persons to do, yet most of the gravest of them found some reason for taking a turn in the Long Walk. As for the undergraduates, they turned out almost to a man, and none oi them more certainly than the young gentlemen, elaborately dressed, who had sneered at the whole ceremony as snobbish an hour or two before. As for our hero, he sailed into the meadows thoroughly satisfied for the moment with himself and his convoy. He had every reason to be so, for though there were many gayer and more fashionably dressed ladies present than his cousin, and consul by courtesy, there were none there whose faces, figures, and dresses carried more unmistal patience to persuade them to leave; and so at last they made poor papa see them after all. He was lying on a sofa, and quite unfit to cope with a hard bad man like farmer Tester, and a fluent plausible lawyer. They told their story all their own way, and the farmer declared that the man had tempted the pony into the allot- ments with corn. And the lawyer said that the constable had no right to keep the pony in the pound, and that he was liable to all sorts of punishments. They wanted papa to THE LO^^G VACATION I>ETTEE-BAG. 321 iiiako an order at once for the pound to be opened, and 1 think he Avould have done so, but I asked him in a whispei to send for the constable, and hear what he had to say. The constable was waiting in the kitchen, so he came in in a minute. You can't think how well he behaved ; I have quite forgiven him all his obstinacy about the singing. He told the whole story about the pigs, and how farmer Tester had stopped money out of the men's wages. And when the lawyer tried to frighten him, he answered him quite boldly, that he mightn't know so much about the law, but he knew what was always the custom long before his time at Engle- bourn about the pound, and if farmer Tester wanted his beast out, he must bring the ' tally ' like another man. Then the lawyer appealed to papa about the law, and said how absurd it was, and that if such a custom were to be upheld, the man who had the tally might charge 100^. for the damage. And poor papa looked through his law books, and could find nothing about it at all ; and while he was doing it farmer Tester began to abuse the constable, and said he sided with all the good-for-nothing fellows in the parish, and that bad blood would come of it. But the constable quite fired up at that, and told him that it was such as he who made bad blood in the parish, and that poor folks had their rights aa well as their betters, and should have them while he was constable. If he got papa's order to open the pound, he sup- posed he must do it, and 'twas not for him to say what was law, but Harry Winbum had had to get the ' tally ' for his pig from farmer Tester, and what was fair for one was fair for all. " I was afraid papa would have made the order, but the lawyer said something at last which made him take the other side. So he settled that the farmer should pay five shillings for the * tally,' which was what he had taken from Betty, and had stopped out of the wages, and that was the only order he would make, and the laAv;)^er might do what he pleased about it. The constable seemed satisfied with this, and undertook to take the money down to Harry Winbum, /or farmer Tester declared he would sooner let the pony starve than go himself. And so papa got rid of them after an hour and more of this talk. The lawyer and farmer Tester went away grumbling and very angry to the Red Lion. I was very anxious to hear how the matter ended ; so 1 sent after the constable to ask him to come back and see me when he had settled it all, and about nine o'clock he came. He had had a very hard job to got Harry AVinburn to take the money, and give up the 'tally.' The men said that, if farmer Tester Y 322 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. could make them pay half-a-crown for a pig in his turnips, which were no bigger than radishes, he ought to pay ten shillings at least for his pony trampling down their corn^ which was half grown ; and I couldn't help thinldng this seemed very reasonable. In the end, however, the constable had persuaded them to take the money, and so the pony was let out. " I told him how pleased I was at the way he had behaved, out the little man didn't seem quite satisfied himself. He should have liked to have given the lawyer a piece more of his mind, he said, only he was no scholar ; * but I've a got aU the feelins of a man, miss, though I modn't have the ways o' bringin' on 'em out.' You see I am quite coming round to your opinion about him. l>ut when I said that I hoped all the trouble was over, he shook his head, and he seems to think that the men will not forget it, and that some of the wild ones will be trying to pay farmer Tester out in the winter nights, and I could see he was very anxious about Hany Winburn ; so I promised him to go and see Betty. " I went down to her cottage yesterday, and found her very low, poor old soul, about her son. She has had a bad attack again, and I am afiaid her heart is not right. She will not live long if she has much to make her anxious, and how is that to be avoided 1 For her son's courting is all going wrong, she can see, though he will not tell her anything about it ; but he gets more moody and restless, she says, and don't take a pride in anything, not even in his flowers or his allot- ment ; and he takes to going about, more and more every day, with these men, who will be sure to lead him into trouble. " After I left her, I walked up to the Hawk's Lynch, to see whether the view and the air would not do me good. And it did do me a great deal of good, dear, and I thought of you, and when I should see your bright face and hear your happy laugh again. The village looked so pretty and peaceful. I could hardly believe, while I was up there, that there were all these miserable quarrels and heartburnings going on in it. I suppose they go on everywhere, but one can't help feeling as if there were something specially hard in those which come under one's own eyes, and touch oneself. And then they are so frivolous, and everything might go on so com- fortably if people would only be reasonable. I ought to have been a man, I am sure, and then I might, perhaps, be able to do more, and should have more influence. If poor papa were only well and strong ! " But, dear, I shall tire you with all these long histories THE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAG. 323 and complainings. I have run on till I have no room left tor anything else ; but you can't think what a comfort it is to me to write it all to you, for 1 have no one to tell it to. I feel so much better, and more cheerful since I sat down tc write this. You must give my dear love to uncle and aunt, and let me hear from you again whenever you have time. If you could come over again and stay for a few days it would be very kind ; but I must not press it, as there is nothing to attract you here, only we might talk over all that \^ did and saw at Oxford. — Ever, dearest Mary, your very affectionaie cousin, *• Katie. " P.S. — I should like to have the pattern of the jacket you wore the last day at Oxford. Could you cut it out in thin paper, and send it in your next ? " ''July—, 184—. '' My dear Brown, — I was very glad to see your hand, and to hear such flourishing accounts of your vacation doings. You won't get any like announcement of me, for cricket has not yet come so far west as this, at least not to settle. We have a few pioneers and squatters in the villages ; but, I am sorry to say, nothing yet like matches between the elevens of districts. lieighbours we have none, except the rector ; so I have plenty of spare time, some of which I feel greatly dis- posed to devote to you ; and I hope you won't hnd me too tedious to read. " It is very kind of your father to wish that you should be my first pupil, and to propose that I should spend the last month of this vacation with you in Berkshire. But I do not like to give up a whole month, IMy father is getting old and infirm, and I can see that it would be a great trial to him, although he urges it, and is always telling me not to let him keep me at home. What do you say to meeting me half way 1 I mean, that you should come here for half of the time, and then that I should retiu-n with you for the last fortnight of the vacation. This I could manage perfectly. " But you cannot in any case be my first pupil ; for not to mention that I have been as you know, teaching for some years, I have a pupil here, at this minute. You are not Ukely to guess who it is, though you know him well enough — perliaps I should say too well — so, in a word, it is Blake. I had not been at home three days before I got a letter from him, asking me to take him, and putting it in such a way that I couldn't refuse. I would sooner not have had him, as I had already got out of taking a reading party with soma y2 324 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. trouble, and felt inclined to enjoy myself here m dignified idleness till next term. But what can you do when a man puts it to you as a great personal favour, &c. &c. 1 So I wrote to accept. You may imagine my disgust a day cr two afterwards, at getting a letter from an uncle of his, some official person in London apparently, treating the whole matter in a business point of vieAv, and me as if I were a training groom. He is good enough to suggest a stimulant to me in the shape of extra <|)ay and his future patronage in the event of his nephew's taking a first in Michaelmas term. If I had re- ceived this letter before, I think it would have turned the scale, and I should have refused. But the thing was done, and Blake isn't fairly responsible for his relative's views. " So here he has been for a fortnight. He took a lodging in the village at first ; but of course my dear old father's ideas of hospitality were shocked at this, and here he is, our inmate. " He reads fiercely by fits and starts. A feeling of personal hatred against the examiners seems to urge him on more than any other motive ; but this will not be strong enough to keep him to regular work, and without regular work he won't do, notwithstanding all Ms cleverness, and he is a marvellously clever fellow. So the first thing 1 have to do is to get him steadily to the collar, and how to do it is a pretty particular puzzle. For he hasn't a grain of enthusiasm in his composi- tion, nor any power, as far as I can see, of throwing himself into the times and scenes of which he is reading. The phi- losophy of Greece and the history of Rome are matters of perfect indifi'erence to him — to be got up by catch- words and dates tor examination and nothing more. I don't think he would care a straw if Socrates had never lived, or Hannibal had destroyed Rome, The greatest names and deeds of the old world are just so many dead counters to him — the Jewish just as much as the rest. I tried him with the story of the attempt of Antiochus Epiphanes to conquer the Jews, and the glorious rising of all that was hving in the Holy Land under the Macabees. Not a bit of it ; I couldn't get a spark out of him. He wouldn't even read the story be- cause it is in the Apocrypha, and so, as he said, the d— -d examiners couldji't ask him anything about it in the gchools. Then his sense of duty is quite undeveloped. He has no notion of going on doing anything disagreeable because he ought. So here I am at fault again. Ambition he has in abundance ; in fact so strongly, that very likely it may in the THE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAG. 325 end pull him through, and make him work hard enough for his Oxford purposes at any rate. But it wants repressing rather than encouragement, and 1 certainly sha'n't appeal to it. " You will begin to think I dislike him and want to get rid of him, but it isn't the case. You know what a good temper he has, and how remarkably well he talks ; so ha makes himself very pleasant, and my father e\ddently enjoys his company ; and then to be in constant intercourse with a subtle intellect like his, is pleasantly exciting, and keeps one alive and at high pressure, though one can't help always wishing that it had a little heat in it. You would be im- mensely amused if you could drop in on us. " I think I have told you, or you must have seen it for yourself, that my father's principles are true blue, as becomes a sailor of the time of the great war, while his instincts and practice are liberal in the extreme. Our rector, on the contrary, is liberal in principles, but an aristocrat of the aristocrats in instinct and practice. They are always ready enough therefore to do battle, and Blake delights in the wat, and fans it and takes part in it as a sort of free lance, laying little logical pitfalls for the combatants alternately, with that deferential manner of his. He gets some sort of intellectual pleasure, I suppose, out of seeing where they ought I,, tumble in ; for tumble in they don't, but clear his pit-falls in their stride — at least my father does — quite innocent of having neglected to distribute his middle term ; and the rector, if he has some inkling of tliese traps, brushes them aside, and disdains to spend powder on any one but his old adversary and friend. I employ myself in trying to come down ruth- lessly on Blake himself ; and so we spend our evenings after dinner, which comes off at the primitive hour of five. We used to dine at three, but my father has conformed now to college hours. If the rector does not come, instead of ai-gumentative talk, we get stories out of my father. In the mornings we bathe, and boat, and read. So, you see, he and I have plenty of one another's company, and it is certainly odd that we get on so well with so very few points of sympathy. But, luckily, besides his good temper and cleverness, he has plenty of humour. On the whole, I think we shall rub through the two months which he is to spend here without getting to hato one another, though there is little chance of our becoming friends. Besides putting some history and science into him (scholarship he does not need), I shall be satisfied if I ('an make him give up his use of the pronoun 'you' before ho goes. In talking of the corn laws, or foreign policy, or India^ 326 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. or any other political subject, however interesting, he nevei will identify himself as an Englishman ; and * you do this/ or '■you expect that' is for ever in his mouth, speaking of his own countrjTuen. I believe if the French were to land to- morrow on Portland, he would comment on our attempts to dislodge them as if he had no concern with the business except as a looker-on. " You will think all this rather a slow return for your jolly gossiping letter, full of cricket, archery, fishing, and I know not what pleasant goings-on. But what is one to do % one can only write about what is one's subject of interest for the time being, and Blake stands in that relation to me just now. I should prefer it otherwise, but si on n'a pas ce qu'on aime it faut aimer ce qu'on a. I have no incident to relate ; these parts get on without incidents somehow, and without society. I wish there were some, particularly ladies' society. I break the tenth commandment constantly, thinking of Commemora- tion, and that you are wnthin a ride of Miss Winter and her cousin. When you see them next, pray present my respectful compliments. It is a sort of consolation to tliink that one may cross their fancy for a moment and be remembered as part of a picture which gives them pleasure. With which piece of sentiment I may as well shut up. Don't you forget my message now, and — " Believe me, ever yours most truly, "John Hardy. " P.S. — I mean to speak to Blake, v/hen I get a chance, of that wretched debt which you have paid, unless you object. I should think better of him if he seemed more uncomfortable about his aH'airs. After all he may be more so than I think, for he is very reserved on such subjects." " Engleboukn Rectory, ''July, 184 — . " Dearest Mary, — I send the coachman wnth this note, in order that you may not be anxious about me. 1 have just returned from poor Betty Winburn's cottage to write it. She is very very ill, and I do not think can last out more than a day or two ; and she seems to cling to me so that I cannot have the heart to leave her. Indeed, if I could make up my mind to do it, I should never get her poor white eager face out of my head all day, so that I should be very bad compan}^ and quite out of place at your party, making everybody melancholy and uncomfortable who came near me. So, dear, I am not coming. Of course it is a great disappointment. I had set my heart on being with you, and enjoying it all thoroughly ; THE LONG VACATION LETTEli-BAG. 327 and even at breakfast this morning knew of nothing to hmder me. My dress is actually lying on the bed at this minute, and it looks very pretty, especially the jacket like yours, which I and Hopkins have managed to make up from the pattern you sent, though you forgot the sleeves, which made it ratlier hard to do. Ah, well ; it is of no use to think of how pleasant things would have been which one cannot hav8. You must write me an account of how it all went off, dear ; or perhaps you can manage to get over here before long to tell me. " I must now go back to poor Betty. Slie is such a faithful, patient old thing, and has been such a good woman all her life that there is nothing painful in being by her now, and one feels sure that it will be much hajijiier and better for her to be at rest. If she could only feel comfortable about her son, I am sure she would think so herself. Oh, I forgot to say that her attack was brouglit on by tlie shock of hearing that he had been summoned for an assault. Farmer Tester's son, a young man about his own age, lias it seems been of late waylaying Simon's daughter and making love to her. It is so very hard to make out the truth in matters of this kind. Hopkins says she is a dressed-up little minx who runs after all the young men in the parish ; but really, from what I see and hear from other persons, I think she is a good girl enough. Even Betty, who looks on her as the cause of most of her own trouble, has never said a word to make me think that she is at all a light person, or more fond of admiration than any other good-looking girl in the parish. "But those Testers are a very wicked set. You cannot think what a misfortune it is in a place like this to have these rich families with estates of their own, in which the young men begin to think themselves above the common fai-mers. They ape the gentlemen, and give themselves great airs, but of course no gentleman will associate with them, as they are quite uneducated ; and the conse(|uence is that they live a great deal at home, and give themselves uf) to all kinds of wickedness. This young Tester is one of these. His father is a very bad old man, and does a great deal of harm here ; and the son is following in his steps, and is quite as bad, or worse. So you see that I shall not easily believe that Harry Winburn has been much in the wrong. However, all I know of it at present is that young Tester was beaten by Harry yesterday evening in the village street, and that they came to papa at once for a summons. "Oh, here is the coachman ready to start ; so I must conclude, dear, and go back to my patient. I shall often 328 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. think of you during the day. I am sure you will have a charming party. With best love to all, believe me, evei dearest, " Your most affectionate " Katie. " P.S. — I am very glad that uncle and aunt take to Tom, and that he io staying with you for some days. You will find him very useful in making the party go off well, I am CHAPTER XXX. AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR. **A LETTER, Miss, from Eiiglcbourn," said a footman, coming up to Mary with the note given at the end of the last chapter, on a waiter. She took it and tore it open ; and, whde she is reading it, the reader may be introduced to the place and company in which we find her. The scene is a large old-fashioned square brick house, backed by fine trees, in the tops of which the rooks live, and the jackdaws and starlings in the many holes which time has worn in the old trunks ; but they are all away on this fine summer morning, seeking their meal and enjoying themselves in the neigh- bouring fields. In front of the house is a pretty flower- garden, separated by a haw-haw from a large pasture, sloping southwards gently down to a stream, which glides along through water-cress and willow beds to join the Kennet. The beasts have all been driven off, and on the upper part of the field, nearest the house, two men are fixing up a third pair of targets on the rich short grass. A large tent is pitched near the archery-ground, to hold quivers and bow-casos, and luncheon, and to shelter lookers-on from the mid-day sun. Beyond the brook a pleasant, well- timbered, country lies, with high chalk-downs for an horizon, ending in Marlborough hill, faint and blue in tlie west. This is the place which Mary's father has taken for the summer and autumn, and where she is fast becoming the pet of the neighbourhood. It will not perhaps surprise our readers to find that our hero has managed to find his way to Baiton Manor in the second week of the vacation, aud, having made the most of his opportunities, is acknowledged as a c(/usin by Mr. and Mis. Porter. Their boys are at homo for the holidays, and Mr. Porter's great wish is that they should get used to the country in their summer holidays. And as they have spent AilUSEMENTS A'C DAUTON MANOR. ^29 most of their childhood and boyhood in London, to which he Las been tied pretty closely liitherto, this is a great oppor- tunity. The boys only wanted a preceptor, and Tom presented himself at the right moment, and soon became the hero of Charley and Neddy Porter. He taught them to throw flies and bait crawfish nets, to bat-fowl, and ferret for rabbits, and to saddle and ride their ponies, besides getting up games of cricket in the spare evenings, which kept him away from Mr. Porter's dinner-table. This last piece of self-denial, as ho considered it, quite won over that gentleman, who agreed with his wife that Tom was just the sort of companion they vrould like for the boys, and so the house was thrown open to him. The boys were always clamouring for him when he was away, and making their mother write off to press him to come again ; which he, being a very good-natured young man, and particularly fond of boys, was ready enough to do. So this was the third visit he had paid in a month. Mr. and Mrs. Brown wondered a little that he should be so very fond of the young Porters, who were good boys enough, but very much like other boys of thirteen and fifteen, of whom there were several in the neighbourhood. He had indeed just mentioned an elder sister, but so casually that their attention had not been drawn to the fact, which haa almost slipped out of their memories. On the other hand, Tom seemed so completely to identify himselt with the boys and their pursuits, that it never Cv^curred to their father and mother, who were doatingly fond of them, that, after all, they might not be the only attraction. Mary seemed to take very little notice of him, and went on with her own pursuits much as usual. It was true that she liked keeping the score at cricket, and coming to look at them fishing or rabbiting in her walks ; but all that was very natural. It is a curious and merciful dispensation of Pro\idence that most father3 and mothers seem never to be capable of remembering their own experience, and will probably go on till the end of time thinking of their sons of twenty and daughters of six- teen or seventeen as mere children, who may be allowed to run about together as much as they please. And, where it is otherwise, the results are not very different, for there are certain mysterious ways of holding intercourse implanted in the youth of both sexes, against which no vigilance cun avail So on this, her great fete day, Tom had been helping Mai'y all the morning in dressing the rooms with flowers, and arranging aU the details — where people were to sit at the cold 330 TOM BKOWN A.T OXFOKD. dinner ; how to find the proper number of seats ; how the dining-room was to be cleared in time for dancing when the dew began to fall In all which matters there were many obvious occasions for those little attentions which are much valued by persons in like situations ; and Tom was not sorry that the boys had voted the whole prepara- tions a bore, and had gone off to the brook to * gropple ' in the bank for crayfish till the shooting began. The arrival of the note had been the first contre-temps of the morning, and they were now expecting guests to arrive every minute. " \ATiat is the matter ? No bad news, I hope," he said, seeing her vexed expression. " Why, Katie can't come. I declare I could sit down and cry. I sha'n't enjoj^ the party a bit now, and I wish it were all over." " I am sure Katie would be very unhappy if she thought you were going to spoil you day's pleasure on her account." " Yes, I know she would. But it is so provoking when I had looked forward so to having her." " You have never told me why she cannot come. She was quite full of it all a few days since." " Oh, there is a poor old woman in the village dying, who is a great friend of Katie's. Here is her letter ; let me see," she said, glancing over it to see that there was nothing in it which she did not vrish him to read, "you may read it if you like." " Tom began reading. " Betty Winburn," he said, when he came to the name, " what, poor dear old Betty ? why I've known her ever since I was born. She used to live in our parish, and I haven't seen her this eight years nearly. And her boy Harry, I wonder what has become of him 1 " " You will see if you read on," said Mary ; and so he read to the end, and then folded it up and returned it. " So poor old Betty is dying. Well she was always a good soul, and very kind to me when I was a boy. I should like to see her once again, and perhaps I might be able to do some- thing for her son." " Why should we not ride over to Englebourn to-morrow 1 they will be glad to get us out of the way while the house is being straightened." " I should like it of all things, if it can be managed." " Oh, I wiU manage it somehow, for I must go and see that dear Katie. I do feel so ashamed of myself when I think of all the good she is doing, and I do nothing but put flowers about, and play the piano. Isn't she an angel, now 1 ** " Of course shf^ is." AMUSEMENTS AT BAKTON MANOR. 331 ** Yes ; but I won't have that sort of matter-of-course acquiescence. Now, do you really mean that Katie is as good as an angel "? " " As seriously as if I saw the wings growing out of her shoulders, and dew-drops hanging on them." " You deserve to have something not at all like wings growing out of your head. IIow is it that you never see when I don't want you to talk your nonsense ? " " How am I to talk sense about angels 1 I don't know anything about them," " You know what I mean, perfectly. I sa}'- that dear Katie is an angel, and I mean that I don't know anything in her — no not one single thing — which I should like to have changed. If the angels are all as good as she " " If I why I shall begin to doubt your orthodoxy." " You don't know what I was going to say." ** It doesn't matter what you were going to say. You couldn't have brought that sentence to an orthodox conclu- sion. Oh, please don't look angry, now. Yes, I quite see what you mean. You can think of Katie just as she is now in Heaven without being shocked." Mary paused for a moment before she answered, as if she were rather taken by surprise at this way of putting her meaning, and then said seriously — " Indeed, I can. I think we should all be perfectly happy if we were all as good as she is." " But she is not very hajjpy herself, I am afjaid." " Of course not. How can she be, when all the people about her are so troublesome and selfish 1 " " I can't fancy an angel the least like Uncle Itobert, can you?" " I won't talk about angels any more. You have made me feel quite as if I had been saying something wicked." " Now really it is too hard that you should lay the blame on me, when you began the subject yourself. You ought at least to let me say what I have to say about angels." " Why, you said you Imew nothing about them half a minute ago." " But I may have my notions, like other pecple. You have your notions. Katie is your angel." " Well, then, what are your notions ? " " Katie is rather too dark for my idea of an angel. I can't fancy a dark angel." " Why, how can you call Katie dark 1 " " I only say she is too dark for my idea of an angeL" " Well, go on." 332 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. " TLen, she is rather too grave." " Too grave for an angel ! " " For my idea of an angel — one doesn't want one's angel to be like oneself, and I am so grave, you know." " Yes, very. Then your angel is to be a laughing angeL A laughing angel, and yet very sensible; never talking nonsense ? " " Oh, I didn't say that." " But you said he wasn't to be like you." " Ue I who in the world do you mean by he f " " A-Vliy, your angel, of course." " My angel ! You don't really suppose that my angel is to be a man." " I Lave no time to think about it. Look, they are putting those targets quite crooked. You are responsible for the targets ; we must go and get them straight." They walked across the ground towards the targets, and Tom settled them according to his notions of opposites. " After all, archery is slow work," he said when the targets were settled satisfactorily. "I don't believe anybody really enjoys it." " Kow that is because you men haven't it all to yourselves. You are jealous of any sort of game in which we can join. I believe you are afraid of being beaten by us." " On the contrary, that is its only recommendation, that you can join in it." " WeU, I think that ought to be recommendation enough. But I believe it is much harder than most of your games. You can't shoot half so well as you play cricket, can you ? " "No, because I never practise. It isn't exciting to be walking up and down between two targets, and doing the same thing over and over again. "VVliy, you don't find it so yourself. You hardly ever shoot." " Indeed I do though, constantly." " Why, I have scarcely ever seen you shooting," " That is because you are away with the boys all day." " Oh, I am never too far to know what is going on. I'm sure you have never practised for more than a quarter of an hour any day that I have been here," " Well, perhaps I may not have. But I teU you I am very fond of it," Here the two boys came up from the brook, Neddy with his Scotch cap full of crayfish. " Why, you A\Tctchcd boys, where have you been 1 You are not fit to be seen," said ^lary, shaking the arrows at them, which she was carrying in her hand. " Go and dress directly, AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOU. 333 or you will be late. I think I heard a carriage drive up just now." " Oh, there's plenty of time. Look what whackers, Cousin Tom," said Charley, holding out one of his prizes by its back towards Tom, while the indignant cray-fish flapped its tail and worked about with its claws, in the hopes of getting hold of something to pinch. " I don't believe those boys have been dry for two hours together in daylight since you first came here," said Mary to Tom. " Well, and they're all the better for it, I'm sure," said Tom. " Yes, that we are," said Charley. " I say, Charley," said Tom, " your sister says she is very fond of shooting." " Ay, and so she is. And isn't she a good shot too 1 I believe she would beat you at fifty yards." " There now, you see, you need not have been so un- believing," said Mary. " Will you give her a shot at your new hat. Cousin Tom ? " said Neddy. " Yes, Neddy, that I will ; " and he added to Mary, « I will bet you a pair of gloves you don't hit it in three shots." **Very well," said Mary; "at thirty yards." "No, no ! fifty yards was the named distance." " No, fifty yards is too far. Why, your hat is not much bigger than the gold." " Well, I don't mind spHtting the difi'erence ; we will say forty." " Very well — three shots at forty yards." " Yes ; here, Charley, run and hang my hat on that target." The boys rushed off with the hat — a new white one — and hung it with a bit of string over the centre of one of the targets, and then, stepping a little aside, stood, clapping their hands, shouting to Mary to take good aim. " You must string my bow," she said, handing it to him as she buckled on her guard. " Now, do you repent ? I am going to do my best, mind, if I do shoot." " I scorn repentance : do your worst," said Tom, stringing the bow and handing it back to her." ** And, now I will hold your arrows ; here is the forty yards." Mary came to the place which he had stepped, her eyes full of fun and mischief ; and he saw at once that she knew what she was about as she took her position and drew the first arrow. It missed the hat by some three inches only, and the boys clapped and shouted. 334 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOKD. " Too near to be pleasant," said Tom, handing the second arrow. " I see you can shoot." " Well, I will let you off still." " Gloves and all ? " "No, of course you must pay the gloves." " Shoot away then. Ah, that will do," he cried, as the second arrow struck considerably above the hat, " I shall get my gloves yet," and he handed the third arrow. They were too intent on the business in hand to observe that ]\lr. and Mrs. Porter and several guests were already on the hand- bridge which crossed the haw-haw. Mary drew her tliird arrow, paused a moment, loosed it, and this time with fatal aim. The bo3'S rushed to the tai-gut, towards which Mary and Tom also hurried, Mr. and ]\Ir.>i. Porter and the new comers following more quietly. " Oh, look here — what fun," said Charley, as Tom came up, holding up the hat spiked on the arrow, which he had drawn out of the target. " What a wicked shot," he said, taking the hat and turning to Mary. " Look here, you have actually gone through three places — through crown, and side, and brim." Mary began to feel quite sorry at her own success, and looked at the wounded hat sorrowfully. " Hullo, look here — here's papa and mamma and some people, and we ain't dressed. Come along Neddy," and the boys made off towards the back premises, while !Mary and Tom, turning round, found themselves in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Porter, !Mrs Brown, and two or three other guests. CHAPTER XXXI. BEHIND THE SCENES. Mr. and Mrs. Brown had a long way to drive home that evening, including some eight miles of very indifferent chalky road over the downs, which separate the Vale of Ke:met from tlie Vale of White Horse. Mr. Brown was an early man, and careful of his horses, who responded to his care by being always well up to much more work than they were ever put to. The drive to Barton ^Manor and back m a day was a rare event in their lives. Their master, taking this fact into consideration, was bent on giving them plenty of time for the return journey, and had ordered his groom to be ready to start by eight o'clock. But, that they might not disturb the BEHIND THE SCENES. 335 rest by their early do]);irture, he had sent the carriage to the village inn instead of to the Porters' stables. At the appointed time, therefore, and when the evenirg'a amusements were just beginning at the manor house, Mr. Brown sought out his w^ife ; and, after a few words of leave- taking to their host and hostess, the tAvo slipped quietly away, and walked down the village. The carriage was stand- ing before tlie inn all ready for them, with the hostler and ]\Ir. Brown's gi'oom at the horses' heads. The carriage was a high phaeton having a roomy front seat with a hood to it, specially devised by Mr. Brown wnth a view to his wife's comfort, and that lie might with a good conscience enjoy at the same time the pleasures of her society and of driving his own horses. When once in her place Mrs. Brown was as comfortable as she would have been in the most luxurious barouche with C springs, but the ascent was certainly rather a drawback. The pleasure of sitting by her husband and of receiving his assiduous help in the preliminary climb, how- ever, more than compensated to Mrs. Brown for this little inconvenience. Mr. Brown helped her up as usual, and arranged a plaid carefully over her knees, the weather being too hot for the apron. He then proceeded to walk round the horses, patting them, examining the bits, and making inquiries as to how they had fed. Having satisfied himself on these points, and feed the hostler, he took the reins, seated himself by his wife, and started at a steady pace towards the hills at the back of Barton village. For a minute or two neither of them spoke, IMr. Brown being engrossed with his horses and she with her thoughts. Presently, however, he turned to her, and, having ascertained that she was quite comfortable, went on — " AVell, my dear, what do you think of them 1 " " Oh, I think they are agreeable people," answered Mrs. Brown ; " but one can scarcely judge from seeing them to- day. It is too far for a drive ; we shall not be home till midnight." "But I am vsry glad we came. After all they are con- nexions through poor Robert, and he seems anxious that they should start well in the county. Why, he has actually written twice jou know about our coming to-day. We must try to show them some civility." " It is impossible to come so far often," ]Mrs. Brown per- sisted. "It is too far for ordinary visiting. What do you say to asking them to come and spend a day or two Avith us ? '* 336 TOM BROT\Ti AT OXFORD. " Certainly, my dear, if yon wish it," answered Mrs. Browiif but without much cordiality in her voice. ** Yes, I should like it ; and it will please Robert so much. "We might have him and Katie over to meet them, don't you think 1 " " Let me see," said Mrs. Brown, with much more alacrity, "Mr. and Mrs. Porter will have the best bedroom and dress- ing-room ; Eobert must have the south room, and Katie the chintz. Yes, that will do ; I can manage it very well." "And their daughter; you have forgotten her." " Well, you see, dear, there is no more room." " "Why, there is the dressing-room, next to the south room, with a bed in it. I'm sure nobody can want a better room." " You know, John, that Robert cannot sleep if there is the least noise. I could never put any one into his dressing- room ; there is only a single door between the rooms, and, even if they made no noise, the fancy that some one was sleeping there would keep him awake all night." " Plague take his fancies ! Robert has given way to them tiU he is fit for nothing. But you can put him in the chintz ioom, and give the two girls the south bedroom and dressing- room." " AATiat, put Robert in a room which looks north 1 My dear John, what can you be thinking about ? " ^Ir. Bro^vn uttered an impatient grunt, and, as a vent to his feelings more decorous on the w4iole than abusing his brother-in-law, drew his whip more smartly than usual across the backs of his horses. The exertion of muscle necessary to reduce those astonished animals to their accustomed steady trot restored his temper, and he returned to the charge — " I suppose we must manage it on the second floor, then, unless you could get a bed run up in the school-room." " No, dear ; I really should not like to do that — it would be so very inconvenient. We are always wanting the room for workwomen or servants : besides, I keep my account- books and other things there." " Then I'm afraid it must be on the second floor. Some ol the children must be moved. Tlie girl seems a nice girl, with no nonsense about her, and won't mind sleeping up there. Or, why not put Katie upstairs ? " " Indeed, I should not think of it. Katie is a dear good girl, and I will not put any one over her head." " Xor I, dear. On the contrary, I was asking you to put her over another person's head," said Mr. Brown, laughing at his ovm joke. This unusual reluctance on the part of his wife to assist in carrying out any hospitable plans of his began BEHIND THE SCENES. 337 to strike him ; so, not being an adept at concealing his thoughts, or gaining Ins point by any attack except a direct one, after driving on for a minute in silence, he turned sud- denly on his wife, and said, — " Why, Lizzie, you seem not to want to ask the girl ?" " Well, John, I do not see the need of it at alL" " No, and you don't want to ask her 1 " " If you must know, then, I do not.'* " Don't you like her 1 " " I do not know her well enough either to like or dis like." " llien, why not ask her, and see what she is like 1 But the truth is, Lizde, you have taken a prejudice against her." "Well, John, I think she is a thoughtless girl, and extra- vagant ; not the sort of girl, in fact, that I should wish to be much with us." "Thoughtless and extravagant ! " said Mr. Brown, looking grave ; " how you women can be so sharp on one another ! Her dress seemed to me simple and pretty, and her maimers very lady-like and pleasing." " You seem to have quite forgotten about Tom's hat," said Mrs. Brown. " Tom's white hat — so I had," said Mr. Brown, and he relapsed into a low laugh at the remembrance of the scene. " I call that his extravagance, and not hers." " It was a new hat, and a very expensive one, which he had bought for the vacation, and it is quite spoilt." " Well, my dear ; really, if Tom will let girls shoot at his hats, he must take the consequences. He must wear it with the holes, or buy another." " How can he afford another, John 1 you know how poor he is." Mr. Brown drove on now for several minutes without speak- ing. He knew perfectly well what his wife w^as coming to now, and, after weighing in his mind the alternatives of accepting battle or making sail and changing the subject altogether, said, — " You know, my dear, he has brought it on himself. A headlong, generous sort of youngster, like Tom, must be taught early that he can't have his cake and eat his cake. If he likes to lend his money, he must find out that he hasn't it to spend." " Yes, dear, I quite agree with you. But 50^. a year is a great deal to make him pay." " Not a bit too much, Lizzie. His allowance is quite enough vvithout it to keep Mm like a gentleman. Besides, after all, z 338 TOM BEOTTN AT OXFOKD. he gets it in meal or in malt ; I have just paid 251. for his gun." " I know how kind and liberal you are to him ; only I am so afraid of his getting into debt." " I wonder what men would do, if they hadn't some soft- hearted woman always ready to take their parts and pull them out of scrapes," said ]\Ir. Brown. " Well, dear, how much do you want to give the boy ! " " Twenty-live pounds, just for this year. But out of my own allowance, John." " Nonsense ! " replied Mr. Brown ; " you want your al- lowance for yourself and the children." " Indeed, dear John, I would sooner not do it at all, then, if I may not do it out of my own money." " Well, have it your own way. I believe jon would always look well dressed, if you never bought another gown. Then, to go back to what we were talking about just now — you will find a room for the girl somehow 1 " " Yes, dear, certainly, as I see you are bent on it." " I think it would be scjircely civil not to ask her, especially if Katie comes. And I own I think her very pretty, and have taken a great fancy to her." " Isn't it odd that Tom should never have said anything about her to us 1 He has talked of all the rest till I knew them quite well before I went there." " No ; it seems to me the most natural thing in the world.'* " Yes, dear, very natural. But I can't help wishing lie had talked about her more ; I should think it less dangerous." "Oh, you think Master Tom is in love with her, eh]'* said Mr. BrcwTi, laughing. " More unlikely things have happened. You take it very easily, John." '' Well, we have all been boys and girls, Lizzie. Tlie world hasn't altered much, I suppose, since I used to get up at five on winter mornings, to ride some twenty miles to cover, on the chance of meetiug a young lady on a grey pony. I remember how my poor dear old father used to wonder at it, when our hounds met close by, in a better country. I'm afraid I forgot to tell him what a pretty creature * Gipsy ' was, and how well she was ridden." " But Tom is only twenty, and he must go into a pro- fession." " Yes, yes ; much too young, I know — too young for any- thing serious. We had better see them together, and then, if there is anything in it, we can keep them apart. TheK cannot be much the matter yet." BEHIND THE SCENES. 389 " "Well, dear, if you are satisfied, I am sure I am." And so the conversation turned on other subjects, and Mr. and ^Irs. Brown enjoyed their moonlight drive home through the delicious summer niglit, and were quite sorry when the groom got down from the hind-seat to open their own gates, at half-past twelve. About the same time the festivities at Barton Manor were coming to a close. There had been cold dinner in the tent at six, alter the great match of the day ; and, after dinner, the announcement of the scores, and the distribution of prizes to the winners. A certain amount of toasts and speechifying followed, which the ladies sat through with the most ex- emplary appearance of being amused. When their healths had been proposed and acknowledged, they retired, and were soon followed by the younger portion of the male sex ; and, while the J.P.'s and clergymen sat quietly at their wine, which Mr. Porter took care should be remarkably good, and their wives went in to look over the house and have tea, their sons and daughters split up into groups, and some shot handi- caps, and some walked about and flirted, and some played at bowls or lawn billiards. And soon the band appeared again from the servants' hall, mightily refreshed ; and dancing began on the grass, and in due time was transferred to the tent, when the grass got damp with the niglit dew ; and then to the hall of the house, when the lighting of the tent began to fail. And then there came a supper, extemporized out of the remains of the dinner ; after w^hich, papas and mammas began to look at theu' watches, and remonstrate wnth daugh- ters, coming up with sparkling eyes and hair a little shaken out of place, and pleading for "just one more dance." " You have been going on ever since one o'clock," remonstrated the parents ; " And are ready to go on till one to-morrow," replied the children. By degrees, however, the freijuent sound of wheels was heard, and the dancers got thinner and thinner, till, for the last half-hour, some half-dozen couples of young people danced an interminable reel, while Mr. and Mrs. Porter, and a few of the most good-natured matrons of the neighbourhood looked on. Soon after midnight the band struck ; no amount of negus could get anything more out of them but " God save the Queen," which they accordingly played aid departed ; and then came the final cloaking and driving :lf of the last guests. Tom and Mary saw the last oi them into their carriage at the liall-door, and lingered a moment in the porch. " What a lovely night ! " said ISIary. " How I bote going to bed I " 340 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " It is a dreadful bore," answered Tom ; " but here is th« butler waiting to shut up ; we must go in." " I wonder where papa and mamma are." " Oh, they are only seeing things put a little to rights. Let us sit here till they come ; they must pass by to get to their rooms." So the two sat down on some hall chairs. " Oh dear ! " 1 wish it were all coming over again to- morrow," said Tom, leaning back, and lookmg up at the ceiling. " By the way, remember I owe you a pair of gloves; what colour shall they be 1 " " Any colour you like. I can't bear to think of it. I felt so dreadfully ashamed when they all came up, and youi mother looked so grave ; I am sure she was very angry." " Poor mother ! she was thinking of my hat with three arrow-holes in it." "Well, I am very sorry, because I wanted them to like me." "And so they v/ill ; I should like to know who can help it." " Now, I won't have any of your nonsensical compliments. Do you think they enjoyed the day ] " " Yes, I am sure they did. My father said he had never liked an archery meeting so much." " But they went away so early." " They had a very long drive, you know. Let me see," he said, feeling in his breast-pocket, " mother left me a note, and I have never looked at it till now." He took a slip of paper out and read it, and his face fell. " WTiat is it 1 " said iMary, leaning forward. " Oh, nothing ; only I must go to-morrow morning." " There, I was sure she was angry." " No, no ; it was written this morning before she came here. I can tell by the paper." *' But she will not let you stay here a day, you see." " I have been hero a good deal, considering all things. I shuidd like never to go away." " Perhaps papa might find a place for you, if you asked him. Which should you like, — to be tutor to the boys, oi gamekeeper 1 " " On the whole, I should prefer the tutorship at present ; you take so much interest in the boys." " Yes, because they have no one to look after them now in the hoHdays. But, wlien you come as tutor, I shall wash my hands of them." "Then I shall decline the situation." " How are you going homo to-morrow ] " BEHI^^D THE SCENES. 341 " I shall ride round by Englebourn. They wish me to go round and see Katie and Uncle Robert. You talked about riding over there yourself this morning." " I should like it so much. But how can we manage it 1 I can't ride back again by myself." ** Couldn't you stay and sleep there 1 " *' I will ask mamma. No, I'm afraid it can hardly be managed ; " and so saying, Mary leant back in her chair, and began to pull to pieces some flowers she held in her hand. " Don't pull them to pieces ; give them to me," said Tom. ** I have kept the rosebud you gave me at Oxford, folded up in" " Which you took, you mean to say. No, I won't givb you any of them — or, let me see — yes, here is a sprig of lavender ; you may have that." *' Thank you. But, why lavender ? " " Lavender stands for sincerity. It will remind you of the lecture you gave me." " I wish you would forget that. But you know what flowers mean, then 1 Do give me a lecture : you owe me one. What do those flowers mean which you will not give me, — the piece of heather for instance 1 " " Heather signifies constancy." " And the carnations ? " " Jealousy." " And the heliotrope 1 " " Oh, never mind the heliotrope." " But it is such a favourite of mine. Do tell me whr.,t it means ? " " Je vous aime^^ said Mary, with a laugh, and a slight blush ; " it is all nonsense. Oh, here's mamma at last," and she jumped up and went to meet her mother, who came out of the drawing-room, candle in hand. " My dear Mary, I thought you were gone to bed," said Mrs. Porter, looking from one to the other seriously. " Oh, I'm not the least tired, and I couldn't go withor^t wishing you and papa good night, and thanking you for all the trouble you have taken." " Indeed, we ought all to thank you," said Tom ; " every- body said it was the pleasantest party they had ever been at." " I am very glad it went ofi" well," said Mrs. Porter, gravely ; " and now, Mary, you must go to bed" " I am afraid I must leave you to-morrow morning," said Tom. " Yes ; Mrs. Brown said they expect you at home to- morrow." 342 TOM EKOWN AT OXFORD. " I am to ride round by Uncle Robert's ; would you like one of the boys to go with me 1 " *' Oh, dear mamma, could not Charley and I ride over ic Englebourn 1 I do so long to see Katie." " No, dear ; it is much too far for you. We will drive over in a few days' time." And, so saying, Mrs. Porter wished Tom good night, and led otf her daughter. Tom went slowly up stairs to his room, and, after packing his portmanteau for the carrier to take in the morning, threw up liis window and leant out into the night, and watched the light clouds swimming over the moon, and the silver mist folding the water-meadows and willows in its soft cool mantle. His thoughts were such as will occur to any reader who has passed the witching age of twenty ; and the scent of the heliotrope-bed, in the flower-garden below, seemed to rise very strongly on the night air. CHAPTER XXXII. A CRISIS. In the forenoon of the following day Tom rode slowly along the street of Englebourn towards the Rectory gate. He had left Barton soon after breakfast, without having been able to exchange a word with Mary except in the presence of her mother, and yet he had felt more anxious than ever before at least to say good bye to her without witnesses. With this view he had been up early, and had wliistled a tune in the hall, and held a loud conversation with the boys, who ap- peared half-dressed in the gallery above, while he brushed the dilapidated white hat, to let all whom it might concern know that he was on the move. Then he had walked uj) and down the garden in full view of the windows till the bell rang for praj^ers. He was in the breakfast-room before the bell had done ringing, and ^Irs. Porter, followed by her daughter, entered at the same moment. He could not help fancying that the conversation at breakfast was a little con- strained, and particularly remarked that nothing was said by the heads of the family when the boys vociferously bewailed his a])proaching departure, and tried to get him to name some day for his return before their holida3's ended. Instead of encouraging the idea, ]\Irs. Porter reminded Keddy and Charley that they had only ten days more, and had not yet looked at the work they had to do for their tutor in the A cmsis. 343 holidays. Immediatel}' after breakfast Mrs. Porter had wished him good bye herself very kindly, but (he could not help thinking) without that aii' of near rtilationship which he had flattered himself was well established between himself and all the members of the Porter family ; and then she had added, •' Now, I\Iary, you must sa}' good bye ; I want you to come and help me with some work this morning." He had scarcely looked at her all the morning, and now one shake of the hand and she was spirited away in a moment, and he was left standing, dissatisfied and uncomfortable, with a sense of incompleteness in his mind, and as if he had had a thread in his life suddenly broken off which he could not tell how to get joined again. However, there was nothing for it but to get off. He had no excuse for delay, and had a long ride before him ; so he and the boys went round to the stable. On their passage through the garden the idea of picking a nosegay and sending it to her by one of the boys came into his head. He gathered the flowers, but then thought better of it, and threw them away. What right, after all, had he to be sending flowers to her — above all, flowers to which they had attached a mean- ing, jokingly it was true, but still a meaning 1 No, he had no right to do it ; it would not be fair to her, or her father or mother, after the kind way in which they had all received him. So he threw away the flowers, and mounted and rode off, watched by the boys, who waved their straAv hats as he looked back just before coming to a turn in the road which would take him out of sight of the Manor House. He rode along at a foot's pace for some time, thinking over the events of the past week ; and then, beginning to feel purposeless, and somewhat melancholy, urged his horse into a smart trot along the waste land which skirted the road. But, go what pace he would, it mattered not ; he could not leave his thoughts behind. So he pulled up again after a mile or so, slackened his reins, and, leaving his horse to pick his own way along the road, betook himself to the serious considera- tion of his position. The more he thought of it the more discontented he be- came, and the day clouded over as if to suit his temper. He felt as if within the last twenty-four hours he had been some- how unwarrantably interfered with. His mother and Mrs. Porter had both been planning something about him, he felt sure. If thej had anything to say, why couldn't they say it out to him 1 But what could there be to say 1 Couldn't he and Mary be trusted together without making fools of them- selves 1 He did not stop to analyse his feeUngs towards hei^ 344 TO.AI ?>PvOAA^ AT OXFORD. or to consider vvhotlier it was very prudent or desirable ftr her that they should be thrown so constantly and unreservedly together. He was too much takeji up with what he chose to consider his own wrongs for any such consideration. — " Why can't they let me alone 1 " was the question which he asked himseK perpetually, and it seemed to him the most reasonable one in the world, and that no satisfactory answer was possible to it, except that he ought to be, and should be, let alone. And so at last he rode along Eiiglebourn street, convinced that what he h^d to do before all other things just now was to assert himself jDroperly, and show every one, even his own mother, that he was no longer a boy to be managed according to any one's fancies except his own. He rode straight to the stables and loosed the girths of his horse, and gave j)articular directions about grooming and feed- ing him, and stayed in the stall for some minutes rubbing his ears and fondling him. The antagonism which possessed hi*m for the moment against mankind perhaps made him appreciate the value of his relations with a well-trained beast. Then he went round to the house and iu quired for his uncle. He had not been in Englebo^.i^n for some years, and the servant did not know him, and answered that jMr. Winter was not out of his room and nevei .>aw strangers till the afternoon. Where was Lliss Winter, then ? She was down the village at Widow Winburn's, and he couldn't tell when she would be back, the man said. The contents of Katie's note of the day before had gone out of his head, but the mention of Betty's name re- called them, and with them something of the kindly feeling which had stirred within him on hearing of her illness. So, saying he would call later to see his uncle, he started again to find the widow's cottage, and his cousin. The servant had directed him to the last house in the village, but, when he got outside of the gate, there were houses in two directions. He looked about for some one from whom to inquire further, and his eye fell upon our old acquaintance, the constable, coming out of his door with a parcel under his arm. The little man was in a brown study, and did not notice Tom's first address. He was in fact anxiously thinking over bis old friend's illness and her sou's trouble ; and was on his way to farmer Groves' s, (having luckily the excuse of taking a coat to be tried on) in the hopes of getting him to inter fere and patch up the quarrel between young Tester ana Harry. Tom's first salute had been friendly enough ; no one knew better how to speak to the poor, amongst whom he had A CRISIS. 345 lived all his life, tlian he. But, not getting any answer, and being in a touchy state of mind, he was put out, and shouted — " Hullo, my man, can't you hear me 1 " " Ees, I beant duuch," replied the constable, turning and looking at his (questioner, " I thought you were, for I spoke loud enough before. Which is i\Irs. Winburn's cottage ? " " The furdest house down ther," he said, pointing, " 'tis in my way if you've a mind to come." Tom accepted the offer and walked along by the constable. "Mrs. Winburn is ilJ, isn't she?" he asked, after look'rg his guide over. " Ees, her be — terrible bad," said the constable. ""What is the matter with her, do you know?" " Zummat o' fits, I hears. Her've had 'em this six year, on and off." " I suppose it's dangerous. I mean she isn't likely to get weU?" " 'Tis in the Lord's hands," replied the constable, " but her's that bad wi' pain, at times, 'twould be a mussy if 'twoud plaase He to tak' her out on't." " Perhaps she mightn't think so," said Tom, superciliously > he was not in the mind to agree with any one. The con- stable looked at him solemnly for a moment and then said — " Her's been a God-fearin' woman from her youth up, and her's had a deal o' trouble. Thaay as the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and 'tisn't such as thaay as is afeard to go afore Him." " Well, I never found that having troubles made people a bit more anxious to get * out on't,' as you call it," said Tom. " It don't seem to me as you can 'a had much o' trouble to judge by," said the constable, who was beginning to be nettled by Tom's manner. " How can you tell that ?" " Leastways 'twould be whoam-made, then," persisted the constable ; " and ther's a sight o' odds atween whoam-made troubles and thaay as the Lord sends." " So there may ; but I may have seen both sorts for any- thing you can teU." " Nay, nay ; the Lord's troubles leaves His marks." "And you don't see any of thfm in my face, eh ?" The constable jerked his head after his own peculiar fashion, but declined to reply directly ^o this interrogatory. He parried it by one of his own. "In the doctorin' line, make so bould?" 346 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " Xo," said Tom. " You don't seem to have such very good eyes, after alL" " Oh, I seed you wasn't old enough to he doin' for your, self, like ; hut I thought you med ha' heen a 'sistant, or gummat." *' Well, then, you're just mistaken," said Tom, considerably disgusted at being taken for a country doctor's assistant. "I ax your pardon," said the constable. "But if yen beant in the doctorin' line, what be gwine to Widow Winburn s for, make so bouldr' " That's my look out, I suppose," said Tom, almost angrily. "That's the house, isn't it?" and he pointed to the cottage, already described, at the corner of Englebourn Copse. " Ees." *' Good day, then." "Good day," muttered the constable, not at all satisfied with this abiujjt close of the conversation, but too unready to prolong it. He went on his o\\ti way slowly, looking back often, till he saw the door open; after which he seemed better satisfied, and ambled out of sight. "The old snufiler !" thought Tom, as he strode up to the cottage door — " a ranter, I'll be bound, with his ' Lord's troubles,' and * Lord's hands,' and * Lord's marks.' I hope Uncle Robert hasn't many such in the parish." Hfe knocked at the cottage door, and in a few seconds it opened gently, and Katie slipped out with her finger on her lips. She made a slight gestui-e of surprise at seehig him, and held out her hand. " Hush ! " she said, " she is asleep. You are not in a hurry ? " **No, not particularly," he answered, abruptly; for there was something in her voice and manner which jarred with hia humour. " Hush !" she said again, " you must not speak so loud. We can sit down here, and talk quietly. I shall hear if she moves." So he sat down opposite to her in the little porch of the cottage. She left the door ajar, so that she might catch Jie least movement of her patient, and then turned to liim with a bright smile, and said, — " Well, I am so glad to see you ! What good wind blows you here ' " " ]So particularly good wind, that I know of. Mary showed me your letter yesterday, and mother wished me to come round here on my way home ; and so here I am." " And how did the party go oif ? I long to hear about it* A CKisis. 347 " Very well ; half the county were there, and it was all very well done." *' And how did dear Mary look 1 " " Oh, just as usual, liut iiow% Katie, why didn't you come ? Mary and all of us were so disappointed." *' 1 thought you read my letter ? " " Yes, so 1 did." " Then you know the reason." " I don't call it a reason. Eeally, you have no right to shut yourself up from everything. You will be getting moped to death." " But do I look moped ? " she said ; and he looked at her, and couhln't hel}) admitting to himself, reluctantly, that she did not. So he re-opened fire from another point. " You wiD wear yourself out, nursing every old woman in the parish." " But I don't nurse every old woman." *' Why, there is no one heie but you to-day, now," he said, with a motion of his head towards the cottage. " No, because I have let the regular nurse go home for a few hours. Besides, this is a special case. You don't know what a dear old soul Betty is." ** Yes, I do ; T remember her ever since I was a cliild." " All, I forgot ; I have often heard her talk of you. Then you ought not to be surprised at anything I may do for her." " She is a good, kind old woman, I know. But still I must say, Katie, you ought to think of your friends and relations a little, and what you owe to society." " Indeed, I do think of my friends and relations very much, and 1 should have liked, of all things, to have been with you yesterday. You ought to be pitpng me, instead of scolding me." " I\[y dear Katie, you know I didn't mean to scold you ; and nobody admires the way you give yourself up to visiting, and all that sort of thing, more than I ; only you ought to have a little pleasure sometimes. People have a right to think of themselves and their own happiness a little." " Perhaps I don't find visiting and all that sort of thing so very miserable. But now, Tom, you saw in my letter that poor Betty's son has got into trouble 1 " " Yes ; and that is what brought on her attack, you said." " I believe so. She was in a sad state about him all yester- day, — so painfully eager and anxious. She is better to-day ; but still I think it would do her good if you would see her, and say you will be a friend to her son. Would you mind ? " " It was just what I wished to do yesterday. I will do all 348 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. I can for him, I'm sure. I always liked hiin as a boy ; you can tell her thdt. But I don't feel, somehow — to-day, at least — as if I could do any good by seeing her." «0h, why not?" " I don't think I'm in the right humour. Is she very ill 1 " " Yes, very ill indeed ; I don't think she can recover." " Well, you see, Katie, I'm not used to death-beds. I shouldn't say the right sort of thing." " How do you mean — the right sort of thing 1 " " Oh, you know. I couldn't talk to her about her eouL I'm not fit for it, and it isn't my place." " No, indeed, it isn't. But you can remind her of old times, and say a kind word about her son." " Very well, if you don't think I shaU do any harm." " I'm sure it will comfort her. And now tell me about yesterday." They sat talking for some time in the same low tone, and Tom began to forget his causes of quarrel with the world, and gave an account of the archsry party from his own point of view. Katie saw, with a woman's quickness, that he avoided mentioning Mary, and smiled to' herself, and drew her own conclusions. At last, there was a slight movement in the cottage, and^ laying her hand on his arm, she got up quickly, and went in. In a few minutes she came to the door again. " How is she ] " asked Tom. " Oh, much the same ; but she has waked without pain, which is a great blessing. Now, are you ready 1 " " Yes ; you must go with me." " Come in, then." She turned, and he followed into the cottage. Betty's bed had been moved into the kitchen, for the sake of light and air. He glanced at the corner where it stood with almost a feeling of awe, as he followed his cousin on tip-toe. It was all he could do to recognise the pale, drawn face which lay on the coarse pillow. The rush of old memories which the sight called up, and the thought of the suifering of his poor old friend touched him deeply. Katie went to the bed-side, and, stooping down, smoothed the pillow, and placed her hand for a moment on the forehead of her patient. Then she looked up, and beckoned to him, and said, in her low, clear voice, — " Betty, here is an old friend come to see you ; my cousin, Squire Brown's son. You remember him quite a little boy?" The old woman moved her head towards the voice, and A CEisis. 349 smiled, tut gave no further sign of recognition. Tom stole across tlie floor, and sat down by the bed-side. " Oil, yes, Betty/' he said, leaning towards her and speaking softly, " you must remember me. Master Tom — who used to come to your cottage on baking days for hot breads you know." " To be sure, I minds un, bless his little heart," said th'i old woman faintly. " Hev he come to see poor Betty? Do'eo let un com', and lift un up so as I med see un. My sight be getting dim -like." " Here he is, Betty," said Tom, taking her hand — a hard- working hand, lying there with the skin all puckered from long and daily acquaintance with the washmg-tub — " I'm Master Tom." " Ah, dearee me," she said slowly, looldng at him with lustreless eyes. " Well, you be growed into a fine young gentleman, surely. And how's the Squire and Madam Brown, and all the fam'ly 1 " " Oh, very well, Betty, — they will be so sorry to hear of your illness." " But there ain't no hot bread for un. 'Tis ill to bake wi' no fuz bushes, and bakers' stuif is poor for hungry folk." "I'm within three months as old as your Harry, you know," said Tom, trying to lead her back to the object of his visit. " Harry," she repeated, and then collecting herself went on, " our Harry ; where is he ? They haven't sent un to prison, and his mother a dyin' ? " " Oh, no, Betty ; he will be here directly. I came to ask whether there is anything I can do for you." " You'll stand by un, poor buoy — our Harry, as you used io play wi' when you was little — 'twas they as aggravated un so as he couldn't abear it, afore ever he'd a struck a fly." " Yes, Betty ; I will see that he has fair play. Don't trouble about that ; it will be all right. You must be quite quiet, and not trouble yourself about anything, that you may get weU and about again." " ^ay, nay. Master Tom. I be gwine whoam ; ees, I be gwine whoam to my maester, Harry's father — I knows I be — and you'll stand by im when I be gone ; and Squire Brown '11 say a good word for un to the justices ? " " Yes, Betty, that he will. But you must cheer up, and you'll get better yet ; don't be afraid." " I beant afeard, Master Tom ; no, bless yon, I beaut afeard but what the Lord '11 be mussiful to a poor lone woman like lae, as has had a sore time of it since my measter died, wi' a 350 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. hungry boy like our Harry to kep, back and belly ; and the rheumatics terrible bad all winter time." " I'm sure, Betty, you have done your duty by him, and every one else." " Dwontee speak o' doin's, Master Tom. 'Tis no doin's o* ourn as'll make any odds where I be gwine." Tom did not know what to answer ; so he pressed her hand and said, — " Well, Betty, I am very glad I have seen you once more : I sha'n't forget it. Harry sha'n't want a friend while I live. ' " The Lord bless you, Master Tom, for that word," said the dying wonian, returning the pressure, as her eyes filled with tears. Katie, who had been watching her carefully from the other side of the bed, made him a sign to go. " Good-bye, Betty," he said ; " I won't forget, you may be sure ; God bless you ; " and then, disengaging his hand gently, went out again into the porch, where he sat down to wait for his cousin. In a few minutes the nurse returned, and Katie came out of the cottage soon afterwards. " Now I will walk up home \rith you," she said. " You must come in and see papa. Well^ I'm sure you must be glad you went in. AVas not I right 1 " " Yes, indeed ; I wish. 1 could have said something more to comfort her." " You couldn't have said more. It was just what she wanted." " But where is her son ? I ought to see him before I go," " He has gone to the doctor's for some medicine. He wiU be back soon." " WeU, I must see him ; and I should like to do something for him at once. I'm not very Hush of money, but I must give you something for hiuL You'll take it ; I shouldn't like to offor it to him." " I hardly think he wants money ; they are well off now. He earns good wages, and Betty has done her washing up to this week." " Yes, but he will be fijierl, I suppose, for this assault ; and then, if she should die, there will be the funeral expenses." " Very well ; as you please," she said ; and Tom proceeded to hand over to her all bis ready money, except a shilling or two. After satisfying his mind thus, he looked at her, and said — "Do you know, Katie, F don't think I ever saw you &o happy and in such spirit*^?" "There now ! And yet you berran talking to mo as if I A CRISIS. 351 were looking sad enough to turn all the beer in the parish sour." " "Well, so you ought to be, according to Cocker, spending all your time in sick rooms." " According to who 1 " " According to Cocker." "Who is Cocker?" " Oh, I don't know ; some old fellow who wrote the rules of arithmetic, I believe ; it's only a bit of slang. But, T repeat, you have a right to bo sad, and it's taking an unfair advantage of your relations to look as pleasant as you do." Katie laughed. " You ought not to say so, at any rate," ehe said, " for you look all tlie plcasanter for youi visit to a sick room." " Did I look very unpleasant before ? " " Well, I don't thmk you were in a very good humour." " Ko, I was in a very bad humour, and talking to you and poor old Betty has set me right, 1 think. But you said hers was a special case. It must be very sad work in general." " Only when one sees people in great pain, or when they are wicked, and quarrelling, or complaining about nothing ; then I do get very low sometimes. But even then it is much better than keeping to oneself. Anything is better than thinking of oneself, and one's own troubles." " I dare say you are right," said Tom, recalling his morn- ing's meditations, " especially when one's troubles are home- made. Look, here's an old fellow who gave me a lecture on that subject before I saw you this morniug, and took me for the apothecary's boy." They were almost opposite David's door, at which he stood with a piece of work in his hand. He had seen ^liss Winter from his look-out window, and had descended from his board in hopes of hearing news. Katie returned his respectful and anxious salute, and said, " She is no worse, David. We left her quite out of pain and very quiet." '* Ah, 'tis to be hoped as she'll hev a peaceful time on'' now, poor soul," said L)a\dd ; " I've a been to farmer Groves', and I hopes as he'll do summat about Harry." "I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Winter, "and my cousin here, who knew Harry very well when they were little boys together, has promised to help him. Tliis is Harry's best friend," she said to Tom, " who has done more than any one to keep him right." David seemed a little embarrassed, and began jerking his head about when his acquaintance of the morning, whom he 352 TOM BROVVN AT OX JOED. had scarcely noticed before, was introduced by Miss Winter as "my cousin." " I wish to do all I can for him," said Tom, " and Fm very glad to have made your acquaintance. You must let me know whenever I can help ; " and he took out a card and handed it to David. wh"> looked at it, and then said, — " And I be to wiite to you, sir, then, if Harry gets into trouble?" "Yes ; but we must keep him out of trouble, even home- made ones, which don't leave good marks, you know," said Tom. " And thaay be nine out o' ten o' aal as comes to a man, sir," said David, " as I've a told Harry scores o' times." "That seems to be your text, David," said Tom, laughing. " Ah, and 'tis a good un too, sir. Ax Miss Winter elsft. 'Tis a sight better to hev the Lord's troubles while you be about it, for thaay as hasn't makes wus for theirselves out o' nothin'. Dwon't 'em, miss ? " "Yes ; you know that I agi-ee with you, David." " Good-bye, then," said Tom, holding out his hand, " and mind you let me hear from you." "What a queer old bird, with his whole wisdom of man packed up small for ready use, like a quack doctor," he said, as soon as they were out of hearing. " Indeed, he isn't the least Hke a quack doctor. I don't know a better man in the parish, though he is rather obelinate, like all the rest of them." " I didn't mean to say anything against him, I assure you," said Tom ; "on the contrary, I think him a fine old fellow. But I didn't think so this morning, when he showed me the way to Betty's cottage." The fact was that Tom saw all things and persons with quite a different pair of eyes from those which he had been provided with when he arrived in Englebourn that morning. He even made allowances for old ^Ir. Winter, who was in his usual querulous state at luncheon, though perliaps it would have been difficult in the whole neigh- bourhood to find a more pertinent comment on, and illus- tration of, the constable's text than the poor old man furnished, with his complaints about his own health, and all he had to do and think of, for everybody about him. It did strike Tom, however, as very wonderful how such a character as Katie's could have gT•o^vn up under the shade of, and in con- stant contact with, such a one as her father's. He wished his uncle good-bye soon after luncheon, and he and Katie started again d(jwn the village — she to return to her n"^«'"^ and he on his way homo. Holed his horse by the bridle and A CEISIS. 353 walked by her side down the street She pointed to the Hawk's Lynch as they walked along, and said, " You should ride up there ; it is scarcely out of your way. Mary and I used to walk there every day when she was here, and she was so fond of it." At the cottage they found Harry Winburn. He came out, and the two young men shook hands, and looked one anothei over, and exchanged a few shy sentences. Tom managed with difficulty to say the little he had to say, but tried to make up for it by a hearty manner. It was not the time or place for any unnecessary talk ; so in a few minutes he was mounted and riding up the slope towards the heath. " I should say he must be half a stone lighter than I," he thought, "and not quite so tall; but he looks as hard as iron, and tough as whipcord. What a No. 7 he'd make in a heavy crew ! Poor fellow, he seems dreadfally cut up. I hope I shall be able to be of use to him. Now for this place which Katie sliowed me from the village street." He pressed his horse up the steep side of the Hawk's Lynch. The exhilaration of the scramble, and the sense of power, and of some slight risk, which he itlt as he helped on the gallant beast with hand and knee and heel, while, the loose turf and stones flew from his hoofs and rolled down the hijl behind them, made Tom's eyes kindle and his pulse beat quicker as he reached the top and pulled up under the Scotch firs. " This was her favourite walk, then. Ko wonder. What an air, and what a view ! " He jumped ofl" his horse, slipped the bridle over his arm and let him pick away at the short grass and tufts of heath as he himself first stood, and then sat, and looked out over the scene which she had so often looked over. She might have sat on the very spot he was sitting on ; she must have taken in the samp expanse of wood and meadow, village and park, and dreamy, distant hilL Her presence seemed to fill the air round him. A rush of new thoughts and feelings swam through his brain and carried him, a willing piece of drift-man, along with them. He gave himself up to the stream, and revelled in them. His eye traced back the road along which he had ridden in the morning, and rested on the Barton woods, just visible in the distance, on this side of the point where all outline except that of the horizon began to be lost. The flickering July air seemed to beat in a pulse of purple glory over the spot. The soft wind which blew straight from Barton seemed laden with her name, and whispered it in the firs over his head. Every nerve in his body was bounding with new life, and he could eit still no longer. He rose, sprang on his horse, and, with a A A 354 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. shout of joy, turned from the vale and rushed away on to the heath, northwards, towards his home behind the chalk hills. He had ridden into Englebourn in the morning an almost unconscious dabbler by the margin of the great stream ; he rode from the Hawk's Lynch in the afternoon over head ana oars, and twenty, a hundred, ay, unnumbered fathoms below that, deep, consciously, and triumphantly in love. But at what a pace, and in what a form ! Love, at least in his first access, must be as blind a horseman as he is an archer. Ihe heath was rough with peat-cutting and turf-cutting, and many a deep-rutted farm road, and tufts of heather and furze. Over them and through them went horse and man — horse rising seven, and man twenty off, a well-matched pair in age for a wild ride — headlong towards the north, till a blind rut somewhat deeper than usual put an end to their career, and sent the good horse staggering forward some thirty feet on to his no88 and knees, and Tom over his shoulder, on to his back in the heather. " Well, it's lucky it's no worse," thought our hero, as he picked' himself up and anxiously examined the horse, who stood trembling and looking \AT.ldly puzzled at the whole proceeding ; " I hope he hasn't overreached. Wliat will the governor say ? His knees are all right. Poor old boy," he said, patting him, " no wonder jou look astonished. You're not in love. Come along ; we won't make fools of ourselves any more. What is it ? — * A true love forsaken a new love may get, But a neck that's once broken can never be set. * What stuff ! one may get a neck set for anything I know ; but a new love — blasphemy ! " The rest of the ride passed off soberly enough, except in Tom's braid, wherein were built up in gorgeous succession castles such as — we have all built, I suppose, before now. And with the castles were built up side by side good honest resolves to be worthy of her, and win her and worship her with body, and mijgid, and soul. And, as a first instalment, away to the winds went all the selfish morning thoughts ; and he rode down the northern slope of the chalk hills a dutiful and affectionate son, at peace with Mrs. Porter, honouring her for her care of the treasure which he was seeking, and in good time for dinner. " Well, dear," said Mrs. Brown to her husband when they were alone that night, " did you ever see Tom in such spirits, and so gentle and affectionate 1 Dear boy ; there can be nothing the matter." " Didn't I tell you so," replied Mr. Bro^vn ; " you women BROWN PATRONtrS, 355 have always got some nonsense in your heads as soon as yonr boys have a hair on their chin or your girls begin to put up their back hair." " Well, John, say what you will, I'm sure Mary Porter is a very sweet, taking girl, and — " " I am quite of the same opinion," said Mr. Brown, " and am very glad you have written to ask them here." And so the worthy couple went happily to bed. CHAPTEE XXXIII. BROWN PATRONUS. On a Saturday afternoon in August, a few weeks after his eventful ride, Tom returned to Englebourn Rectory, to stay over Sunday, and atteud Betty Winburn's funeral. He was strangely attracted to Harry by the remembrance of their old boyish rivalry ; by the story which he had heard from his cousin, of the unwavering perseverance with which the young peasant clung to and pursued his suit for Simon's daughter ; but, more than all, by the feeling of gratitude with wbich he remembered the effect his visit to Betty's sick-room had had on him, on the day of his ride from Barton Manor. On that day he knew that he had ridden into Englebourn in a miser- able mental fog, and had ridden out of it in sunshine, which had lasted through the intervening weeks. Somehow or another he had been set straight then and there, turned into the right road and out of the wrong one, at what he very naturally believed to be the most critical moment of his life. Without stopping to weigh accurately the respective merits of the several persons whom he had come in contact with on that day, he credited them all with a large amount of gratitude and gobd-'svill, and Harry with his mother's share as well as his own. So he had been longing to do something for him ever since. The more he rejoiced in, and gave himself up to his own new sensations, tlie more did his gratitude become as it were a burden to him ; and yet no opportunity ofTered of letting off some of it in action. The magistrates, taking into consideration the dangerous state of his mother, had let Harry off with a reprimand for his assault ; so there was notliing to be done there. He wrote to Katie offering more money for the Winburns ; but she declined — adding, however, to her note, by way of postscript, that he might give it to her clothing club or coal club. Then came the news oi Betty's death, and an intimation from Katie that she thought A a2 356 TOM BllOWN AT OXFOKD. Harry would be much gratified if lie would attend the funeral He jumped at the suggestion. All Englebourn, from the Hawk's Lynch to the Rectory, was hallowed ground to him. The idea of getting back there, so much nearer to Barton Manor, filled him with joy which he tried in vain to repress when he thought of the main object of his visit. He arrived in time to go and shake hands with Harry before dinner ; and, though scarcely a word passed between them, he saw with delight that he had evidently given pleasure to the mourner. Then he had a charming long evening with Katie, walking in the garden with her between dinner and tea, and after tea discoursing in low tones over her work- table, while Mr. Winter benevolently slept in his arm-chair. Their discourse branched into many paths, but managed always somehow to end in the sayings, beliefs, and perfections of the young lady of Barton Manor. Tom wondered how it had happened so when he got to his own room, as he fancied he had not betrayed himself in the least. He had determined to keep resolutely on his guard, and to make a confidant of no living soul till he was twenty-one, and, though sorely tempted to break his resolution in favour of Katie, had restrained himself. He might have spared himself all the trouble ; but this he did not know, being unversed in the ways of women, and all unaware of the subtlety and quickness of their intuitions in all matters connected with the heart. Poor, dear, stolid, dim- sighted mankind, how they do see through us and walk round us ! The funeral on the Sunday afternoon between churches had touched him much, being the first he had ever attended. He walked next behind the chief mourner — the few friends, amongst whom David was conspicuous, yielding place to him. He stood beside Harry in church, and at the open grave, and made the responses as firmly as he could, and pressed his shoulder against his, when he felt the strong frame of the son trembling with the weight and burden of his resolutely sup- pressed agony. When they parted at the cottage door, to which Tom accompanied the mourner and his old and tried friend David, though nothing but a look and a grasp of the hand passed between them, he felt that they were bormd by a new and invisible bond ; and, as he walked back up the village and passed the churchyard, where the children were playing about on the graves — stopping every now and then to watch the sexton as he stamped down, and filled in the mould on the last-made one, beside which he had himself stood as a mourner — and heard the bells beginning to chime for the afternoon service, he resolved within himself that he would EKOWN PATRONUS. 357 be a true and helpful friend to the widow's son. On thia subject he could talk freely to Katie ; and he did so that evening, expounding how much one in his position could do for a young labouring man if he really was bent upon it, and building up grand castles for Harry, the foundations of which rested on his own determination to benefit and patronize him. Katie listened half doubtingly at first, but was soon led away by liis confidence, and poured out the tea in the full belief that, with Tom's powerful aid, all would go well. After which they took to reading the "Christian Year" together, and branched into discussions on profane poetry, which Katie considered scarcely proper for the evening, but which, never- theless, being of such rare occurrence with her, she had not the heart to stop. The next morning Tom was to return home. After breakfast he began the subject of his plans for Harry again, when Katie produced a small paper packet, and handed it to him, saying — " Here is your money again." " What money 1 " "The money you left with me for Harry Winburn. I thought at the time that most probably he would not take it." ** But are you sure he doesn't want it 1 Did you try hard to get him to take it ] " said Tom, holding out his hand re- luctantly for the money. " Not myself. I couldn't offer him money myself, of course ; but I sent it by David, and begged him to do all he could to persuade him to take it." " Well, and why wouldn't heV " Oh, he said the club-money which was coming in was more than enough to pay for the funeral, and for himself he didn't want it." " How provoking ! I wonder if old David really did his best to get him to take it." " Yes, I am sure he did. But you ought to be very glad to find some independence in a poor man." " Bother his independence ! I don't like to feel that it costs me nothing but talk — I want to pay." " Ah, Tom, if you knew the poor as well as 1 do, you wouldn't say so. I am afraid there are not two other men in the parish who would have refused your money. The fear of undermining their independence takes away all my pleasure in giving." " Undermining ! Why, Katie, I am sure I have heard you mourn over their stubbornness and unreasonableness," " Oh, yes ; they are often provokingly stubborn and un- reasonable, and yet not independent about money, or anything 358 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. they can get out of you. Besides, I acknowledge that I have become wiser of late ; I used to like to see them dependent and cringing to me, but now I dread it." " But you would like David to give in about the singing, wouldn't you 1 " " Yies, if he would give in I should be very proud. I have learnt a great deal from him ; I used positively to dislike him ; but, now that I know him, I think him the best man in the parish. K he ever does give in — and I think he will — it will be v/orth anything, just because he is so independent." " That's all very well ; but what am I to do to show Harry Winburn that I mean to be hds friend, if he won't take money ? " " You have come over to his mother's funeral — he will think more of that than of all the money you could give him ; and you can show sympathy for him in a great many ways." " Well, I must try. By the way, about his love affair ; is the young lady at home 1 I have never seen her, you know." " No, she is away with an aunt, looking out for a place. I have persuaded her to get one, and leave home again for the present. Her father is quite well now, and she is not wanted." " Well, it seems I can't do any good with her, then ; but could not I go and talk to her father about Harry ? I might help him in tliat way." " You must be very careful ; Simon is such an odd-tempered old man." " Oh, I'm not afraid ; he and I are great chums, and a little soft soap will go a long way -with him. Fancy, if I could get him tliis very morning to ' sanction Harry's suit,' as the phrase is, what should you think of me ?" " I should think very highly of your powers of persuasion." Not the least daunted by his cousin's misgivings, Tom started in quest of Simon, and found him at work in front of the greenhouse, surrounded by many small pots and heaps of finely sifted mould, and absorbed in his occupation. Simon was a rough, stolid Berkshire rustic, somewhat of a tyrant in the bosom of his family, an unmanageable servant, a cross-gi"ained acquaintance ; as a citizen, stiff-necked and a grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went right in the parish ; but, withal, a thorough honest worker ; and, when allow(id to go his o\\ti way — and no other way would he go, as his mistress had long since discovered — there was no man who earned his daily bread more honestly. He took a pride in his work, and the Eectory garden was always trim and well Kept, and the beds bright with flowers from early spring till late autumn. BKOWN PATRONTJS. 35§ He was absorbed in what lie was about, and Tom came up close to him without attracting the least sign of recognition ; BO he stopped, and opened the conversation. " Good day, Simon ; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gay as yours." Simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it v/ag, touched his battered old hat, and answered, — "Mornin' sir ! Ees, you finds me alius in blume." " Indeed I do, Simon : but how do you manage it ? I should like to tell my father's gardener." " 'Tis no use to tell un if a hevn't found out for hisself. 'Tis nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does it." " Well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet, somehow, we never look half so bright as you do." " May be as your gardener just takes and hits it auver the top o' the ground, and lets it lie. That's no kind o' good, that beant — 'tis the roots as wants the stuff ; and you med jist as well take and put a round o' beef agin my back bwone as hit the stuff auver the ground, and never see as it gets to the roots o' the plants." " No, I don't think it can be that," said Tom, laughmg ; " our gardener seems always to be digging his manure in, but somehow he can't make it come out in flowers as you do." "Ther' be mwore waays o' killin* a cat besides choking on un wi' crame," said Simon, chuckling in his turn. " That's true, Simon," said Tom ; " the fact is, a gardener must know his business as well as you to be always in bloom, ehr' "That's about it, sir," said Simon, on whom the flatterjr was beginning to tell. Tom saw this, and thought he might now feel his way a little further with the old man. " I'm over on a sad errand," he said ; " I've been to poor Widow Winburn's funeral — she was an old friend of yours, I think?" " Ees ; I minds her long afore she wur married," said Simon, turning to his pots again. ''* She wasn't an old woman, after all," said Tom. " Sixty-two year old cum Michaelmas," said Simon. " Well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten years at least ; why, you must be older than she by some years, Simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man." Simon ivent on with his potting without replying except 360 TOM BROWy AT OXFORD. by a carefully measured grunt, sufficient to show that he had heard the remark, and was not much impressed by it. Tom saw that he must change his attack ; so, after watch- ing Simon for a minute, he began again. " I wonder why it is that the men of your time of life are so much stronger than the young ones in constitution. Kow, I don't believe there are three young men in Englebourn who would have got over that fall you had at Farmei Groves' so quick as you have ; most young men would have been crippled for life by it." "Zo 'em would, the yoking wosbirds. I d won't make no account on 'em," said Simon. " And you don't feel any the worse for it, Simon '?" " Narra mossel," replied Simon ; but presently he seemed to recollect something, and added, " I wun't saay but what I feels it at times when I've got to stoop about much." " Ah, I'm sorry to hear that, Simon. Then you oughtn't to have so much stooping to do ; potting, and that sort of thing, is the work for you, I should tliink, and just giving an eye to everything about the place. Anybody could do the digging and setting out cabbages, and your time is only wasted at it." — Tom had now found the old man's weak point. " Ees, sir, and so I tells miss," he said " but wi' notliin' but a bit o' glass no bigger'n a cowcumber frame 'tis all as a man can do to keej) a few plants aUve droo' the winter." " Of course," said Tom, looking round at the very respect- able greenhouse which Simon had contemptuously likened to a cucumber- frame, " you ought to have at least another house as big as this for forcing." " Master aiu't pleased, he ain't," said Simon, " if he dwon't get his things, his spring wegebatles, and his strawberries, as early as though we'd a got forcia' pits and glass like other folk. 'Tis a year and mwore since he promised as I sh'd hev glass along that ther' wall, but 'tis no nigher comin' as I can see. I be to spake to miss about it now, he says, and, when I spakes to her, 'tis, 'Oh, Simon, we must wait till the 'spensary's 'stablished,' or * Oh, Simon, last winter wur a werry tryin \vun, and the sick club's terrible bad olf for funds,' — and so we gwoes on, and med gwo on, for aught as I can see, so long as there's a body sick or bad off in all the parish. And that'll be alius. For, what wi' miss's wisitin' on 'em, and sendin' on 'em dinners, and a'al the doctor's stuff as is served out o' the 'spensary — wy, 'tis enough to keep em bad a'al ther lives. Ther ain't no credit in gettin' welL Ther wui no sich a caddie about sick folk when I wur a bwoy. BKOWN PATRONU.S. 361 Simon had never been known to make such a long speech before, and Tom argued well for his negotiation. " Well, Simon," he said, " I've been talking to my cousin, and I think she will do what you want now. The dispensary is set up, and the people are very healthy. How much glass should you want, now, along that wall 1 " " A matter o' twenty fit or so," said Simon. " I tliink that car be managed,'^ said Tom ; " I'll speak to my cousin about it ; and then you would have plenty to do in the houses, and you'd want a regular man under you." " Ees ; 'twould take two on us reg'lar to kop tilings ae should be." " And you ought to have somebody who knows what he is about. Can you think of any one who would do, Simon 1 " " Tiler's a young chap as works for Squire Wurley. I've heard as he wants to better hisself." " But he isn't an Englebourn man. Isn't there any one in the parish ? " " Ne'er a one as 1 knows on." " What do you think of Harry Winbum — he seems a good hand with fiowers ? " The words had scarcely passed his lips when Tom saw that he had made a mistake. Old Simon retired into himself at once, and a cunning distrustful look came over his face. There was no doing anything with him. Even the new forcing house had lost its attractions for him, and Tom, after some farther ineffectual attempts to bring him round, returned to the house somewhat crestfallen. " WeU, how have you succeeded ] " said Katie, looking up from her work, as he came in and sat down near her table. Tom shook his head. " I'm afraid I' ve made a regular hash of it," he said. " I thought at first I had quite come round the old savage by praising the garden, and promising that you would let him have a new house." " You don't mean to say you did that 1" said Katie, stopping her work. " Indeed, but I did, though. I was drawn on, you know. I saw it was the right card to play ; so I couldn't help it." " Oh, Tom ! how could you do so l We don't want another house the least in the world ; it is only Simon's vanity. He wants to beat the gardener at the Grange* at the flower-shows. Every penny wdl have to come out of what papa allows me for the parish." " Don't be afraid, Katie ; you won't have to spend a penny. Of Gourse I reserved a condition. The new house was to bo pui up if he would take Harry as under-gardener." 362 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " What did he say to that ? " " Well, he said nothing. I never came across such an old Turk. How you have spoiled him ! K he isn't pleased, he won't take the trouble to answer you a word. I was very n'jar telling him a piece of my mind. But he looked all the more. I believe he would poison Harry if he came here. "What can have made him hate him so ? " " He is jealous of him. Mary and I were so foolish as to praise poor Betty's flowers before Simon, and he has nevei forgiven it, I think, too, that he suspects, somehow, that we talked about getting Harry here. I ought to ha\'e told you, but I quite forgot it." "Well, it can't be helped. I don't think I can do any good in that quarter ; so now I shall be off to , the Grange to see what I can do there." " How do you mean ? " " Why, Harry is afraid of being turned out of his cottage. 1 saw how it worried him, thinking about it ; so I shall go to the Grange, and say a good word for him. Wurlcy can't refuse if I offer to pay the rent myself — it's only six pounds a year. Of course, I sha'n't tell Harry ; and he will pay it all the same; but it may make all the difference with AVurley, who is a regular screw." " Do you know Mr. Wurley ? " " Yes, just to speak to. He knows all about me, and he will be very glad to be civil." " Ko doubt he will ; but I don't like your going to his house. You don't know what a bad man he is. Xobody but men on the turf, and that sort of people, go there now ; and 1 believe he thinks of nothing but gambling and game- preserving." " Oh, yes ; I know all about Inm. The county people are beginning to look shy at him ; so he'll be all the more likely to do what I ask him." " But you won't get intimate with him ? " " You needn't be afraid of that." " It is a sad house to go to — I hope it won't do you any harm." " Ah, Katie ! " said Tom, with a smile not altogether cheer- ful, " I don't think you need be anxious about that. T\Tien one has been a year at Oxford, there isn't much snow left to soil ; so now I am off. I must give myself plenty of time to cook Wurley." "Well, I suppose I must not hinder you," said Katie. " I do hope you will succeed in some of your kind plans foi Harry." BKOWN PATKONTJS ^63 " I shall do my best ; and it is a great thing to have some- body besides oneself to think about and try to help — some poor person — don't you think so, even for a man ? " " Of course I do. I am sure you can't be happy without it, any more than I. We shouldn't be our mothers' children if we could be." "Well, good-bye, dear; you can't think how I enjoy these glimpses of you and your work. Ycu must give my love to Uncle Robert" -And so they bade one another adieu, lovingly, after the maimer of cousins, and Tom rode away with a very soft place in his heart for his cousin Katie. It was not the least the same sort of passionate feeling of worship with which he regarded iNlary. The two feeUngs could lie side by side in his heart with plenty of room to spare. In fact, his heart had been getting so big in the last few weeks, that it seemed capable of taking in the whole of mankind, not to mention woman. Still, on the whole, it may be safely asserted, that had matters been in at all a more forward state, and could she have seen exactly what was passing in his mind, Mary would probably have objected to the kind of affection which he felt for his cousin at this particular time. The joke about cousinly love is probably as old, and certainly as true, as Solomon's proverbs. However, as matters stood, it could be no concern of ^Mary's what his feelings were towards Katie, or any other persoiL Tom rode in at the lodge gate of the Grange soon after eleven o'clock and walked his horse slowly through the park, admiring the splendid timber, and thinking how he should break his request to the owner of the place. But his thoughts were interrupted by the proceedings of the rabbits, which were out by hundreds all along the sides of the plantations, and round the great trees. A few oT the nearest just deigned to notice him by scampering to their holes under the roots of tlie antlered oaks, into which some of them popped with a disdainful kick of their hmd legs, while others turned round sat up, and looked at him. As he neared the house^ he passed a keeper's cottage, and was saluted by the barking of dogs from the neighbouring kennel ; and the young pheasants ran about round some twenty hen-coops, which were arranged along opposite the door where the keeper's children were playing. The pleasure of watching the beasts and birds kept him from arranging his thoughts, and he reached the haU-door without having formed the plan of his campaign. A footman answered the bell, who doubted whether his master was down, but thought he would see the gentleman if S64 TOM BROWN AT OXPOED. he would send in his name. Whereupon Tom handed in his card ; and, in a few minutes, a rakish-looking stable-boy came round for his horse, and the butler appeared, with his master's compliments, and a request that he would step into the breakfast-room. Tom followed this portly personage through the large handsome hall, on the walls of which hung a buff- coat or two and some old-fashioned arms, and large paintings of dead game and fruit — through a drawing-room, the furni- ture of which was all covered up in melancholy cases — into the breakfast- parlour, where the owner of the mansion was seated at table in a lounLnnsj jecket. He was a man of forty, or thereabouts, who wouia nave been handsome, but for the animal look about his face. His cheeks were beginning to fall into chaps, his full lips had a liquorish look about them, and bags were beginning to form under his light blue eyes. His hands were very white and delicate, and shook a little as he poui-ed out his tea ; and he was full and stout in body wit] I small shoulders, and thin arms and legs ; in short, the last man whom Tom would have chosen as bow in a pair oar. The only part of him which showed strength were his dark whiskers, which were abundant, and elaborately oiled and curled. The room was light and pleasant, with two windows looking over the park, and furnished luxuriously, in the most modern style, with all manner of easy chairs and sofas. A glazed case or two of well-bound books showed that some former owner had cared for such things ; but the doors had, probably, never been opened in the present reign. The master, and his usual visitors, found sufficient food for the mind in the Racing Calendar, " Boxiana," " The Adventures of Corinthian Tom," and BelUs Life, which lay on a side table ; or in the pictures and prints of racers, opera dancers, and steeple-chases, which hung in profusion on the walls The breakfast-table was beautifully appointed, in the matter of china and plate ; and delicate little rolls, neat pats of butter in ice, and two silver hot dishes containing curry and broiled salmon, and a plate of fruit, piled in tempting profu- sion, appealed, apparently in vain, to the appetite of the lord of the feast. " Mr. Brown, sir," said the butler, ushering in our hero to lis master's presence. " Ah, Bro\vn, I'm very glad to see you here," said ]\'Ir. iVurley, standing up and holding out his hand. " Have any breakfast 1 " " Thank you, no, I have breakfasted," said Tom, somewhat astonished at the intimacy of the greeting ; but it was liis cue to do the friendly thing — so he shook the proffered hand. BROWN PATRONUS. 365 which felt very limp, and sat down by the table, looking pleasant. " Eidden from home this morning ? " said Mr. Wurley, picking over daintily some of the curry to which he had helped himself. " No, I was at my uncle's, at Englebourn, last niglit. It is very little out of the way ; so I tliought I would just call on my road home." " Quite right. I'm very glad you came without ceremony. People about here are so d — d full of ceremony. It don't suit me, all that humbug. But I wish you'd just pick a bit." " Thank you. Then I will eat some fruit," said Tom, help- ing himself to some of the freshly picked grapes ; " how very fine thesx? are ! " " Yes, I'm open to back my houses against the field for iwenty miles round. This curry isn't fit for a pig. — Take it out, and tell the cook so." The butler solemnly obeyed, while his master went on with one of the frequent oaths with which he garnished hia conversation. " You're right, they can't spoil the fruit. They're a set of slailking devils, are servants. They think of nothing but stuffing themselves, and how they can cheat you most, and do the least work." Say- ing which, he helped himself to some fruit ; and the two ate their grapes for a short time in silence. But even fruit seemed to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away his plate. The butler came back with a silver tray, with soda water, and a small decanter of brandy, and long glasses on it. " Won't you have something after your ride ? " said the host to Tom ; " some soda water with a dash of bingo clears one'a head in the morning." " No, thank you," said Tom, smiling, " it's bad for training." " Ah, you Oxford men are all for training," said his host, drinking greedily of the foaming mixture which the butler handed to him. " A glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh ? I know. Get some ale for Mr. Brown." Tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse this orthodox ofier, and took his beer accordingly, after which his host produced a box of Hudson's regalias, and proposed to look at the stables. So they lighted their cigars, and went out. Mr. Wurley had taken of late to the turf, and they inspected several young horses which were entered for countiy stakes. Tom thought them weedy-looking animals, but patiently }jstened to their praises and pedigrees, upon which his host wan eloquent enough ; and, rubbing up his latest readings 366 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. in BelVs Life, and the racing talk which he had been in the habit of hearing in Drysdale's rooms, managed to hold his own, and asked, with a grave face, about the price of the Coronation colt for the next Derby, and whether Scott's lot was not the right thing to stand on for the St. Leger, thereby raising himself considerably in his host's eyes. There were no hunters in the stable, at which Tom expresocd his surprise. In reply, Mr. Wurley abused the country, and declared that it was not worth riding across — the fact being that he had lost his nerve, and that the reception wnich he was beginning to meet with in the field, if he came out by chance, was of the coldest. From the stables they strolled to the keeper's cottage, where Mr. Wurley called for some buckAvheat and Indian corn, and began feeding the young pheasants, which were running about, almost like barn-door fowls, close to them. " We've had a good season for the young birds," he said ; " my fellow knows that part of his business, d — n him, and don't lose many. You had better bring your gun over in October ; we shall have a week in the covers early in the month." " Thank you, I shall be very glad," said Tom ; " but you don't shoot these birds ? " " Shoot 'em ! what the devil should I do with 'em ? " "Why, they're so tame I thought you just kept them about the house for breeding. I don't care so much for pheasant shooting ; I like a good wallv after a snipe, or creeping along to get a wild duck, much better. There's some sport in it, or even in partridge shooting with a couple of good dogs, now — " "You're quite wrong. There's nothing like a good dry ride in a cover with lots of game, and a fellow behind to load for you.'* " WeU, I must say, I prefer the open." " You've no covers ovsr your way, have you ? " "jSTotmany." " I thought so. You wait till you've had a good day in my covers, and you won't care for quartering all day over wet turnips. Besides, this sort of thing pays. Tliey talk about pheasants costing a guinea a head on one's table. It's all stuff; at any rate, mine don't cost me much. In fact, I say it pays, and I can prove it." " But you feed your pheasants ? " " Yes, just round the house for a few weeks, and I sow a little buckwheat in the covers. But they have to keep them- selves pretty much, I can tell yoa." BEOWN PATRON US. 367 " Don't the farmers object ? " " Yes, d — n them ; they're never satisfied. But they don't grumble to me ; they know better. There are a dozen fellows ready to take any farm that's given up, and they Imow it. Just get a beggar to put a hundred or two into the ground, and he won't quit hold in a hurry. Will you play a game at billiards?" The turn which their conversation had taken hitherto had offered no opening to Tom for I titrodlicing the object of his visit, and he felt less and less inclined to come to the point, lie looked his host over and over again, and the more ho looked the less he fancied asking anything like a favour of him. However, as it had to be done, he thought he couldn't do better than fall into his ways for a few hours, and watch for a chance. The man seemed good natured in his way ; and all his belongings — the fine park and house, and gardens and stables — were not without their effect on his young guest. It is not given to many men of t^Wce his age to separate a man from his possessions, and look at him apart from them. So he yielded easily enough, and they went to billiards in a fine room opening out of the hall ; and Tom, who was very fond of the game, soon forgot everytliiiig in the pleasure of play- ing on such a table. It was not a bad match. Mr. Wurley understood the game far better than his guest, and could give him advice as to what side to put on and how to play for cannons. This he did in a patronizing way, but his hand wa^ unsteady and his nerve bad. Tom's good eye and steady hand, and the practice he had had at the St. Ambrose pool-table, gave him con- siderable advantage in the hazards. And so they played on,- Mr. Wurley condescending to bet only half-a-crown a game, at first giving ten points, and then five, at which latter odds Tom managed to be two games ahead when the butler announced lunch, at two o'clock. " I think I must order my horse," said Tom, putting on his coat. " No, curse it, you must give me my revenge. I'm always five points better after lunch, and after dinner I could give you fifteen points. Why shouldn't you stop and dine and sleep ] I expect some men to dinner." " Thank you, I must ^et home to-day." " I should like you to taste my mutton ; I never kiU it under five years old. You don't get that every day." Tom, however, was proof against the mutton ; but con- sented to stay till towards the hour when the other guests were expected, finding that his host had a decided objection 3G8 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. to he left alone. So after luncli, at which Mr. Wurley drank the better part of a bottle of old sherry to steady his nerves, they returned again to billiards and Hudson's regalias. They played on for another hour ; and, though Mr. Wurley'a hand was certainly steadier, the luck remained with Tom. lie was now getting rather tired of playing, and wanted to be leaving, and he began to remember the object of his visit again. But Mr. Wurley was nettled at being beaten by a boy, as he counted his opponent, and wouldn't hear of leaving off. So Tom played on carelessly game after game, and was soon again only two games ahead. ^Ir. Wurley' s temper was recovering, and now Tom protested that he must go. Just one game more, his host urged, and Tom consented. Wouldn't he play for a sovereign 1 No. So they played double or quits ; and after a sharp struggle jMr. Wurley won the game, at which he was highly elated, and talked again grandly of the odds he could give after dinner. Tom felt that it was now or never, and so, as ho put on his coat, he said, — " Well, I'm much obliged to you for a very pleasant day, Mr. Wurley." " I hope you'll come over again, and stay and sleep. I shall always be glad to see you. It is so cursed hard to keep some- body always going in the country." " Thank you ; I should like to come again. But now I want to ask a favour of you before I go.'* "Eh, weU, what is it? " said Mr. Wurley, whose face and manner becam.e suddenl;^ anything but encouraging. " There's that cottage of j'^ours, the one at the corner of Englebourn copse, next the village." " The woodman's house, I know," said Mr. Wurley. " The tenant is dead, and I want you to let it to a friend of mine ; I'll take care the rent is paid" Mr. Wurley pricked up his ears at this announcement. He gave a sharp look at Tom ; and then bent over the table, made a stroke, and said, " Ah, 1 heard the old woman was dead. \Vho's your friend, then ? " " Well, I mean her son," said Tom, a little embarrassed ; " he's an active young fellow, and will make a good tenant, I'm sure." " I daresay," said Mr. Wurley, with a leer; " and I suppose there's a sister to keep house for him, eh ?" " No, but he wants to get married." "Wants to get married, eh?" said Mr. Wurley, with another leer and oath. ' You're right ; that's a deal safei kind of thing for you." BUOWN PATRONUS. 369 " Yes," said Tom, resolutely disregarding the insinuatioTij which he could not help feeling was intended ; " it will keep him steady, and if he can get the cottage it might make aXL the difference. There wouldn't be much trouble about the marriage then, I dare say." "You'll find it a devilish long way. You're quite right, mind you, not to get them settled close at home ; but Engle- bourn is too far, I should say." " What does it matter to me ? " " Oh, you're tii'ed of her ! I see. Perhaps it won't be too fer, then." " Tired of her ! who do you mean ? " " Ha, ha ! " said Mr. Wurley, looking up from the table OYor which he was leaning, for he went on knocking the balls about ; " devihsh well acted ! But you needn't try to como the old soldier over me. I'm not quite such a fool as that." " I don't know what you mean by coming the old soldier. I only asked you to let the cottage, and 1 will be responsible for the rent. I'll pay in advance if you like." " Yes, you want me to let the cottage for you to put in this girl" "I beg your pardon," said Tom, interrupting him, and scarcely able to keep his temper j "1 told you it was for thix young Winburn." " Of course you told me so. Ha, ha ! " " And you don't believe me." " Come, now, all's fair in love and war. But, I teU you, you needn't be mealy-moutned with me. You don't mind his living there ; he's away at work aU day, eh 1 and his wife stays at home." " ;Mr. Yv^urley, I give you my honour I never saw the girl in my life that I know of, and I don't know that she will marry liin.t." " What did you talk about your friend for, then 1 " said Mr. Wurley, stopping and staring at Tom, curiosity beginning to mingle with his look of cunning unbelief. " Because I meant just what I said." " And the friend, then 1 " " I have told you several times that this young Winburn is the man." " What, your friend ? " '• Yes my friend," said Tom ; and he felt himself getting red at having to caU Harry his friend in such company. !Mr. Wurley looked at him for a few moments, and then took his leg ofi the billiard table, and came round to Tom with the B B 370 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD. sort of patronizing air with wliich he had lectured Vn'm on billiards. " I say, Brown, I'll give you a piece of advice," he said. •* You're a young fellow, and haven't seen anything of the world. Oxford's all very well, but it isn't the world. JS'ow i tell you, a young fellow can't do himself greater harm than getting into low company and talking as you have been talk- ing. It might ruin you in the county. That sort of radical stuff won't do, you know, calling a fai^m labourer your friend." Tom chafed at this advice from a man who, he weU knew, was notoriously in the habit of entertaining at his house, and living familiarly with, betting men and trainers, and all the riff-raff of the turf. But he restrained himself by a consider- able effort, and, instead of retorting, as he felt inclined to do, said, with an attempt to laugh it off, " Thank you, I don't think there's much fear of my turning radical. But wiU you let me the cottage 1 " " My agent manages all that. We talked about pulling it down. The cottage is in my preserves, and I don't mean to have some poaching fellow there to be sneaking out at night after my pheasants." " But his grandfather and great-grandfather lived there." " I dare say, but it's my cottage." " But surely that gives him a claim to it." " D — n it ! it's my cottage. You're not going to tell me I mayn't do what I like with it, I suppose." "I only said that his family having lived there so long gives him a claim." " A claim to what 1 These are some more of your cursed radical notions. I think they might teach you something better at Oxford. Tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in such a tremen- dous fury of excitement that he forgot the interests of his client altogether. " I came here, sir," he said, very quietly and slowly, " not to request your advice on my own account, or your opinion on the studies of Oxford, valuable as no doubt they are ; I eame to ask you to let this cottage to me, and I wish to have your answer." " ril be d — d if I do ; there's my answer." *' Very well," said Tom ; " then I have only to wish you good morning. I am sorry to have wasted a day in the company of a man who sets up for a country gentleman with the tongue of a Thames bargee and the heart of a Jew pawn- broker." Mr. Wurley rushed to the bell and rang it furiously. BROWN PATRONUS. 371 " By — !" he almost screamed, sliaking his list at Tom, " I'll have you horsewhipped out of my house ; " aud then poured forth a flood of uncomplimentary slang, ending in another pull at the bell, and " Ey — ! I'll have you horsewhipped out of my house." " You had better try it on — you and your flunkeys to- gether," said Tom, taking a cigar-case out of his pocket and lighting up, the most defiant and exasperating action he could think of on the spui' of the moment. " Here's one of them ; so I'll leave you to give him his orders, and wait five minutes in the hall, where there's more room." And so, leaving the footman gaping at his lord, he turned on his heel, with the air of Bernardo del Carpio after he had bearded King Al- phonso, and walked into the hall. He heard men running to and fro, and doors banging, as he stood there lookiiig at the old bufi'-coats, and rather thirsting for a fight. Presently a door opened, and the portly butler shuffled in, looking considerably embarrassed, and said, — "Please, sir, to go out quiet, else he'll be having one of his fits." " Your master, you mean." " Yes, sir," said the butler, nodding, '"• D. T., sir. After one of his rages the black dog comes, and it^s hawful work ; so I hope you'll go, sir." " Very well, of course I'll go. I don't want to give him a fit." Saying which, Tom w^alked out of the hall-door, and leisurely round to the stables, where he found already signs of commotion. Without regarding them, he got his horse saddled and bridled, and, after looking him over carefully, and patting him, and feeling his girths in the yard, in the presence of a cluster of retainers of one sort or another, who were gathering from the house and ofiices, and looking sorely puzzled w^hether to commence hostihties or not, mounted and walked quietly out. After his anger had been a little cooled by the fresh air of the wild country at the back of the Hawk's Lynch, which he struck into on his way home soon after leaving the park, it suddenly occurred to him that, however satisfactory to himself the results of his encounter with this unjust landlord might seem, they would probably prove anything but agreeable to the would-be tenant, Harry Winburn. In fact, as he meditated on the matter, it became clear to him that in the course of one morning he had probably exasperated old Simon against his aspirant son-in-law, and put a serious spoke in Harry's love- wheel, on the one hand, while on the other, he had insured his speedy expulsion from his cottage, if not the demolition oi B b2 372 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. that buildmg. Whereupon he became somewhat low iindei the convjctioiL that his friendship, which was to work such wonders for the said Harrj, and deliver him out of all his troubles, had as yet only made his whole look-out in the world very much darker and more dusty. In short, as yet he had managed to do considerably less than nothing for his friend, and he felt very small before he got home that evening, lie was far, however, from being prepared for the serious way in which his father looked upon his day's proceedings. Mr. Brown was sitting by himself after dinner when his son turned up, and had to drink several extra glasses of port to keep himself decently composed, while Tom narrated the events of the day in the intervals of his attacks on the dinner, which v/as brought back for liim. "When the servant had cleared away, Mr. Brown proceeded to comment on tke history in a most decided manner. Tom was wrong to go to the Grange in the first instance ; and this part of the homily was amplified by a discourse on the corruption of the turf in general, and the special curse of small country races in particular, which such men as Wurley supported, and which, but for them, would cease. Eacing, which used to be the pastime of great people, who could well afford to spend a few thousands a year on their pleasure, had now mostly fallen into the hands of the very worst and lowest men of aU classes, most of whom would not scruple — as ISIr. Brown strongly put it — to steal a copper out of a blind beggar's hat. If he must go, at any rate he might have done nis errand and come away, instead of staying there all day accepting the man's hospitality. Mr. Brown himself really should be much embarrassed to know" what to do if the man should happen to attend the next sessions or assizes. But, above all, having accepted his hospitaUty, to turn round at the end and insult the man in his own house ! Thia seemed to Brown, J. P. a monstrous and astounding performance. Tills new way of putting matters took Tom entirely by surprise. He attempted a defence, but in vain. His father admitted that it would be a hard case if Harry were turned out of his cottage, but wholly refused to listen to Tom's endeavours to prove that a tenant in such a case had any claim or right as against his landlord. A weekly tenant was a weekly tenant, and no succession of weeks' holding could make him anything more. Tom found himself rushing into a line of argument which astonished himself and sounded wild, but in which he felt sure there w^as some truth, and which, therefore, he would not abandon, though his father was evidently annoyed, and called it mere misehievous senti- MHAEN AFAN. 373 menl. Each was more moved than he would have liked to own ; each in his own lieart felt aggrieved, and blamed the other for not understanding him. But, though obstinate on the general question, upon the point of his leaving the Grange, Tom was fairly brought to shame, and gave in at last, and expressed his sorrow, though he could not help maintaining that, if his fother could have heard what took place, and seen the man's manner, he would scarcely blame him for what he had said and done. Having once owned himself in the %vrong, however, there was nothing for it but to write an apology, the composition of which was as disagreeable a task as had ovoi fellen to his lot. CHAPTER XXXiy MHAEN AFAN. Has any person, of any nation or language, found out and given to tlie \vorld any occupation, work, diversion, or pursuit, more subtle! y dangerous to the susceptible youth of both sexes than that of nutting in pairs. If so, who, where, what ? A few years later in life, perhaps district visiting, and attend- ing schools together, may in certain instances be more fatal ; but, in the first bright days of youth, a day's nutting against the world ! A day in autumn, warm enough to make sitting in sheltered nooks in the woods, wherever the sunshine hes, very pleasant, and yet not too warm to make exercise uncom- fortable — two young people who have been thrown much together, one of whom is conscious of the state of his feelings towards the other, and is, moreover, aware that liis hours are numbered, that in a few days at furthest they will be separated for many months, that persons in authority on both sides are beginning to suspect something (as is apparent from the diffi- culty they have had in getting away together at all on thid same afternoon) — here is a conjunction of persons and cir- cumstances, if ever there was one in the world, which is surely likely to end in a catastrophe. Indeed, so obvious to the meanest capacity is the danger of the situation, that, as Tom had, in his own mind, staked his character for resolution with his private self on the keeping of his secret till after he was of age, it is hard to conceive how he can have b^f^D foolish enough to get himself into a hazel copse alone with Miss Mary on the earhest day he could manage it after the arrival of the Porters, on their visit to Mr. and Mrs. Brown- That is to say, it would be hard to coinceive, if it didn't jusi happen to bo the most natural thing in the world. 374 roM BROWN at oxfoed. For the first twenty-four hours after their meeting in the home of his fathers, the two young people, and Tom in parti- cular, felt very uncomfortable. jMar}*-, being a young lady of very high spirits, and, as readers may prolDaljly have discovered, much given to that kind of conversation which borders as nearly upon what men commonly call chaff as a well-bred girl can venture on, was annoyed to find herself quite at fault in all her attempts to get her old antagonist of Commemoration to show fight. She felt in a moment how changed his manner was, and thought it by no means changed for the better. As for Tom, he felt foolish and shy at first, to an extent which drove him half w^ild ; his words stuck in his throaty and he took to blushing again like a boy of fourteen. In fact, he got so angry with himsel:^ that he rather avoided her actual presence, though she was scarcely a moment out of his sight. Mr. Brown made the best of his son's retreat, devoted himself most gallantly to Mary, and was completely captivated by her before bedtime on the first night of their visit. He triumphed over his wife when they were alone, and laughed at the groundlessness of her sus- picions. But she was by no means so satisfied on the subject as her husband. In a day or two, however, Tom began to take heart of grace, and to find himself oftener at Mary's side, with some- thing to say, and more to look. But now she, in her turn, began to be embarrassed ; for all attempts to re-estabhsh their old footing failed, and the difficulty of finding a satisfactory new one remained to be solved. So for the present, though neither of them found it quite satisfactory, they took refuge in the presence of a third party, and attached themselves to Katie, talking at one another through her. Nothing could exceed Katie's judiciousness as a medium of communication ; and through her a better understanding began to establish itself, and the visit which both of them had been looking forward to so eagerly seemed likely, after all, to be as pleasant in fact as it had been in anticipation. As they became more at ease, the vigilance of Mrs. Bro\vn and ISIrs. Porter seemed likely *x) revive. But in a country house there must be plenty of chances for young folk who mean it, to be together; and so they found and made use of their opportunities, giving at the same time as little cause to their natural guardians as possible for any serious interference. The families got on, on the whole, so well together, that the visit was prolonged from the original four or five days to a fortnight ; and this time of grace was drawing to a close when the event happened which made the visit memorable to our hero. MHAEN AFAN. 375 On the morning in question, Mr. Brown arranged at break- fast tliat he and his wile should drive Mr. and Mrs. Porter to make calls on several of the neighbours. Tom declared his intention of taking a long day after the partridges, and the young ladies were to go and make a sketch of the house from a point which Katie had chosen. Accordingly, directly after luncheon, the carriage came round, and the elders departed ; and the young ladies started together, carrying their sketching apparatus with them. It was probably a bad day for scent ; for they had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Tom came home, deposited his gun, and followed on their steps. He found them sitting under the lee of a high bank, sufficiently intent on their drawings, but neither surprised nor sorry to find that he had altered his mind, and come back to interrupt them. So he lay down near them, and talked of Oxford, and Englebourn, and so from one thing to another, till he got upon the subject of nutting, and the sylvan beauties of a neighbouring wood. Mary was getting on badly with her drawing, and jumped at the idea of a ramble in the wood ; but Katie was obdui'ate, and resisted all their solicitations to move. She suggested, however, that they might go ; and, as Tom declared that they should not be out of call, and would be back in half an hour at furthest, Mary consented ; and they left the sketcher, and strolled together out of the fields, and into the road, and so through a gate into the wood. It was a pleasant oak wood. The wild flowers were over, but the gi'eat masses of ferns, four or Hve feet high, made a grand carpet round the stems of the forest monarchs, and a fitting couch for here and there one of them which had been lately felled, and lay in fallen majesty, with bare shrouded trunk awaiting the sawyers. Further on, the hazel underwood stood thickly on each side of the green rides, dowm which they sauntered side by side. Tom talked of the beauty of the wood in Spring-time, and the glorious succession of colouring — pale yellow, and deep blue and white, and purple — which the primroses, and hya- cinths and starwort, and foxgloves gave, each in their turn, in the early year, and mourned over their absence. But Mary preferred Autumn, and would not agree with him. She was enthusiastic for ferns and heather. He gathered some sprigs of the latter for her, from a little sandy patch which they passed, and some more for his own button-hole ; and then they engaged in the absorbing pursuit of nutting, and the talk aln.ost ceased. He caught the higher branches, and bent them down to her, and watched her as she gathered \hem, and wondered at the ease and grace of all her Hiove- 378 TOM BROWN Al OXFORD. ments. aud tlie unconscious beauty of her attitudes. Sooa she became more enterprising herself, and made Httle excur- 8ion3 into the copse, surmounting briers, and passing through tangled places hke a ]^aiad, before he could be there to help her. And so they went on, along the rides and through the copse, forgetting Katie and time, till they were brought up by the fence on the further side of the wood. The ditch was on the outside, and on the inside a bank with a hedge on the top, full of tempting hazel-bushes. She clapped her hands at the sight, and, declining his help, stepped Mghtly up the bank, and began gathering. He turned away for a moment, jumped up the bank himself, and followed her example. He was standing up in the hedge, and reaching after a tempting cluster of nuts, when he heard a short sharp cry of pain behind him, which made him spring backwards, and nearly miss his footing as he came to the ground. Eecovering himself, and turning round, he saw Mary lying at the foot of the bani, writhing in pain. He was at her side in an instant, and dreadfully alarmed. '• Good heavens ! what has happened ? " he said. *' My ancle ! " she cried ; and the effort of speaking brought the sudden flush of pain to her brow. " Oh ! what can I do 1 " " The boot ! the boot ! " she said, leaning forward to unlace it, and then sinking back against the bank, '* It is so painfuL I hope I sha'n't faint." Poor Tom could only clasp his hands as he knelt by her, and repeat, " Oh, what can I do — what can I do ? " His utter bewilderment presently roused Mary, and her natural high courage was beginning to master the pain. " Have you a knife 1 " " Yes — here," he said, piiUing one out of his pocket, and opening it ; " here it is." " Please cut the lace." Tom, with beating heart and trembling hand, cut the lace, and then looked up at her. " Oh, be quick — cut it again ! Don't be afraid." He cut it again; and, without taking hold of the foot, gently pulled out the ends of the lace. She again leaned forward, and tried to take oif the boot • but the pain was too great^ and she sank back, and put hei hand up to her flushed face. " May I try 1 — perhaps I could do it." " Yes, pray do. Oh, I can't bear the pain ! " she added, next moment ; and Tom felt ready to liang himself for haviTig been the cause of it. MHAEN AFAN 377 ** You must cut the boot off, please." " But perhaps I may cut you. Do you really mean it ? " •' Yes, really. There, take care. How your hand shakes. You will never do for a doctor." His hand did shake, certainly. He had cut a little hole in the stocking ; hut, under the circumstances, wo need not wonder — the situation was new and tryiug. Urged on by her, he cut and cut away, and, at last, off came the boot, and her beautiful little foot lay on the green turf. She was much relieved at once, but still in great pain ; and now he began to recover his head. " The ankle should be bound up ; may I try 1 " " Oh, yes ; but what with ? " Tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and produced one of the large, many-coloured neck-wrappers which were fashionable at Oxford in those days. " How lucky ! " he said, as he tore it into strips. " I think this will do. IsTow, you'll stop me, won't you, if I hurt, or don't do it right 1 " " Don't be afraid , I'm m'-tch better. Bind it tight — tighter than that." He wound the strips as tenderly as he could round her foot and ankle, with hands all alive with nerves, and wondering more and more at her courage as she kept urging him to draw the bandage tighter yet. Then, stiU under her direc- tion, he fastened and pinned down the ends ; and as he was rather neat with his fingers, from the practice of tying flies and splicing rods and bats, produced, on ^e whole, a cre- ditable sort of bandage. Then he looked up at her, the perspiration standing on his forehead, as if he had been pulling a race, and said : " Will that do 1 I'm afraid it's very awkward." " Oh, no ; thank you so much ! But I'm so sorry you have torn your handkerchie£" Tom made no answer to this remark, except by a look. What could he say, but that he would gladly have torn hia gkin off for the same purpose, if it would have been of any use. But this speech did not seem quite the thing for the moment. " But how do you feel 1 Is it very painful V he asked. " Ilather. But don't look so anxious. Indeed, it is very bearable. But what are we to do now ? " He thought foi a moment, and said, with something like a " Shall I run home, and bring the servants and a so&, or something to carry you on 1 " *'No, I shouldn't like to be Isft here alone." 378 TOM BROWN \T OXFORD. His face brightened again. " How near is the nearest cottage 1" she asked. " There's none nearer than the one which we passed on the road — on the other side of the wood, you know." " Then I must try to get there. You must help me up." He sprang to his feet, and stooped over her, doubting how to begin helping her. He had never felt so shy in his life. He held out his hands. " I think you must put your arm round me," she said, after looking at him for a moment. He lifted her on to her feet. " Now, let me lean on your arm. There, I daresay I shall manage to hobble along well enough ;" and she made a brave attempt to walk. But the moment the injured foot touched the ground, she stopped with a catch of her breath, and a shiver, which went through Tom like a knife ; and the flush came back into her face, and she would have fallen had he not again put his ami round her waist, and held her up. " I am better again now," she said, after a second or two. " But Mary, dear Mary, don't try to walk again. For my sake. I can't bear it." " But what am I to do ? " she said. " I must get back somehow." " "VYill you let me carry you V She looked in his fare again, and then dropped her eyes, and hesitated. " I wouldn't offer, dear, if there were any other way. But you mustn't walk. Indeed, you must not ; you may lame yourself for life." He spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, though his heart was beating so that he feared she would hear it. " Very well," she said ; "but I'm very heavy." So he lifted her gently, and stepped off down the ride, carrying his whole world in his arms, in an indescribable flutter of joy, and triumph, and fear. He had gone some forty yards or so, when he staggered, and stopped for a moment. " Oh, pray put me down — pray do ! You'll hurt yourselt I'm too heavy." For the credit of muscular Christianity, one must say that it was not her weight, but the tumult in his own inner man, which made her bearer totter. Nevertheless, if one is wholly unused to the exercise, the carrying a healthy young English girl weighing a good eight stone, is as much as most men can conveniently manage. " rU just put you down for a moment," he said. " No^w MHAEN AFAN. 379 take care of the foot ;" and he stooped, and placed her tenderly against one of the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by her side without looldng at her. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then he asked, still looking away down the ride, " How is the foot V *' Oh, pretty well," she answered, cheerfully. " !N"ow, leave me here, and go for help. It is absurd of me to mind being left, and you mustn't carry me any more." He turned, and their eyes met for a moment, but that was snough. " Are you ready V he said, *' Yes, but take care. Don't go far. Stop directly you feel tired." Then he lifted her again, and this time carried her without faltering, till they came to a hillock covered with soft grass, Here they rested again, and so by easy stages he carried her through the wood, and out into the road, to the nearest cottage, neither of them speaking. An old woman came to the door in answer to his kick, and went off into ejaculations of pity and wonder in the broadest Berkshire, at seeing Master Tom and his burthen. But he pushed into the house and cut her short with — " Now, Mrs. Pike, don't talk, that's a dear good woman, but bustle about, and bring that arm-chair here, and the other low one, with a pillow on it, for the young lad/s foot to rest on." The old woman obeyed his injunctions, except as to talking ; and, while she placed the chairs and shook up the pillow, descanted on the sovereign virtues of some green oil and opodeldoc, which was as g<'Jod as a charm for sprains and bruises. Mary gave him one grateful look as he lowered her tenderly and reluctantly into the chair, and then spoke cheerfully to !Mrs. Pike, who was foraging in a cupboard, to find if there was any of her famous specific in the bottom of the bottle. As he stood up, and thought what to do next, he heard the sound of distant wheels, and looking through the window saw the carriage coming homewards. It was a sorrowful sight to him. " Now, Mrs. Pilce," he said, " never mind the oil. Here's the carriage coming ; just step out and stop it." The old dame scuttled out into the road. The carriage was within one hundred yards. He leant over the rough arm- chair in which she was leaning back, looked once more into her eyes ; and then, stooping forwards, kissed her lips, and the next moment was by the side of Mrs. Pike, signalling tho coachman to stop. 380 TOM BIIOWN AT OXFORD. In the Inistle wliich followed he stood aside., and watched Mary with liis heart in his mouth. She never looked at him, but there was no anger, but only a dreamy look in her sweet face, which seemed to him a thousand times more beoutifid than ever before. Then, to avoid inquiries, and to realize all that had passed in the last wonderful three hours, he slipped away while they were getting her into the carriage, and wandered back into the wood, pausing at each of their halting places. At last he reached the scene of the accident, ancl here his cup of happiness was likely to brim over, for he found the mangled little boot and the cut lace, and securing the prfccious prize, hurried back home, to be in time for dinner. Mary did not come down ; but Katie, the only person of whom he dared to inquire, assured him that she was doing famously. The dinner was veiy embarrassing, and he had the greatest difficulty in answering the searching inquiries of his mother and ]\Irs. Porter, as to how, when, where, and in whose presence the accident had happened. As soon as the ladies rose, he left his father and Mr. Porter over their old port and politics, and went out in the twilight into the garden, burthened with the weight of sweet thought. He felt that he had something to do — to set himself quite right with I>Iary ; he must speak somehow, that night, if possible, or he should not be comfortable or at peace with his con- science. There were lights in her roonL He guessed by the shadows that she was lying on a couch by the open window, round which the other ladies were flitting. Presently lights appeared in the drawing-room ; and, as the shutters were being closed, he saw his mother and Mrs. Porter come in, and sit down near the fire. Listening intently, he heard Katie talking in a low voice in the room above, and saw her head against the light as she sat down close to the window, probably at the head of the couch where !Mary was lying. Should he call to her 1 K he did how could he say what he wanted to say through her 1 A happy thought struck him. He turned to the flower- beds, hunted about and gathered a bunch of heUotrope, Qurried up to his room, took the sprig of heather out ot his shooting coat, tied them together, caught up a reel and line from his table, and went into the room over Mary's. He threw the window open, and, leaning out, said gently, " Katie." No answer. lie repeated the name louder. !N o answer still, and, leaning out yet further, he saw that the window had been fdiut. He lowered the bunch of flowers, and, swinging it backwards and forwards, made it strike the window below— MHAEN AFAN. 381 once, twice ; at the third stroke he heard the window open. " Katie," he whispered again, " is that you 1 " '* Yes, where are you ? What is this 1 " For her," ho said, in the same whisper. Katie untied the floAvers, and he waited a few moments, and then again called her name, and she answered. " Has she the flowers ?" he asked. " Yes, and she sends you her love, and says you are to go iown to the drawing-room ;" and with that the window closed, and he went down with a lightened conscience into the drawing-room and after joining in the talk by the fire for a few minutes, took a book, and sat down at the further side of the table. Whether he ever knew what the book w^as may be fairly questioned, but to all appearances he was deep in the perusal of it till the tea and Katie arrived, and the gentlemen from the dining-room. Then he tried to join in the conversation again ; but, on the whole, life was a burthen to him that night till he could get fairly away to his owr- room, and commune vdih himself, gazing at the yellow harvest moon, w4th his elbows on the window-siU. The ankle got well very quickly, and Mary was soon gomg about with a gold-headed stick which had belonged to Mr. Brown's father, and a limp which Tom thought the most beautiful movement he had ever seen. But, though she was about again, by no amount of patient vigilance could he now get the chance of speaking to her alone. But he consoled himself with the thought that she must understand him ; if he had spoken he couldn't have made himself clearer. And now the Porters' visit was all but over, and Katie and her father left for Englebourn. The Porters were to follow the next day, and promised to drive round and stop at the Eectory for lunch. Tom petitioned for a seat in their carriage to Englebourn. He had been devoting himself to Mrs. Porter ever since the accident, and had told her a good deal about His own early life. His account of his early friendship for Betty and her son, and the renewal of it on the day he left Barton Manor, had interested her, and she was moreover not insensible to his assiduous and respectful attentions to herself, which had of late been quite marked : she was touched too at his anxiety to hear all about her boys, and how they were going on at school. So on the whole Tom was in high favour with her, and she most graciously assented to his occupjnlng the fourth seat in their barouche. She was not without hei suspicions of the real state of the case with him ; but his behdviour had been so discreet that she had no immediate 382 TOM PROWN AT OXFORD. fears ; and, after all, if any thing should come of it some years hence her daughter might do worse. In the meantime she \70uld see plenty of society in London ; where Mr. Porter's vocations kept him during the greater part of the year. They reached Englehourn after a pleasant long morning';^ drive ; and Tom stole a glance at Mary, and felt that she understood him, as he pointed out the Hawk's Lynch and the clump of Scotch firs to her mother ; and told how you might see Barton from the top of it, and how he loved the place, and the old trees, and the view. Katie was at the door ready to receive them, and carried off Mary and !Mi*s. Porter to her own room. Tom walked round the garden with Mr. Porter, and then sat in the draw- ing-room, and felt melancholy. He roused himself, however, when the ladies came down and luncheon was announced. Mary was full of her reminiscences of the Englehourn people^ and especially of poor ]\Irs. Winburn and her son, in whom she had begun to take a deep interest, perhaps from overhear- ing some of Tom's talk to her mother. So Harry's story was canvassed again, and Katie told them how he had been turned out of his cottage, and how anxious she was as to what would come of it. " And is he going to marry your gardener's daughter after all 1 " asked Mrs. Porter. "I am afraid there is not much chance of it," said Katie , " I cannot make Martha out." *' Is she at home, Katie ? " asked INIary ; " I should like to see her again. I took a great fancy to her when I was here." "Yes, she is at the lodge. We will walk there after luncheon." So it was settled that the carriage should pick them up at the lodge ; and soon after luncheon, while the horses were being put to, the whole party started for the lodge after saying good-bye to Mr. Winter, who retired to his room much fatigued by his unwonted hospitality. Old Simon's wife answered their knock at the lodge door, and they all entered, and Mrs. Porter paid her compliments on the cleanliness of the room. Then Mary said, "Is your daughter at home, Mrs, Gibbons?" " Ees, miss, someweres handy," replied Mrs. Gibbons ; • her hav'n't been gone out, not dree minnit." " I should like so much to say good-bye to her," said Mary. ** We shall be leaving Barton soon, and I shall not see her again till next summer." "Lor bless'ee, miss, 'tis werry good ov'ee," said ti.e old MKAEN AFAN. 383 dame, very proud ; " do'ee set down then while I gees her a call," And with that slie hurried out of the door which led through the back kitchen into the little yard behind the lodge, and the next moment they heard h«r calling out — "Patty, Patty, wher bist got to? Come in and see the gentletbllc" The name which the old woman was calling out made Tom start. " I thought you said her name was Martha," said Mrs. Porter. "Patty is short for Martha in Berkshire," said Katie, laughing. " And Patty is such a pretty name. I wonder you don't call her Patty," said Mary. " We had a housemaid of the same name a year or two ago, and it made such a confusion — and when one once gets used to a name it is so hard to change — so she has always been called IMartha." " Well, Pm all for Patty ; don't you think so 1 " said Mary, turning to Tom. The sudden introduction of a name which he had such reasons for remembering, the memories and fears which it called up — above all, the bewilderment which he felt at hear- ing it tossed about and canvassed by Mary in his presence, as if there were nothing more in it than in any other name — confused him so that he floundered and blundered in his attempt to answer, and at last gave it up altogether. She was surprised, and looked at him inquiringly. His eyes fell before hers, and he turned away to the window, and looked at the carriage, which had just drawn up at the lodge door. He had scarcely time to think how foolish ho was to be so moved, when he heard the back-kitchen door open again, and the old woman and her daughter come in. He turned round sharply, and there on the floor of the room, curtseying to the ladies, stood the ex-barmaid of " The Choughs." His first impulse was to hurry away — she was looking down, and he might not be recognised ; his next, to stand his ground, and take what- ever might come. Mary went up to her and took her hand, saying that she could not go away without coming to see her, Patty looked up to answer, and, glancing round the room, caught sight of him. He stepped forward, and then stopped and tried to speak, but no words would come. Patty looked at him, dropped Mary's hand, blushed up to the roots of her hair as she looked timidly round at the wondering spectators, and, putting her hands to her face, ran out of the back door again. 384 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD. "Lawk a massy! what ever can ha' cum to oiir Patty?' said Mrs. Gibbons, following her out. " I think we had better go," said Mr. Porter, giving his arm to his daughter, and leading her to the door, " Good-bye, Katie ; shall we see you again at Barton 1 " "I don't know, uncle," Katie answered, following with Mrs. Porter in a state of sad be^vilderment. Tom, with his brain swimming, got out a few stammering farewell words, which Mr. and Mrs. Porter received with marked coldness as they stepped into their carriage. Mary's face was flushed and uneasy, but at her ho scarcely dared to steal a bok, and to her was quite unable to speak a word. Then the carriage drove off, and he turned, and found Katie standing at his side, her eyes full of serious wonder. His fell before them. "My dear Tom," she said, "what is all thisi I thought you had never seen Martha] " "So I thought — I didn't know — I can't talk now — I'll explain all to you — don't thiiik very badly of me, Katie — God bless you ! " with which words he strode away, while she looked after him with increasing wonder, and then turned and went into the lodge. He hastened away from the Rectory and down the village street, taking the road home mechanically, but otherwise wholly unconscious of roads and men. David, who was very anxious to speak to him about Harry, stood at his door making signs to him to stop, in vain : and then gave chase, calling out after him, till he saw that all attempts to attract his notice were useless, and so ambled back to his shop-board much troubled in mind. The first object which recalled Tom at all to himself was the little white cottage looking out of Englebourn copse towards the village, in which he had sat by poor Betty's death-bed. The garden was already getting wild and tangled, and the house seemed to be uninhabited. He stopped for a moment and looked at it with bitter searchings of heart Here was the place where he had taken such a good turn, as he had fondly hoped — in connexion with the then inmates of which he had made the strongest good resolutions he had ever made in his life perhaps. What was the good of his trying to befriend anybody ? His friendship turned to a blight ; whatever he had as yet tried to do for Harry had only injured him, and now how did they stand? Could they ever be friends again after that day's discovery ? To do him justice, the probable ruin of all his own prospects, the sudden coldness of Mr. and Mrs. Porter's looks, and Mary's averted face, were MHALN AFAN. 300 not thi tilings bo thought of first, and did not trouble him most. He thouglit of llarry, and shuddered at the wrong ho had done him as lie looked at his deserted home. The door opened and a figure a])peared. It was Mr. AYurley's agent, the lawyer who had been employed by farmer Tester in his contest with Harry and his mates about the pound. The man of law saluted him with a smirk of scarcely concealed triumph, and then turned into the house again and shut the door, as if he did not consider further communication necessary or safe. Tom turned witli a muttered imprecation on him and his master, and hurried away along the lane which led to the heath. The Hawk's Lynch lay above him, and he climbed the side mechanically and sat himself again on the old spot. He sat for some time looking over the landscape, graven on his mind as it was by his former visit, and bitterly, oh, how bitterly ! did the remembrance of that visit, and of the exulta- tion and triumph which then filled him, and carried him away over the heath with a shout towards his home, come back on him. He could look out from bis watch-tower no longer, and lay down with his face between his hands on the turf, and groaned as he lay. But his good angel seemed to haunt the place, and soon the cold fit began to pass away, and better and more hopeful thoughts to return. After all, what had he done since his last visit to that place to be ashamed of? Nothing. His attempts to do, Harry service, unlucky as they had proved, had been honest. Had he become less worthy of the love w^hich had first consciously mastered him there some four weeks ago ? No ; he felt, on the contrary, that it had already raised him, and purified him, and made a man of him. But this last discovery, how could he ever get over that 1 Well, after all, the facts were just the same as before ; only now they had come out. It was right that they should have come out ; better for him and for every one that they should be knowm and faced. He was ready to face them, to abide any consequences that they might now bring in their train. His heart was right towards Mary, towards Patty, towards Harry — that he felt sure of. And, if so, why should he despair of either his love or hia friendship coming to a good end ? And so lie sat up again, and looked out bravely towards Barton, and began to consider what was to be done. His eyes rested on the Rectory. That was the first place to begin with. He must set himself right with Katie — let her know the whole story. Through her he could reach aU the rest, and do whatever must be done to clear the ground and start Cfssh again, CO S86 To:\r brown at oxfokd. At first he thought of returning to her at once, and rose ta go down to Englebourn. But anything Hke retracing hia steps was utterly distasteful to him just then. Before him he saw light, dim enough as yet, but still a dawning ; towards that he would press, leaving everything behind him to take care of itself. So he turned northwards, and struck across the heath at his best pace. The violent exercise almost finished his cure, and his thoughts became clearer and more hopeful as he neared home. He arrived there as the house- hold were going to bed, and found a letter waiting for him. It was from Hardy, saying that Blake had left him, and he was now thinking of returning to Oxford, and would come for his long-talked-of visit to Berkshire, if Tom was still at home, and in the mind to receive him. Never was a letter more opportune. Here was the tried friend on whom he could rely for help and advice and sympathy — who knew all the facts too from beginning to end ! His father and mother were delighted to hear that they should now see the friend of whom he had spoken so much. So he went up stairs, and wrote an answer, which set Hardy to work packing his portmanteau in the far west, and brought hiit, speedily to the side of his friend under the lee of the Berk- shire hills. CHAPTEE XXXy. * SECOND YEAR. For some days after his return home — in fact, until hh. friend's arrival, Tom was thoroughly beaten down and \ATetched, notwithstanding his efforts to look hopefully forward, and keep up his spirits. His usual occupations were utterly dis- tasteful to him ; and, instead of occupying himself, he sal hnyading over his late misfortune, and hopelessly puzzling his head as to what he could do to set matters right. The convic- tion in which he always landed was that there was nothing to be done, and that he was a desolate and blighted being, deserted of gods and men. Hardy's presence and company soon shook him out of this maudlin nightmare state, and he began to recover as soon as he had his old sheet-anchor fi'iend to hold on to and consult with. Their consultations were h2ld chiefly in the intervals of woodoraft, in which they spent most of the hours between breakfast and dinner. Hardy did not take out a certificate, and wouldn't shoot without one ; »o^ as Lhe best autumn exercise, they selected a tough old SECOXD YEAR. 387 pollard elm, infinitely ugly, with knotted and twisted roots, curiously difficult to get at and cut through, which had heen long marked as a hlot by INIr. Brown, and condemned to be felled as soon as there was nothing more pressing for his men to do. But there was always something of more importance ; so that the cross-grained old tree might have remained until this day, had not Hardy and Tom pitched on him as a foeman worthy of their axes. They shovelled, and picked, and hewed away with great energy. The woodman who visited them occasionally, and who, on examining their first efforts, had remarked that the severed roots looked a little "as tho' the dogs had been a gnawin' at 'em," began to hold them in respect, and to tender his advice with some deference. By the time the tree was felled and shrouded, Tom was in a con- valescent state. Their occupation had naturally led to discussions on the advantages of emigration, the delights of clearing one's own estate, building one's own house, and getting away from con- ventional life with a few tried friends. Of course the pic- tures which were painted included foregrounds with beautiful children playing about the clearing, and graceful women, wives of the happy squatters, flitting in and out of the log- houses and sheds, clothed and occupied after the manner of our ideal grandmothers ; with the health and strength of Amazons, the refinement of high-bred ladies, and wondrous skill in all domestic works, confections, and contrivances. The log-houses woulil also contain fascinating select libraries, continually reinforced from home, sufficient to keep all dwellers in the happy clearing in communion with all the highest minds of their own and former generations. Wondrous games in the neighbouring forest, dear old home customs established and taking root in the wilderness, with ultimate dainty flower gardens, conservatories, and pianofortes — a mil- lennium on a small scale, with universal education, competence, prosperity, and equal rights 1 Such castle-building, as an accompaniment to the hard exercise of woodcraft, worked wonders for Tom in the next week, and may be safely recom- mended to parties in like evil case with him. But more practical discussions Avere not neglected, and it was agreed that they should make a day at Englebourn to- gether before their return to Oxford, Hardy undertaking to invade the Rectory with the view of re-establishing his friend's character there. Tom wrote a letter to Katie to prepare her for a visit. The day after the ancient elm was fairly disposed of they started early for EDglebourn, and separated at tho entrance to the 388 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. village — Hardy proceeding to the Rectory to fulfil his mission, which he felt to be rather an embarrassing one, and Tom tc look after the constable, or whoever else could give him in- formation about Harr3^ He arrived at the "Eed Lion," their appointed trysting-place, before Hardy, and spent a restless half-hour in the porcli and bar waiting for his return. At last Hardy came, and Tom hurried him into the inn's best room, where bread and cheeso and ale awaited them, and, as soon as the hostess could be got out of the room, began impatiently — "Well you have seen hevV " Yes, I have come straight here from the Rectory." "And is it all right, eh ? Had she got my letter?" "Yes, she had had your letter." " And you think she is satisfied ? " " Satisfied 1 No, you can't expect her to be satisfied." " I mean, is she satisfied that it isn't so bad after all as it looked the other day? AYhat does Katie think of me?" "I think she is still very fond of you, but that she has been puzzled and outraged by this discovery, and cannot get over it all at once." " AMiy didn't you tell her the whole story from beginning to end 1 " " I tried to do so as well as I could." " Oh, but I can see you haven't done it. She doesn't really understand how it is." " Perhaps not ; but you must lemember it is an awkward subject to be talking about to a young woman. I would sooner stand another fellowship examination than go through it again." "Thank you, old fellow," said Tom, laying his hand on Hardy's shoulder ; " I feel that I'm unreasonable and im- patient ; but you can excuse it ; yoa know that I don't mean it." " Don't say another word ; I only wish I could have done more for you." " But what do you suppose Katie thinks of me ? " " A\Tiy, you see, it sums itself up in this : she sees that you have been making serious love to Patty, and have turned the poor girl's head, more or less, and that now you are in love with somebody else. ^Yhy, put it how we will, we can't get out of that. There are the facts, pure and smiple, and she wouldn't be half a woman if she didn't resent it." "But it's hard lines, too, isn't it, old fellow ? No, I won't say that 1 I deserve it all. and much worse. I'ut y>.)u think I may come round all right]" SECOND YEAR. 333 " Yes, all in good time. I hope there's no danger in any other quarter ? " " Goodness knows ! There's the rub, you see. She will go back to town disgusted with me. I sha'n't see her again, and she won't hear of me for I don't know how long ; and she will be meeting heaps of men. Has Katie been over to Barton 1 " " Yes ; she was there last week, just before they left." "Well, what happened ?" " She wouldn't say much ; but I gathered that they are very well" " Oh, yes, bother it. Of course, they are very well. But didn't she talk to Katie about v/hat happened last week?" " Of course she did. What else should they talk about?" " But you don't loiow what they said ? " " No. But you may depend on it that Miss Winter will be your friend. My dear fellow, there is nothing for it but time." " Well, T suppose not," said Tom, with a groan. " Do you tliink I should call and see Katie ? " " No ; I think better not." " Well, then, we may as well get back," said Tom, who was not sorry for his friend's decision. So they paid their bill and started for home, taking the Hawk's Lynch on the wav, that Hardy might see the view. "And what did you find out about young Winburn?" he said, as they passed dow^n the street. " Oh, no good," said Tom ; "he was turned out, as I thought, and has gone to live with an old woman up on the heath here, who is no better than she should be ; and none of the farmers will employ him." " You didn't see him, I suppose ? " " No ; he is away with some of the heath people, hawking oesoms and chairs about the country. They make them when there is no harvest work, and loaf about in Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling them." " No good will come of that sort of life, I'm afraid," "No; but what is he to do?" " I called at the lodge as I came aw^ay, and saw Patty and her mother. It's all right in that quarter. The old woman doesn't seem to think anything of it ; and Patty is a good girl, and will make Harry Winburn, or anybody else, a capital wife. Here are your letters." "And the locket?" " I quite forgot it. Why didn't you remind me of it ? You talked, of nothing but the letters this morning." 390 TOM BE OWN AT OXFOED. " I'm glad of it. It can do no harm now, ard as it is wortii something, I should have been ashamed to take it back. I hope she'll put Harry's hair in it soon. Did she seem to mind giving up the letters?" " Not very much. ]S^o, you are lucky there. She will get over it." " But you told her that I am her friend for life, and that she is to let me know if I can ever do anything for her V " Yes. And now I hope this is the last job of the kind I tihall ever have to do for you." " But what bad luck it has been 1 If I had only seen her before, or known who she was, nothing of all this would have happened." To which Hardy made no reply ; and the subject was not alluded to again in their Avalk home. A day or two afterwards they returned to Oxford — Hardy to begin his work as fellow and assistant-tutor of the College, and Tom to see whether he could not make a better hand of his second year than he had of his first. He began mth a much better chance of doing so, for he was thoroughly humbled. The discovery that he was not altogether such a hero as he had fancied himself, had dawned upon him very distinctly by the end of his first year ; and the events of the long vacation had confirmed the impression, and pretty well taken all the conceit out of him for the time. The impotency of his own wiU, even when he was bent on doing the right thing, his want of insight and foresight in whatever matter he took in hand, the unruliness of his tempers and passions just at the moments when it behoved him to have them most thoroughly in hand and under control, were a set of dis- agreeable facts which had been driven well home to him. The results, being even such as we have seen, he did not much repine at, for he felt he had deserved them ; and there was a sort of grim satisfaction, dreary as the prospect was, in facing them, and taking his punishment like a man. This was what he had felt at the first blush on the Hawk's Lynch ; and, as he thought over matters again by his fire, with his oak sported, on the first evening of term, he was still in the same mind. This was clearly what he had to do now. How to do it, was the only question. At first he was inclined to try to set himself right with the Porters and the Englebourn circle, by writing further ex- planations and confessions to Katie. But, on trying his hand at a letter, he found that he could not trust himself. The temptation of putting everything in the best point of ^^ew for himself was too great ; so he gave up the attempt, and SECOND YEAR. 391 merely wrote a few lines to David, to i-cmind liim that he was always ready and anxious to do all he could for his friend, Harry Winburn, and to beg that he might have news of any- thing which happened to him, and how he was getting on. He did not allude to wliat had lately happened, for he did not know whether the facts had become known, and v/as in no nurry to open the subject himself. Having finished his letter, he turned again to his medita- tions over the fii-e, and, considering that he had some little right to reward resolution, took off the safety valve, and allowed the thoughts to bubble up freely which were always underlying all others that passed through his brain, and making constant low, delicious, but just now somewhat melan- choly music, in his head and heart. He gave himself up to thinking of Mary, and their walk in the wood, and the sprained ankle, and all the sayings and doings of that eventful autumn day. And then he o])ened his desk, and examined cei'tain treasures therein concealed, including a withered rose- bud, a sprig of heather, a cut boot-lace, and a scrap or two of ^vTiting. Having gone through some extravagant forms of worship, not necessary to be specifi.ed, he put them away. Would it ever all come right ? He made his solitary tea, and sat down again to consider the point. But the point would not be considered alone. Hg began to feel more strongly what he had had several hints of already, that there was a curiously close connexion between his own love story and that of Harry Winburn and Patty — that he couldn't separate them, even in his thoughts. Old Simon's tumble, which had recalled his daughter from Oxford at so critical a moment for him ; Mary's visit 1o Englebourn at this very time ; the curious yet natural series of little accidents which had kept him in ignorance of Patty's identity until the final catastrophe — then, again, the way in which Harry Winburn and his mother had come across him on the very day of his lea^ing Barton ; the fellowship of a common mourning which had seemed to bind them together so closely ; and this last discovery, which he could not help fearing must turn Harry into a bitter enemy, when he heard the truth, as ho must, sooner or later — as all these things passed before him, he gave in to a sort of superstitious feeling that his own fate hung, in some way or another, upon that of Harry Winburn. If he helped on his suit, he was helping on his own; but whether he helped on his own or not, was, after all, not that which was uppermost in his thoughts. He was much changed in this respect since he last sat in those rooms, just after his first daj's with her. Since then an angel had met him, and 392 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. had "touclied tlie chord of self, whicli, trembling/' ^ytls passmg " in music out of sight." The thought of Harry and his trials enabled him to indulge in some good honest indignation, for 'which there "was no room in his own case. That the prospects in life of such a man should be in the power, to a great extent, of such people as Squire Y»^urley and farmer Tester ; that, because he hap- pened to be poor, he should be turned out of the cottage where his family had lived for a hundred years, at a week's notice, through the caprice of a drunken gambler ; that, because he had stood up for his rights, and had thereby offended the worijt farmer in the parish, he should be a marked man, and unable to get work — these things appeared so monstrous to Tom, and made him so angry, that he was obliged to get up and stamp about the room. And from the particular case he very soon got to generalizations. Questions which had before now puzzled him gained a new significance every minute, and became real to him. Why a few men should be rich, and all the rest poor ; above all, why he should be one of the few 1 Why the mere possession of property should give a man power over all his neighbours 1 Why poor men who were ready and willing to work should only be allowed to work as a sort of favour, and should after all get the merest tithe of what their labour produced, and be tossed aside as soon as their work was done, or no longer required 1 These, and other such problems, rose up before him, crude and sharp, asking to be solved. Feeling himself quite unable to giv^. any but one answer to them — viz. that he was getting out of his depth, and that the whole business was in a muddle — he had recourse to his old method when in difficulties, and putting on his cap, started off to Hardy's rooms to talk the matter over, and see whether he could not gv>l some light on it from that quarter. He returned in an hour or so, somewhat less troubled in his mind, inasmuch as he had found his friend in pretty much the same state of mind on such topics as himself. But one step he had gained. Under his arm he carried certain books from Hardy's scanty library, the perusal of which he hoped, at least, might enable him sooner or later to feel that he had got on to some sort of firm ground. At any rate, Hardy had advised him to read them ; so, without more ado, he drew his chair to the table and began to look into them. This glimpse of the manner in which Tom spent the first evening of his second year at Oxford, will enable intelligent readers to understand why, though he took to reading fa? more kindlv and earnestly than he had ever done before, he SECOND YEAH. 393 mude no great advance in the proper studies of the placa Xos that he wholly neglected these, for Hardy kept him pretty well up to the collar, and he passed his little-go credit- ably, and was fairly placed at the college examinations. In some of the books which he had to get up for lectures he was reaUy interested. The politics of Athens, the struggle between the Koman plebs and patricians, Mons Sacer and the Agrarian Laws— these began to have a new meaning to him, but chiefly because they bore more or less on the great Harry Winburn problem ; which problem, indeed, for him had now fairly swelled into the condition-of-England problem, and was becoming every day more and more urgent and importunate, shaking many old beliefs, and leading him whither he knew not. This very matter of leading was a sore trial to him. The further he got on his new road the more he felt the want of guidance — the guidance of some man ; for that of books he soon found to be bewildering. His college tutor, whom he consulted, only deprecated the waste of time ; but on finding it impossible to dissuade him, at last recommended the economic works of that day as the proper well-springs of truth on such matters. To them Tom accordingly went, and read -with the docility and faith of youth, bent on learning, and feeling itself in the presence of men who had, or assumed, the right of speaking with authority. And they spoke to him with authority, and he read on, believing much and hoping more ; but somehow they did not really satisfy him, though they silenced him for the time. It was not the fault of the books, most of which laid down clearly enough, that what they professed to teach was the science of man's material interests, and the laws of the making and employment of capital But this escaped him in his eagerness, and he wandered up and down their pages in search of quite another science, and of laws with which they did not meddle. Nevertheless, here and there they seemed to toucn upon what he was in search of. He was much fascinated, for instance, by the doctrine of "the greatest happiness of the greatest number," and for its sake swallowed for a time, though not without wry faces, the dogmas, that self-interest is the true pivot of all social action, that population has a perpetual tendency to outstrip the means of living, and that to establish a preventive check on population is the duty of all good citizens. And so he lived on for some time in a dreary uncomfortable state, fearing for the future of his country, and with little hope about his own. But, when he came to take stock of his newly-acquired knowledge, to weigh 394 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. it and measure it, and found it to consist of a sort of hazy conviction that society would be all right and ready for the millennium, when every man could do what he liked, and nobody could interfere with him, and there should be a law against marriage, the result was more than he could stand. He roused himself, and shook himself, and began to think, *'Well, these my present teachers are very clever men, and well-meaning men, too. I see all that ; but, if their teaching is only to land me here, why it was scarcely worth while going through so much to get so little." Casting about still for guidance. Grey occurred to him. Grey was in residence as a bachelor, attending divinity lectures, and preparing for ordination. He was still working hard at the night-school, and Tom had been there once or twice to help him when the curate was away. In short, he was in very good books with Grey, who had got the better of his sh}Tiess vdih him. He saw that Tom was changed and sobered, and in his heart hoped some day to wean him from the pursuits of the body, to which he was still fearfully ad- dicted, and to bring him into the fold. This hope was not altogether unfounded ; for, notwithstanding the strong bias against them which Tom had brought with him from school, he was now at times much attracted by many of the High Church doctrines, and the men who professed them. Such men as Grey he saw did really believe something, and were iiv earnest about carrying their beliefs into action. The party might and did comprise many others of the weakest sort, wlio beheved and were in earnest about nothing, but who liked to be peculiar. I'^evertheless, while he saw it laying hold of many of the best men of his time, it is not to be wondered at that he was drawn towards it. Some help might lie in these men if he could only get at it ! So he propounded his doubts and studies, and their results, to Grey. But it was a failure. Grey felt no difficulty, or very little, in the whole matter ; but Tom found that it v/as because he believed the world to belong to the devil. ^'Laissez /aire," " buying cheap and selling dear," Grey held might be good enough laws for the world — very probably were. The laws of the Church were " self-sacrifice," and " bearing one another's burthens ; " her children should come out from the regions where the world's laws were acknowledged. Tom listened, was dazzled at first, and thought he was g(!tting on the right track. But very soon he found that Grey's specific was not of the least use to him. It was no good to tell him of the rules of a society to which he felt that he n ^ither belonged, nor wished to belong, for clearly it could SECOND YEAE. S95 not be the Church of I^ngland. He was an outsider ! Grey would probably admit it to be so, if he asked him ! He had no longing to be anything else, if the Church meant an ex- clusive body, which took no care of any but its own people^ and had nothing to say to the great world in which he and most people had to live, and buying and selling, and hiring and woi'king, had to go on. The close corporation might have very good laws, but they were nothing to him. What he wanted to know about was the law which this great world — the devil's world, as Grey called it — was ruled by, or rather ought to be ruled by. Perhaps, after all, Bentham and the others, whose books he had been reading, might be right ! At any rate, it was clear that they had in their thoughts the same world that he had — the world which included himself and Harry Winburn, and all labourers, and squires, and farmers. So he turned to them again, not hopefully, but more inclined to listen to them than he had been before he had spoken to Grey. Hardy was so fully occupied with college lectures and private pupils, that Tom had scruples about taking up much of his spare time in the evenings. Nevertheless, as Grey had broken down, and there was nobody else on whose judgment he could rely who would listen to him, whenever he had a chance he wouid propound some of his puzzles to his old friend. In some respects he got little help, for Hardy was almost as much at sea as he himself on such subjects as "value," and "wages," and the " laws of supply and demand." But there was an indomitable belief in him that all men's intercourse with one another, and not merely that of Church- men, must be founded on the principle of "doing as they would be done by," and not on " buying cheap and selling dear," and that these never would or could be reconciled witli one another, or mean the same thing, twist them how you would. This faith of his friend's comforted Tom greatly, and he was never tired of bringing it out ; but at times he had his doubts whether Grey might not be right — whether, after all, that and the like maxims and principles were meant to be the laws of the kingdoms of this world. He wanted some corroborative evidence on the subject from an impartial and competent witness, and at last hit upon what he wanted. For, one evening, on entering Hardy's rooms, he fomid him on the last pages of a book, which he shut with an air of triumph on recognising his visitor. Taking it up, ho trhrust it into Tom's hands, and slapping him on the shoulder, said, " There, my boy, that's what we want, or pretty near it at any rate. Now, don't say a w^ord, but go back to your rooms, 396 TOM BiiOWN AT OXFORD. and swallow it whole and digest it, and then come back and tell m© what you think of it. " But I want to talk to you," " I can't talk. I have spent the better part of two days over that book, and have no end of papers to look over. There ; get back to your rooms, and do what I tell you, or sit down here and hold your tongue." So Tom sat down and held his tongue, and was soon deep in Carlyle's "Past and Present." How he did revel in it — • in the humour, the power, the pathos, but, above all, in the root and branch denunciations of many of the doctrines in which he had been so lately voluntarily and wearily chaining himself ! The chains went snapping off one after another, and, in his exultation, he kept spouting out passage after passage in a song of triumph, " Enlightened egoism never so luminous is not the rule by which man's life can be led — laissez-faire, supply and demand, cash payment for the sole nexus, and so forth, were not, are not, and never will be, a practical law of union for a society of men," &c. &c., until Hardy fairly got up and turned him out, and he retired with his new-found treasure to his own rooms. He had scarcely ever in his life been so moved by a book before. He laughed over it, and cried over it, and began half a dozen letters to the author to tliank him, which he fortunately tore up. He almost forgot IMary for several hours during his first enthusiasm. He had no notion how he had been mastered and oppressed before. He felt as the crew of a small fishing-smack, who are being towed away by an enemy's cruiser, might feel on seeing a frigate with the Union Jack flying, bearing down and opening fire on their captor ; or as a small boy at school, who is being fagged against rules by the right of the strongest, feels when he sees his big brother coming round the corner. The help wliich he had found was just what he wanted. There was no narrowing of the ground here — no appeal to men as members of any exclusive body whatever to separate themselves and come out of the devil's world ; but to men as men, to every man as a man — to the weakest and meanest, as well as to the strongest and most noble — telling them that the world is God's world, that every one of them has a work in it, and bidding them find their work and set about it. The strong tinge of sadness which ran tlirough the whole book, and its unsparing denunciations of the established order of things, suited his own unsettled and restless frame of mind. So he gave himself up to his new bondage, nnd rejoiced in it, as though he had found at last what ho was SECOND YEAR. 397 seeking for ; and, by the time that long vacation came roand again, to which we are compelled to hurry him, he was filled fuJi of a set of contradictory notions and beliefs, which were destined to astonish and perplex the mind of that worthy J. P. for the county of Berks, Brown the elder, whatever other effect they might have on society at large. Eeaders must not suppose, however, that our hero had given up his old pursuits ; on the contrary, he continued to boat, and cricket, and spar, with as much vigour as ever. His perplexities only made him a little more silent at his pastimes than he used to be. But, as we have already seen him thus employed, and know the ways of the animal in such matters, it is needless to repeat. What we want to do is to folloAV him into new fields of thought and action, and mark, if it may be, how he develops, and gets himself educated in one way and another ; and this plunge into the great sea of social, political, and economical questions is the noticeable fact (so far as any is noticeable) of his second year's residence. During the year he had only very meagre accounts of matters at Englebourn. Katie, indeed, had come round suliiciently to write to him; but she scarcely alluded to her cousin. He only knew that ^lary had come out in London, and was much admired ; and that the Porters had not taken Barton again, but wore going abroad for the autumn and winter. The accounts of Harry were bad ; he was still living at Daddy Collins's, nobody knew how, and working gang- work occasionally with the outlaws of the heath. The only fact of importance in the neighbourhood had been the death of Squire ^Ynrley, which happened suddenly in the spring. A distant cousin had succeeded him, a young man of Tom's own age. He was also in residence at Oxford, and Tom Impw \\\m. They were not very congenial ; sc he was much astonislied when young Yfurley, on his return to College, after liis rela- tive's funeral, rather sought him out, and seemed to wish to know more of him. The end of it was an invitation to Tom to come to the Grange, and spend a week or so at the beginning of the long vacation. There was to be a party of Oxford men, and nobody else there ; and they meant to enjoy themselves thoroughly, Wurley said. Tom felt much embarrassed how to act, and, after some hesitation, told his inviter of his last visit to the mansion in question, tliinking that a knowledge of the circumstances might change his mind. But he found that young Wurley knew the facts aheady ; and, in fact, he couldn't help sua- 398 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. pecting that liis quarrel with the late owner had sometldng to say to his present invitation. However, it did not lie in his mouili to be curious on the subject ; and so he accepted the invitation gladly, much delighted at the notion of begin- ning his vacation so near Englebourn, and having the run of the Grange fishing, which was justly celebrated. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE RIVER SIDE. So, from Henley, Tom went home just to see his father and mother, and pick up his fishing-gear, and then stai-ted for the Grange, On his road thither, he more than once almost made up his mind to go round by Englebourn, get his first interview with Katie over, and find out how the world was really going with Harry and his sweetheart, of whom he had had such meagre intelligence of late. But, for some reason Dr another, when it came to taking the turn to Englebourn, he passed it by, and, contenting himself for the time with a distant view of the village and the Hawk's Lynch, drove straight to the Grange. He had not expected to feel very comfortable at first in the house which he had left the previous autumn in so strange a manner, and he was not disappointed. The rooms reminded him unpleasantly of his passage of arms with the late master, and the grave and portly butler was somewhat embarrassed in his reception of him ; while the footman, who carried off his portmanteau, did it witli a grin which put him out. The set of men whom he found there were not of liis sort. They were young Londoners, and he a thorough countryman. But the sight of the stream, by which he took a hasty stroll before dinner, made up for everything, and filled him with pleasurable anticipations. He thought he had never seen a sweeter bit of water. The dinner to which the party of young gentlemen sat down was most undeniable. The host talked a little too much, perhaps, under all the circumstances, of my wine, my plate, my mutton, &c., provoking the thought of hov/ long they had been his. But he was bent on hospitality after his fashion, and his guests were not disposed to criticise much. The old butler did not condescend to wait, but brought in a magnum of claret after dinner, carefully nursing it as if it were a baby, and placing it patronizingly before his young THE RIVER SIDE. 399 master. Before they adjourned to the billiard-room they had disposed of several of the same ; but the followers were brought in by a footman, the butler being employed in dis- cussing a bottle of an older vintage with the steward in the still-room. Then came pool, pool, pool, soda-water and brandy, and cigars, into the short hours ; but Tom stole away early, having an eye to his morning's fishing, and not feeling much at home with his companions. He was out soon after sunrise the next morning. He never wanted to be called when there was a trout-stream within reach ; and his fishing instinct told him that, in thes-3 sultry dog-days, there would be little chance of sport when the sun was well up. So he let himself gently out of the hall door — paused a moment on the steps to fill his chest with the fresh morning air, as he glanced at the weathercock over the stables — and then set to work to put his tackle together on the lawn, humming a tune to himself as he selected an insinuating red hackle and alder-fly from his well-worn book, and tied them on to his cast. Then he slung his creel over his shoulder, picked up his rod, and started for the water. As he passed the gates of the stable-yard, the keeper came out — a sturdy bullet-headed fellow, in a velveteen coat, and cord breeches and gaiters — and touched his hat. Tom re- turned the salute, and wished him good morning. " Mornin', sir ; you be about early." " Yes ; I reckon it's the best time for sport at the end of June." " 'Tis so, sir. Shall I fetch a net, and come along ! " " l!^o, thank you, I'll manage the ladle myself. But which do you call the best water 1 " " They be both middling good. There ain't much odds atwixt 'em. But I sees most fish movin' o' mornins in the deep water down below." " I don't know ; the night was too hot," said Tom, who had examined the water the day before, and made up his mind where he was going, " I'm for deep water on cold days ; I shall begin with the stickles up above. There's a good head of water on, I suppose ? " " Plenty down this last week, sir 1 " " Come along, then : we'll walk together, if you're going that way." So Tom stepped off", brushing through the steam- ing long grass, gemmed with v/ild flowers, followed by the keeper ; and, as the grasshoppers bounded chirruping out of his way, and the insect life hummed and m.urmured, and the lark ros8 and sang above his head, he felt happier than he 400 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. had done for many a long month. So his heart opcnod towards his companion, who kept a httle behind him. " What size do you take 'em out, keeper ? " *' Anything over nine inches, sir. But there's a smartish few fish of three pounds, for them as can catch 'em." *' Well, that's good ; but they ain't easy caught, eh? " " I don't rightly know, sir ; but there's gents comes as stands close by the water, and flogs down stream with the sun in their backs, and uses all manner o' vlies, wi' long names ; and then thay gwoes away, and says, 'tain't no use flying here, 'cos there's so much cadis bait and that like." " Ah, very likely," said Tom. with a chuckle. '* The chaps as catches the big fishes, sir," went on the Keeper, getting confidential, "is thay cussed night-line poachers. There's one o' thay as has come here this last spring-tide — the artfuUest chap as ever I come across, and down to every move on the board. He don't use no shove- nets, nor such-like tackle, not he ; I s'pose he don't call that sport. Besides, I got master to stake the whole water, and set old knives and razors about in the holes, so that don't answer ; and this joker all'us goes alone — which, in course, he couldn't do with nets. JSTow, I knows within five or six yards where that chap sets his lines, and I finds 'em, now and again, set the artfullest you ever see. But 'twould take a man's life to look arter him, and I knows he gets, maybe, a dozen big fish a week, do all as I knows." " How is it you can't catch him, keeper ? " said Tom, much amused. " Why, you see, sir, he don't come at any hours. Drat un ! " said the keeper, getting hot ; " blessed if I don't think he sometimes comes down among the haymakers and folk at noon, and up lines and off, while thay chaps does nothing but snigger at un — all I knows is, as I've watched till midnight, and then on again at duvm for'n, and no good come on it but once." " How was that ? " " Well, one mornin', sir, about last Lady-day, I comes quite quiet u]) stream about dawn. When I get's to farmer Giles's piece (that little rough bit, sir, as you sees t'other side the stream, two fields from our outside bounds), I sees un a stooping down and hauling in's line. '!N"ow's your time, Billy,' says I, and up the hedge I cuts, hotfoot, to get betwixt ho and our bounds. Wether he seen mo or not, I can't mind ; leastways, when I up's head t'other side the hedge;, vorrights where I seen him last, there was he a-trotting up s^^roam quite cool, a-pocketing a two-pounder. Then he seee THE EIVEli SIDE. 401 me, and a^ay we goes side by side for the bounds — he this side the hedge and I t'other ; he takin' the fences like qui old greyhound-bitch, Clara. We takes the last fence on to that fuzzy field as you sees there, sir (parson's glebe, and out of our liberty), neck and neck, and I turns short to the left, 'cos there wam't no fence now betwixt he and I. Well, I thought he'd a dodged on about the fuz. Not he ; he slouches his hat over's eyes, and stands quite cool by fust fuz bush — I minded then as we was out o' our beat. Plows'ever, my blood was up ; so I at's him then and there, no words lost, and fetches a crack at's head wi' my stick. He fends wi' his'n ; and then, as I rushes in to collar'n, dash'd if 'e didn't meet I full, and catch I by the thigh and collar, and send I slap over's head into a fuz bush. Then he chuckles fit to bust hisself, and cuts his stick, while I creeps out full o' prickles, and wi' my breeches tore shameful. Dang un ! " cried the keeper, while Tom roared, "he's a lissum wosbird, that I 'ool say, but Til be up sides wi' he next time I sees un. Whorson fool as I was, not to stop and look at 'n and speak to un ! Then I should ha' know'd'n again ; and now he med be our parish clerk for all as I knows." " And you've never met him since ? " "Never sot eye on un, sir, arly or late — wishes I had. ' " Well, keeper, here's half-a-crown to go towards mending the hole in your breeches, and better luck at the return match. T shall begin fishing here." '' Thank'ee, sir. You keep your cast pretty nigh that there ofi* bank, and you med have a rare good un ther'. I seen a fish suck there just now as warn't spawned this year, nor last nether." And away w^ent the communicative keeper. " Stanch fellow, the keeper," said Tom to himself, as ha reeled out yard after yard of his tapered line, and with a gentle sweep dropped his collar of flies lightly on the water, each cast covering another five feet of the dimpling surface. *' Good fellow, the keeper — don't mind telling a story against himself — can stand being laughed at — more than his master can. Ah, there's the fish he saw sucking, I'll be bound. Now, you beauties, over his nose, and fall light — don't dis- grace your bringing up ! " and away went the flies quivering through the air and lighting close to the opposite bank, under a bunch of rushes. A slight round eddy followed below the rushes, as the cast came gently back across the current. "All, you see them, do you, old boy?" thought Tom. Say your prayers, then, and get shrived ! " and away went D D 402 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. the flies again, this time a little below. No movement. The third throw, a great lunge and splash, and the next moment the lithe rod bent double, and the gut collar spun along, cutting through the water like mad. Up goes the great fish twice into the air, Tom giving him the point ; then ujj stream again, Tom giving him the butt, and beginning to reel up gently. Down goes the great fish into the swaying weeds, working with his tail like a twelve-horse screw. " If I can only get my nose to ground," thinks he. So thinks Tom, and trusts to his tackle, keeping a steady strain on trouty, and creeping gently down stream " No go," says the fish, as he feels his nose steadily hauh^d round, and turns with a swirl down stream. Away goes Tom, reeling in, and away goes the fish in hopes of a slack — away, for twenty or thirty yards — the fish coming to the top lazily, now and again, arid holding on to get his second wind. Now a cart track crossed the stream, no weeds, and shallow water at the side. " Here we must have it out," thinks Tom, and turns fish's nose up stream again. The big fish gets sulky, twice drifts towards the shallow, and t^Wce plunges away at the sight of his enemy into the deep water. The third time he comes sway- ing in, his yellow side gleaming and his mouth open ; and, the next moment, Tom scoops him out on to the grass, with a '* whoop " that might have been heard at the house. " Two-pounder, if he's an ounce," says Tom, as he gives him the coup de grace, and lays him out lovingly on the fresh green sward. "\^^lO amongst you, dear readers, can appreciate the intense delight of grassing your first big fish after a nine month's fast ] All first sensations have their special pleasure ; but none can be named, in a small way, to beat this of the first fish of the season. The first clean leg-hit for four in your first match at Lord's — the grating of the bows of your racing-boat against the stern of the boat ahead in your fii'st race — the first half-mile of a burst from the cover side in November, when the hounds in the field a-head may be covered with a ta])le-cloth, and no one bat the huntsman and a top sa'^^er or two lies between you and them — the first brief after your call to the bar, if it comes within the year — the sensations produced by these are the same in kind ; but cricket, boating, getting briefs, even hunting lose their edge as time goes on. As to lady readers, it is impossible, pro- bably, to give them an idea of the sensation in question. Perhaps some may have experienced something of the kind at their first balls, when they heard whispers and saw all eyes turning their way, and knew that their dresses and glovea THE RIVEE SIDE. 403 fitted perfectly. But this joy can be felt but once in a life, and the first fish comes back as fresh as ever, or ought to come, if all men had their rights, once in a season. So, good luck to the gentle craft, and its professors, and may the Fates send us much into their company ! The trout-fisher, like the landscape-painter, haunts the loveliest places of the earth, and haunts them alone. Solitude, nature, and his own thoughts — he must be on the best terms with all of these , and he who can take kindly the largest allowance of these is likely to be the kindliest and truest with his fellow- men. Tom had splendid sport thit summer morning. As the great sun rose higher, the light morning breeze, which had curled the water, died away ; the light mist drew up into light cloud, and the light cloud vanished, into cloudland, for anything I know ; and stiD the fish rose, strange to say, though Tom felt it was an aflaii of minutes, and acted accord- ingly. At eight o'clock, he was about a quarter of a mile from the house, at a point in the stream of rare charms both for the angler and the lover of gentle river beauty. The main stream was crossed by a lock, formed of a solid brick bridge with no parapets, under which the water ruslied through four small arches, each of which could be closed in an instant by letting down a heavy wooden lock gate, fitted in grooves on the upper side of the bridge. Sucli locks are frequent in the west-country streams — even at long distances from mills and millers, for whose behoof they were made in old days, that the supply of water to the mill might be easily regulated. All pious anglers should bless the memories of the old builders of them, for they are the very paradises of the great trout, who frequent the old brickwork and timber foundations. The water in its rush through the arches, had of course worked for itself a deep hole, and then, some twenty yard.s below, spread itself out in wanton joyous ripples and eddies over a broad surface some fifty yaids across, and dashed away towards a little island some two hundred yards below, or rolled itself slowly back towards the bridge again, up the backwater by the side of the banlv, as if longing for another merry rush through one of those narrow arches. The island below was crowned with splendid alders, 'Willows forty feet high, which wept into the water, and two or three poplars ; a rich mile of water meadow, with an occasional willow or alder, lay gleaming beyond ; and the view was bounded by a glorious wood, -which crowned the gentle slope, at the foot of which the river ran. Another considerable body of water, which had been carried off above from the niaio stream tc D D 2 404 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. flush t-lie water meadows, rejoined its parent at this point j it came slowly down a broad artificial ditch running paralle^ with the main stream ; and the narrow strip of land which divided the two streams ended abruptly just below the lock, forming a splendid point for bather or angler. Tom had fixed on this pool as his honne louche^ as a child keeps its plums till the last, and stole over the bridge, stooping low to gain the point above indicated. Having gained it, he glanceJ round to be aware of the dwarf ash-trees and willows whicl) were scattered along the strip and miglit catch heedless collars and spoil sport, when, lying lazily almost on the sur- face where the backwater met the stream from the meadows, he beheld the great grandfather of all tn>ut — a fellow two feet long and a foot in girth at the shoulders, just moving fin enough to keep him from turning over on to his back. He threw himself flat on the ground and crept away to the other side of the strip ; the king-fish had not seen him ; and the next moment Tom saw him suck in a bee, laden with his mornings load of honey, who touched the water unwarily close to his nose. With a trembling hand, Tom took off his tail fly, and, on his knees, substituted a governor ; then, shortening his line after wetting his mimic bee in the pool behind him, tossed it gently into the monster's very jaws. For a moment the fish seemed scared, but, the next, conscious in his strength, lifted his nose slowly to the surface and sucked in the bait. Tom struck gently, and then sprang to his feet. But the Heavens had other work for the king-iish, who dived swiftly under the bank ; a slight jar followed, and Tom's rod was straight over his head, the line and scarce a yard of his trusty gut collar dangling about his face. He seized tliisv remnant with horror and unsatisfied longing, and examined it with care. Could he have overlooked any fraying which the gu^ might have got in the morning's work ? No ; he had gone over every inch of it not five minutes before, as he neared the pool. Besides, it was cut clean tlirough, not a trace of bruise or fray about it. How could it have happened ? He v'ent to the spot and looked into the water ; it was slightly discoloured, and he coidd not see the bottom. He threw his fishing coat otf, rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and, lying on his side, felt about the bank and ti-ied to reach the bottom, but coiddn't. So, hearing the half-hour bell I'ing, he deferred further inquiry, and stripped in silent disgust foi a plunge in the pool. Three times he hurled himself into the delicious rush of the cold chalk stream, with that uttei abandon in which man, whose bones are brittle, can only THE KIVEK SIDE. 4 OS Indulge when there are six or seven feet of water between him and mother earth ; and, letting the stream bear him away at its own sweet will to the shallows below, struck up again through the rush and the roar to his plunging place. Then, slowly and luxuriously dressing, he lit his short pipe — companion of meditation — and began to ruminate on the escape of the king-lish. What could have cut his collar? The more he thought the less he could make it out. AVlien suddenly he was aware of the keeper on his way back to tho house for orders and breakfast. '' What sport, sir 1 " " Pretty fair," said Tom, carelessly, lugging five plump speckled fellows, weighing some seven and a half pounds, out of his creel, and laying them out for the keeper's inspec- tion. " Well, they be in prime order, sir, surely," says tho keeper, handling them ; *' they alius gets mortal thick across the snoulders while the May-fly be on. Lose any sir?" "I put in some little ones up above, and lost one screamer just up the back ditch there. He must have been a four- pounder, and went off, and be hanged to him, with two yards of my collar and a couple of lirst-rate flies. How on earth he got off I can't tell ! " and he went on to unfold the particulars of the short struggle. The keeper could hardly keep down a grin. " Ah, sir," said he, " I thinks I knows what spwiled your sport. You owes it all to that chap as I was a-telling you of, or my name's not Willimi Goddard ; " and then, fishing the lock- pole with a hook at the end of it out of the rushes, he began groping under the bank, and presently hauled up a sort of Uifernal machine, consisting of a heavy lump of wood, a yard or so long, in which were carefully inserted the blades of four or five old knives and razors, while a crop of rusty jagged nails filled up the spare space. Tom looked at it in wonder. " What devil's work have you got hold of there 1 " he said at last. " Bless you, sir," said the keeper, " 'tis only our shove-net traps as I were a-telling you of. I keeps hard upon a dozen on 'em, and shifts 'em about in the likeliest holes ; and I takes care to let the men as is about the water meadows see mo a sharpening on 'em up a bit, wi' a fiJe, now and again. And, since master gov me orders to put 'em in, I don't think they tries that game on not once a month." " Well, but where do you and your master expect to go to if you set such things as those about ? " said Tom, looking 406 TOM BUOWN AT OXFORD. serious. " Wliy, you'll be cutting some fellow's hand or foot half off one of these days. Suppose I'd waded up the bank to see what had become of my cast 1 " " Lor', sir, I never thought o' that," said the keeper, look- ing sheepish, and Ufting the back of his short hat off his head to make room for a scratch ; " but," added he, turning the subject, " if you wants to keep thay artful wosbii'ds off the water, you must frighten 'em wi' summat out o' the way. Diattle 'em, I knows they puts me to my wit's-end ; but you'd never 'a had five such fish as them afore breakfast, sir, if we didn't stake the waters." " Well, and I don't want 'em, if I can't get 'em without. I'll tell you Avhat it is, keeper, this razor business is going a bit too far ; men ain't to be maimed for liking a bit of sport. You set spring-guns in the woods, and you know what that came to. Why don't you, or one of your watchers, stop out here at night, and catch the fellows, like men 1 " " Why, you see, sir, master don't allow me but one watcher, and he's mortal feared o' the water, he be, specially o' nights. He'd sooner by half stop up in the woods. Daddy Collins (that's an old woman as lives on the heath, sir. and a bad sort she be, too) well, she told he once, when he wouldn't gee her some bacchy as he'd got, and she'd a mind to, as he'd fall twice into the water for once as he'd get out ; and tli' poor chap ever since can't think but what he'll be drownded. And there's queer sights and sounds by the river o' nights, too, I 'ool say, sir, let alone the white mist, as makes everything look unket, and gives a chap the rheumatics." "Well, but you ain't afraid of ghosts and rheumatism?" "No, I don't know as I be, sir. But then, there's the pheasants a-breedin', and there's four brood of flappers in the withey bed, and a sight of young hares in the spinneys. I be hard put to to mind it all." " I daresay you are," said Tom, putting on his coat, and shouldering his rod ; " I've a good mind to take a turn at it myself, to help you, if you'U only drop those razors." " I washes you w^ould, sir," said the keeper, from behind ; " if genl'men 'd sometimes take a watch at nights, they'd find out as keepers hadn't all fair-weather work, I'U warrant, if they're to keep a good head o' game about a place. 'Taint all popping off guns, and lunching under hayricks, I can tell 'em — no, nor half on it." " Where do you think, now, this fellow we were talking of sells his fish 'i " said Tom, after a minute's thought. "Mostly at Heading IMarket, I hears tell, sir. There's the guard of the mail, as goes by the cross-roads three days THE NIGHT WATCH. 407 a week, lie wur a rare poacbiiig chaj) hisself down in tht. west afore lie got his place along of his bugle-playing They do say as he's open to any game, he is from a buck to a snipe, and drives a trade all down the road with the country chaps." " Yv^hat day is Eeading Market 1 " "Tuesdays and Saturdays, sir." " And what time does the mail go by ? " " Six o'clock in the morning, sir, at the cross-roads." " And they're three miles off, across the fields ? " "Thereabouts, sir. I reckons it about a forty minutes' stretch, and no time lost." "There'll be no more big fish caught on the fly to-day," said Tom, after a minute's silence, as they neared tlie house. The wind had fallen dead, and not a. spot of cloud in the sky. " Not afore nightfall, I think, sir ; " and the keeper dis- appeared towards the offices. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE NIGHT WATCH. " You may do as you please, but Fm going to see it out." " No, but I say, do come along ; that's a good fellow." " Not I ; why, we've only just come out. Didn't you hear ] Wurley dared me to do a night's watching, and I said I meant to do it." " Yes ; so did I. But we can change our minds. What's the good of ha\ang a mind if you can't change it ! at Sturepai TTtoc }D CRY. 439 horse. Confound this weed ! What rascals tobacconists are ! You never can get a cheroot now worth smoking. Every one of them goes spluttoring up the side, or charring up the middle, and tasting like tow soaked in saltpetre and tobacco juice. Well, I suppose I shall get the real thing in India. " India ! In a month from to-day we shall be off. To hear our senior major talk, one might as well be going to the bottomless pit at once. Well, he'll sell out, that's a comfort. Gives us a step, and gets rid of an old ruffian. I don't seem to care much what the place is like if we only get some work ; and there will be some work there before long, by all accounts. No more garrison-town life, at any rate. And if I have any luck — a man may get a chance there. " What the deuce can he be about 1 This all comes of sentiment, now. Why couldn't I go quietly off to India without bothering up to Oxford to see him 1 K'ot but what it's a pleasant place enough. I've enjoyed my three days there uncommonly. Food and drink all that can be wished, and plenty of good fellows and fun. The look of the place, too, makes one feel respectable. But, by George, if their divinity is at all like their politics, they must turn out a queer set of parsons — at least if Brown picked up his precious notions at Oxford. He always was a headstrong beggar. What was it he was holding forth about last night ? Let's see. *The sacred right of insurrection.' Yes, that was it, and he talked as if he believed it aU too ; and, if there should be a row, which don't seem unlikely, by Jove I think he'd act on it in the sort of temper he's in. How about the sacred right of getting hung or transported? I shouldn't wonder to hear of that some day. Gad ! suppose he should be in for an instalment of his sacred right to-night. He's capable of it, and of lugging me in with him. What did he say we were come here for? To get some fellow out of a scrape, he said — some sort of poaching radical foster-brother of his, who had been in gaol, and deserved it too, I'll be bound. And we couldn't go down quietly into the village and put up at the pubHc, where I might have sat in the tap, and not run the chaiice of having my skin blo^vn over my ears, and my teeth down my throat, on this cursed look-out place, because he's too well known there. What does that mean ? Upon my soul it looks bad. They may be lynching a J. P. down there, or making a spread eagle of the parish- constable at this minute, for anything I know, and as sure as fate if they are I shall get my foot in it. " It will read sweetly in the naval and military intelHgence — *A court-martial was held this day at Chatham, president, 440 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. Colonel Smith, of Her Majesty's 101st Eegiment, to trj Hen^y East, a lieutenant in the same distinguished corps, who has been under arrest since the 10th ult, for aiding and abetting the escape of a convict, and taking part in a riot in the village of Englebourn, in the county of Berks. The defence of the accused was that he had a sentimental friend- ship for a certain Thomas Brown, an undergraduate of St. Ambrose College, Oxford, &c. &c. ; and the sentence of the Court — ' " Hang it ! It's no laughing matter. Many a fellow has been broken for not making half such a fool of himself as I have done, coming out here on this errand. I'll tell T. B. a bit of my mind as sure as " HuUo ! didn't I hear a shout? Only the wind, I believe. How it does blow ! One of these firs will be down, I expect, just now. The storm will burst in a quarter of an hour. Here goes ! I shall ride down into the village, let w^hat will come of it. Steady now, steady. Stand still, you old fool ; can't you ? " There, now I'm all right. Solomon said something about a beggar on horseback. Was it Solomon, though ? Never mind. He couldn't ride. Never had a horse till lie was grown up. But he said some uncommon wise things about ] laving nothing to do with such friends as T, B. So, Harry East, if you please, no more tomfoolery after to-day. You've got a whole skin, and a lieutenant's commission to make your way in the world with, and are troubled mth no particular crotchets yourself that need ever get you into trouble. So just you keep clear of other people's. And if your friends must be mending the world, and poor man's plastering, and running their heads against stone avails, why, just you let go of their coat tails." So muttering and meditating, Harry East paused a moment after mounting, to turn up the collar of the rough shooting- coat which he was wearing, and button it up to the chin, before riding down the hiU, when, in the hurly-burly of the wind, a shout came spinning past his ears, plain enough tliis time ; he heard the gate at the end of Englebourn-lane down below him shut with a clang, and saw two men running at full speed towards him, straight up the hiU. " Oh ! here you are at last," he said, as he watched them. " Well, you don't lose your time now. Somebody must be after them. ^Vhat's he shouting and waving his hand for ? Oh, I'm to bring the cavalry supports doAvn the slope, I sup- pose. Well, here goes : he has brought off his pal the convict I HUE AND Cr.Y. 441 Says he, youVe 'scaped from transportation Ail upou the briny main ; So never give way to no temptation. And don't get dnink nor prig again ! There goes the gate again. By Jove, what's that ? Dragoons, as I'm a sinner ! There's going to be the d st bear- fight." Saying which, Harry East dug his heels into his horse's sides, holding him wp sharply with the curb at the same time, and in another moment was at the bottom of the solitary mound on which he had been perched for the last hour, and on the brow of the line of hill out of which il rose so abruptly, just at the point for which the two runners were making. He had only time to glance at the pursuers, and saw that one or two rode straight on the track of the fugitives, while the rest skirted away along a parish road which led up the hill side by an easier ascent, Avhen Tom and his companion were by his side. Tom seized the bridle of the led horse, and was in the saddle with one spring. " Jump up behind," he shouted ; " now then, come along." " Who are they ? " roared East — in that wind nothing but a shout could be heard — pointing over his shoulder with his thumb as they turned to the heath. " Yeomanry." " After you ? " Tom nodded, as they broke into a gallop, making straight across the heath towards the Oxford road. They were some quarter of a mile in advance before any of their pursuers showed over the brow of the hill behind them. It was already getting dusk, and the great bank of cloud was by this time aU but upon them, making the atmosphere denser and darker every second. Then, first one of the men appeared who had ridden straight up the hill under the Hawk's Lynch, and, pulling up for a moment, caught sight of them and gave chase. Half a minute later, and several of those who liad kept to the road were also in sight, some distance away on the left, but still near enough to be unpleasant ; and they too, after a moment's pause, were in full pursuit. At first the fugitives held their own, and the distance between them and their pursuers was not lessened, but it was clear that this could not last. Anything that horse-flesh is capable of, a real good Oxford hack, such as they rode, will do ; but to carry two full-grown men at the end of a pretty long day, away from fresh horses and moderate weights, is too much to expect even of Oxford horse-flesh ; and the gaUant beast which Tom 442 TOM BllOWi^ AT OXFORD. rode was beginning to skow signs of distress when they struck into tlie road. There was a slight dip in the ground at this place, and a little further on the heath rose suddenly again, and the road ran between high banks for a short distance. As they reached this point they disappeared for the moment from the yeomanry, and the force of the wind was broken by the banks, so that they could breathe more easily, and hear one another's voices. Tom looked anxiously round at the lieutenant, who shrugged his shoulders in answer to the look, as he bent forward tc ea,se his own horse, and said — " Can't last another mile," "What's to be done?" East again shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. " I know, Master Tom," said Harry Winburm "^Vliat?" " Pull up a bit, sir." Tom pulled up, and his horse fell into a walk willingly enough, while East passed on a few strides ahead. Harry Winburn sprang off. " You ride on, now, Master Tom," he said, " I knows the heath well ; you let me bide." " No, no, Harry, not I. I won't leave you now ; so let them come, and be hanged." East had pulled up, and listened to their talk. " Look here, now," he said to Harry ; " put your arm over the hind part of his saddle, and run by the side ; you'll find you can go as fast as the horse. Now, you two push on, and strike across the heath. I'll keep the road, and take off this joker behind, who is the only dangerous customer." " That's like you, old boy," said Tom, " then we'll meet at the first public beyond the heath ; " and they passed ahead in their turn, and turned on to the heath, Harry running by the side, as the lieutenant had advised. East looked after them, and then put his horse into a steady trot, muttering — " Like me ! yes, devilish like me ; I know that well enough. Didn't I always play cat's-paw to his monkey at school t but that convict don't seem such a bad lot, afte* all." ^leantime Tom and Harry struck away over the heaih, as the darkness closed in, and the storm drove down. They stumbled on over the charred furze roots, and splashed through the sloppy peat cuttings, casting anxious, hasty looks over their shoulders as they fled, straining every nerve to get oii, and longing for night and the storm. HUE AND CEY. 443 "Hark, wasn't tliat a pistol-shot?" said Tom, as they floun- dered on. The sound came from the road they had left. " Look ! here's some on 'em, then," said Harry ; and Tom was aware of two horsemen coming over the brow of the hill on their left, some three hundred yards to the rear. At the same instant his horse stumbled, and came down on his nose and knees. Tom went off over his shoulder, tumbling against Harry, and sending him headlong to the ground, but keeping hold of the bridle ; they were up again in a moment. "Are you hurt r' " No."" " Come along, then," and Tom was in the saddle again, when the pursuers raised a shout. They had caught sight of them now, and spurred down the slope towards them. Tom was turning his horse's head straight away, but Harry shouted, — " Keep to the left, Master Tom, to the left, right on." It seemed like running into the lion's jaws, but he yielded, and they pushed on down the slope on which they were. Another shout of triumph rose on the howling wind ; Tom's heart sank within him. The enemy was closing on them at every stride ; another hundred yards, and they must meet at the bottom of the slope. Wliat could Harry be dreaming of ? The thought had scarcely time to cross his brain, when down went the two yeomen, ho>»e and man, floundering in a bog above their horses' girths. At the same moment the storm burst on them, the driving mist and pelting rain. The chase was over. They could not have seen a regiment of men at fifty yards' distance. " You let me lead the horse, Master Tom," shouted Harry Winburn ; " I knowed where they was going ; 'twill take they the best part o' the night to get out o' that, I knows." " All right, let's get back to the road, then, as soon as we can," said Tom, surrendering his horse's head to Harry, and turning up his collar, to meet the pitiless deluge which was driving on their flanks. They were drenched to the skin in two minutes ; Tom jumped ofi", and plodded along on the opposite side of his horse to Harry. They did not speak ; there was very little to be said under the circumstances, and a great deal to be thought about. Harry Winburn probably knew the heath as well as any man living, but even he had much difficulty in finding his way back to the road through that storm. However, after some half-hour, spent in beating about, they reached it, and turned their faces northwards towards Oxford. By this time night had come on ; but the fury of the storm had passed 444 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. over them, and the moon began to show every now and then through the driving clouds. At last Tom roused himself out of the brown study in which he had been hitherto plodding along, and turned down his coat collar, and shook himself, and looked up at tlie sky, and across at his companion, who was still leading the horse along mechanically. It was too dark to see his face, but his walk and general look were listless and dogged ; at last Tom broke silence. "You promised not to do anything, after you came out, without speaking to me." Harry made no reply ; so presently he went on : — " I didn't think you'd have gone in for such a business as that to-night. I shouldn't have minded so much if it had only been machine-breaking ; but robbing the cellar and staving in ale casks and maiming cattle — " " I'd no hand in that," interrupted Harry. " I'm glad to hear it. You were certainly leaning against the gate when I came up, and taking no part in it ; but you were one of the leaders of the riot." '* He brought it on hisself," said Harry, doggedly. " Tester is a bad man, I know that ; and the people have much to complain of : but nothing can justify what was done to-night." Harry made no answer. "You're kno\vii, and they'll be after you the first thing in the morning. I don't know what's to be done." "'Tis very little odds what happens to me." " You've no right to say that, Harry. Your friends — " " I ain't got no friends." "Well, Harry, I don't think you ought to say that after what has happened to-night. I don't mean to say that my friendship has done you much good yet ; but I've done what I could, and " " So you hev'. Master Tom, so you hev'." " And I'll sticlv l>y you through thick and thin, Harry. But you must take heart and stick by yourself, or we shall never pull you through." Harry groaned, and then, turning at once to what was always uppermost in his mind ; said, — " 'Tis no good now I've been in gaol. Her father wur alius agin me. And now, how be I ever to hold up my head at ^vhoam ? I seen her once arter I came out." "Well, and what hapjDened?" said Tom, after waiting a moment or two. " She just turned red and pale, and was all flustered like, and made as though she'd have held out her hand : and then tuk and hurried off like a frighted hare, as though slie heerd somebody a coniin'. All ! 'tis no good ! 'tis no good 1 " HUE AND CRY. 445 " I don't see anything very hopeless in that," said Tom. " I've loiowed her since she wur that high," went on Harry, holding out his hand about as high as the bottom of his waistcoat, without noticing the interruption, " when her and 1 went a gleanin' together. 'Tis what I've thought on, and lived for. 'Tis four year and better since she and I broke a sixpence auver't. And at times it sim'd as tho' 'twould aU cum right, when my poor mother wur livin', — tho' her never tuk to it kindly, mother didn't. But 'tis all gone now ! and I be that mad wi' myself, and mammered, and down, I be ready to hang myself, Master Tom ; and if they just teks and « transpworts me " " Oh, nonsense, Harry ! You must-keep out of that. "V7e shall think of some way to get you out of that before morning. And you must get clear away, and go to work on the railways or somewhere. There's nothing to be downhearted about as far as Patty is concerned." " Ah ! 'tis they as wears it as knows where the shoe pinches. You'd say dilierent if 'twas you. Master Tom." "Should I ?" said Tom; and, after pausing a moment or two, he went on. " What I'm going to say is in confidence. I've never told it to any man yet, and only one has found it out. Now, Harry, I'm much worse off than you at this minute. Don't I know where the shoe pinches ! Why I haven't seen — I've scarcely heard of — of — well, of my sweetheart — there, you'll understand that — for this year and more. I don't know when I may see her again. I don't know that she hasn't clean forgotten me, I don't know that she ever cared a straw for me. Now, you know quite well that you are better off than that." " I bean't so sure o' that. Master Tom. But I be terrible vexed to hear about you." " Never mind about me. You say you're not sure, Harry. Come, now, you said, not two minutes ago, that you two had broken a sixpence over it. What does that mean, now V " Ah ! but 'tis four years gone. Her's bin a leadin' o' mo up and down, and a dancin' o' me round and round purty nigh ever since, let alone the time as she wur at Oxford, when " " Well, we won't talk of that, Harry. Come, Vvdll yesterday do for you ? If you thought she was all right yesterday, would that satisfy you?" " Ees ; and summat to spare." " You don't believe it, I see. Well, why do you think I came after you to-night 1 How did I know what was going on?" 446 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " That's just what I've been a axin' o' myself as we cum along." "Well, then, I'll teU you. I came because I got a note from her yesterday at Oxford," Tom paused, for he heard a muttered growl from the other side of the horse's head, and could see, even in the fitful moonlight, the angry toss of the head with which his news was received. "I didn't expect tliis, Harry," he went on presently, "after what I told you just now about myself. It was a hard matter to tell it at all ; but, after telling you, I didn't think you'd suspect me any more. However, perhaps I've deserved it. So, to go on with what I was saying, two years ago, when I came to my senses about her, and before I cared for any one else, I told her to ^vrite if ever I could do her a service. Anything that a man could do for his sister I was bound to do for her, and I told her so. She never answered till yesterday, when I got this note," and he dived into the inner breast pocket of his shooting-coat. "If it isn't soaked to pulp, it's in my pocket now. Yes, here it is," and he produced a dirty piece of paper, and handed it across to his companion. " When there's light enough to read it, you'll see plain enough what she means, though your name is not mentioned." Having finished his statement, Tom retired into himself, and walked along watching the hurrjdng clouds. After they had gone some hundred yards, Harry cleared his throat once or twice, and at last brought out, — " Master Tom." " Well" " You bean't offended wi' me, sir, I hopes?" " No, why should I be offended ?" " 'Cause I knows I be so all-fired jealous, I can't abear to hear o' her talk in', let alone writin' to " " Out with it. To me, you were going to say." " Nay, 'tis mwore nor that." " All right, Harry, if you onlv lump me with the rest of mankind, I don't care. But you needn't be jealous of me, and you musn't be jealous of me, or I shan't be able to help you as I want to do. TU give you hand and word on it, as man to man, there's no thought in my heart towards her that you mightn't see this minute. Do you believe me?" " Ees, and you'll forgie " " There's nothing to forgive, Harry. But now you'll allow your case isn't such a bad one. She must keep a good look- out after you to know what you were likely to be about to-day. And if she didn't care for you she wouldn't have written to me. That's yood sense I think." THE lieutenant's SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS. 447 Harry assented, and then Tom went into a consideration of what was to be done, and, as usual, fair castles began to rise in the air. Harry was to start down the line at once, and take work on the railway. In a few weeks he would be captain of a gang, and tlien what was to hinder his becoming a con- tractor, and making his fortune, and buying a farm of his own at Englebourn 1 To all which Harry listened with open ears till they got off the heath, and came upon .a small hamlet of some half-dozen cottages scattered along the road. " There's a public here, I suppose," said Tom, returning to the damp realities of life. Harry indicated the humble place of entertainment for man and horse. " That's all right. I hope we shall find my friend here ;" and they went towards the light which was shining tempt- ingly through the latticed window of the road-side inn. CHAPTER XLI. THE lieutenant's SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS. " Stop ! It looks so bright that there must be something going on. Surely the yeomanry can never have come on here already?" Tom laid his hand on the bridle, and they halted on the road opposite the public-house, which lay a little back, with an open space of ground before it. The sign-post, and a long water-trough for the horses of guests to drink at, were pushed forward to the side of the road to intimate the whereabouts of the house, and the hack which Harry led was already drinking eagerly. " Stay here for a minute, and I'll go to the window, and see what's up inside. It's very unlucky, but it will never do for us to go in if there are any people there." Tom stole softly up to the window out of which the light came. A little scrap of a curtain was drawn across a portion of it, but he could see easily into the room on either side of the curtain. The first glance comforted him, for he saw at once that there was only one person in the kitchen ; but who and what he might be was a puzzle. The only thing which was clear at a first glance was, that he was making himself at home. The room was a moderate-sized kitchen, with a sanded floor, and a large fire-place ; a high wooden screen, with a narrow Beat in front of it, ran along the side on wliich the door from the entrance-passage o})ened. In the middle there was a long, 448 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. rough, walnut table, on whicii stood a large loaf, some cold bacon and cheese, and a yellow jug ; a few heavy rush- bottomed chairs and a settle composed the rest of the furni- ture. On the wall were a few samplers, a warming pan, and shelves with some common delf plates, and cups and saucers. But though the furniture was meagre enough, the kitchen had a look of wondrous comfort for a drenched mortal outside. Tom felt this keenly^ and, after a glance round, fixed his attention on the happy occupant, with the view of ascertain- ing whether he would be a safe person to intrude on under the circumstances. He was seated on a low, three-cornered oak seat, with his back to the window, steadying a furze faggot on the fire with the poker. The faggot blazed and crackled, and roared up the chimney, sending out the bright flickering light which had attracted them, and forming a glorious top to the glowing clear fire of wood embers beneath, into which was inserted a long, funnel-shaped tin, out of which the figure helped himself to some warm compound, when he had settled ihe faggot to his satisfaction. He was enveloped as to hia shoulders in a heavy, dirty-wliite coat, with huge cape and high collar, which hid the back of his head, such as was then in use by country carriers ; but the garment was much too short for him, and his bare arms came out a foot beyond the end of the sleeves. The rest of his costume was even more eccentric, being nothing more or less than a coarse flannel petticoat ; and his bare feet rested on the mat in front of the fire. Tom felt a sudden doubt as to his sanity, which doubt was apparently shared by the widow woman, who kept the hoase, and her maid-of-all-work, one or other of whom might be seen constantly keeping an eye on their guest from behind the end of the wooden screen. However, it was no time to be over particular ; they must rest before going further, and, after aU, it was only one man. So Tom thought, and was just on the point of calling Harry to come on, when the figure turned round towards the window, and the face of the heutenant dis- closed itself between the highpeaked gdls of the carrier's coat. Tom burst out into a loud laugh, and called out, " It's all right, come along." "I'll just look to the bosses. Master Tom." " Very well, and then come into the kitchen ;" saying which, he hurried into the house, and after tumbling against the maid-of-all-work in the passage, emerged from behind the screen. " Well, here we are at last, old fellow," he said, slapping E:i*»t on the shoulder. THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS. 449 " Oh, it's yon, is it ? I thought you were in the lock-up by this time." East's costume, as ho sat looking up, with a hand on eacli knee, was even more ridiculous on a close inspection, and Tom roared with laughter again. " I don't see the jol^ie," said East without moving a muscle. " You would, though, if you could see yoursel£ You won- derful old Guy, where did you pick up that toggery?" " The late lamented husband of the widow Higgs, our land- lady, was the owner of the coat. He also bequeathed to her several pairs of breeches, which I have vainly endeavoured to get into. The late lamented Higgs was an abominably small man. He must have been very much her worse half. So, in default of other clothing, the widow has kindly obliged me by the loan of one of her own garments." " Where are your own clothes 1 " ** There," said East, pointing to a clothes' horse, which Tom had not hitherto remarked, which stood well into the chimney corner ; " and they are dry, too," he went on, feeling them ; " at least the flannel shirt and trousers are, so I'll get into them again." " I say, ma'am," he called out, addressing the screen, " I'm going to change my things. So you had better not look in just now. In fact, we can call now, if we want anything." At tills strong hint the widow Higgs was heard bustling away behind the screen, and after her departure East got into some of his own clothes again, offering the cast-off garment?, of the Higgs family to Tom, who, however, declined, content ing himself with taking off his coat and waistcoat, and hanging* them upon the horse. He had been blown comparatively dry in the last half-hour of his walk. While East was making his toilet, Tom turned to the table, and made an assault on the bread and bacon, and then poured himself out a glass of beer and began to drink it, but was pulled up half way, and put it down with a face all drawn up into puckers by its sharpness. " 1 thought you wouldn't appreciate the widow's tap," said East, watching him with a grin. " Eegular whistle-beUy vengeance, and no mistake ! Here, I don't mind giving you some of my compound, though you don't deserve it." So Tom drew his chair to the fire, and smacked his lips over the long-necked glass, which East handed to him. " Ah ! that's not bad tipple after such a ducking as we've bad. -Dog's-nose, isn't it 1 " East nodded. "Well, old fdlow, I will say you are the best hand I kno^ 450 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. at making the most of jour opportunities. T don't know ct any one else who could have made such a good brew out of that stuff and a drop of gin." East was not to be mollified by any such compliment, " Have you got many more such jobs as to-day's on hand i I should think they must interfere with reading." " "No. But T call to-day's a real good job." " Do you ] I don't agree. Of course it's a matter of taste. I have the honour of holding Her Majesty's commission ; so I may be prejudiced, perhaps." " What difference does it make whose commission you hold? You wouldn't hold any commission, I know, which would bind you to be a tyrant and oppress the weak and the poor." " Humbug about your oppressing 1 "Who is the tyrant, I should like to know, the farmer, or the mob that destroys his property 1 I don't call Swing's mob the weak and the poor." " That's all very well ; but I should like to know how you'd feel if you had no work and a starving family. You don't know what people have to suffer. The only wonder is that all the country isn't in a blaze ; and it wiU be if things last as they are much longer. It must be a bad time which makes such men as Harry Winburn into rioters." " I don't know anything about Harry Winburn. But I know there's a good deal to be said on the yeomanry side of the question." " Well, now, East, just consider this " " No, I'm not in the humour for considering. I don't want to argue with you." " Yes, that's always the way. You won't hear what a felloAv's got to say, and then set him down for a mischievous fool, because he won't give up beliefs founded on the evidence of his own eyes, and ears, and reason." " I don't quarrel mth juiy of your beliefs. You've got *em — I haven't — that's just the difference between us. You've got some sort of faith to faU back upon, in equality, and brotherhood, and a lot of cursed nonsense of that kind. So, I dare say, you could drop do^vn into a navigator, or a shoe- black, or something in that way to-morrow, and think it pleasant. You might rather enjoy a trip across the water at the expense of your country, like your friend the convict here." "Don't talk such rot, man. In the first place, he isn't a convict — vou know that, well enough." " He is just ou'; of prison, at any rate. However, this sort of thing isn't my line of country at all. So the next time you want to do a bit of goal-delivery on your own hook, don't ask me to help you." TEE LIEUTENANT' S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS, 451 "\Ycll, if I had known all that was going to liappen, I wouldn't have ask you to come, old fellow. Come, give us another glass of your dog's-nose, and no more of your sermon, which isn't edifying." The lieutenant filled the long-necked glass which Tom held out, wit]i the creaming mixture, which he was nursing in the funnel-shaped tin. But he was not prepared to waive his right to lecture, and so continued, while Tom sipped his liquor with much relish, and looked comically across at his old schoolfellow. " Some fellows have a call to set the world right — I haven't. My gracious sovereign pays me seven and sixpence a day ; for which sum I undertake to be shot at on certain occasions and by proper persons, and I hope when the time comes I shall take it as well as another. But that doesn't include turning out to be potted at like a woodcock on your confounded Berkshu-e wilds by a turnip-headed yeoman. It isn t to be done at the figure." " What in the world do you mean V "I mean just what I say." "That one of those 'unspeakable yeomanry has been shooting at you 1 " " Just so." " ISTo, you don't really mean it ] Wh-e-e-w ! Then that shot we heard was fired at you. 'Pon my honour I'm very sorry." " Much good your sorrow would have done me if your precious countryman had held straight." " AVeU, what can I say more, East 1 If there's anything I can do to show you that I really am very sorry and ashamed at having brought you into such a scrape, only tell me what it is." " I don t suppose your word would go for much at the Horse Guards, or I'd ask you to give me a character for cool- ness under fi.re." " Come, I see you're jokmg now, old fellow. Do teU us how it happened." " WeU, when you tiirned off across the common I puUed up for half a minute, and then held on at a steady slow trot. If t liad pushed on ahead, my friends behind would have been just as likely to turn after you as after me. Presently I heard number One coming tearing along behind ; and as soon as he got from between the banks, he saw me, and came straight after me down the road. You were well away to the left, so now I just clapped on a bit, to lead him further away from the right scent, and on he came, whooping and hallooing to me to pull up. I didn't see why I hadn't just as good a right to ride along the road at my o^vn pace as he ; so the more he Q Q 2 452 TOM Br.o\vN at oxfoed. shouted, the more I didn't stop. But the beggar had the legs of me. He was mounted on something deuced like a thorough- bred, and gained on me hand over hand. At last when I judged ho must be about twenty yards behind, I thought I might as well have a look at him — so 1 just turned for a moment, and, by Jove, there was my lord, lugging a pistol out of his right holster. He shouted again to me to stop. I turned, ducked my head, and the next moment he pulled trigger, and missed me." "And what happened then," said Tom, drawing a long breath. " Why, I flatter myself I showed considerable generalship. If I had given him tiuie to get at his other pistol, or his toasting fork, it was all up. I dived into my pocket, where by good luck there was some loose powder, and copper caps, and a snufF-box ; upset the snuff, grabbed a handful of the mixture, and pulled hard at my horse. K'ext moment he was by my side, lifting his pistol to knock me over. So I gave him the mixture nght in his face, and let him go by. V] went both his hands, and away went he and his horse, some- where over the common out of sight. I just turned round, and walked quietly back. I didn't see the fun of accepting any more attacks in rear. Then up rides number Two, a broad-faced young farmer on a big grey horse, blowing like a grampus. He pulled up short when we met, and stared, and I walked past him. You never saw a fellow look more puzzled, I had regularly stale-mated him. However, he took heart, and shouted, 'Had I met the Captain?' I said, 'A gentleman had ridden by on a bright bay V ' That was he ; which way had he gone]' So I pointed generally over the common, and number Two departed ; and then down came the storm, and I turned again, and came on here." " The Captain ! It must have been Wurley, then, who fired at you." " I don't know who it was. I only hope he won't be blinded." " It's a strange business altogether," said Tom, looking into the fire ; " I scarcely know what to think of it We should never have pulled through but for you, that's certain." " 1 knoAv what to think of it well enough," said East. " But now let's hear what happened to you. They didn't catch you, of course ? " " No, but it was touch and go. I thought it was all up at one time, for Harry would turn right across their line. But he knew what he was about ; there was a bog between us, and they came on right into it, and we left them floundering.* THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS. 453 " The convict seems to have his head about him, theiL Where is he, by the way? I'm curious to have a look at him," " Looking after the horses. I'll call him in. He ought to have something to drink." Tom went to the door, and called Harry, who came out from the rough shed which served as a stable, in his "shirt, with a wisp of hay in his hand. He had stripped off coat, and waistcoat, and braces, and had been warming himself L-- giving the horses a good dressing, '* Why, Harry, you haven't had anything," said Tc >u ; " come across, and have a glass of something hot." Harry followed into the kitchen, and stood by the end of the screen, looking rather uncomfortable, while Tom poured him out a glass of the hot mixture, and the lieutenant looked him over with keen eyes. " There, take that off. How are the horses ? " " Pretty fresh, Master Tom. But they'd be the better of a bran mash, or somethin' cumfable, I've spoke to the missus about it, and 'tis ready to put on the fire." " That's right, tlien. Let them have it as quick as you can." " Then I med fetch it and warm it up here, sir 1 " said Harry. '* To be sure ; the sooner the better." Harry took off his glass, making a shy sort of duck with his head, accompanied by " Your health, sir," to each of his entertainers, and then disappeared into the back-kitchen, returned with the mash, which he put on the fire, and went off to the stable again. " What do you think of him 1 " said Tom. " I like to see a fellow let his braces down when he goes to work," said East. " It's not every fellow who would be strapping away at those horses, instead of making himself at home in the back- kitchen ." " 'No, it isn't," said East. " Don't you like his looks now 1 " " He's not a bad sort, your convict." " I say, I wish you wouldn't call him names." " Very good ; your unfortunate friend, then. What are you going to do with him ? " " That's just what I've been puzzling about all the way here : what do you think ? " And then they drew to the tire again, and began to talk over Harry's prospects. In some ten minutes he returned to the kitchen for the mash, and this time drew a complimentary remark from the lieutenant 454 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. Harry was passionately fond of animals, and especially of horses, and they found it out quickly enough, as they always do. The two hacks were by this time almost fresh again, with dry coats, and feet well washed and cleansed ; and, while working at them, Harry had been thinking over all he had heard that evening, and what with the work and what with his thoughts, found himself getting more hopeful every minute. No one who had seen his face an hour before on the heath would have believed it was the same man who was now patting and fondling the two hacks as they disposed of the mash he had prepared for them. He leant back against the manger, rubbing the ears of Tom's hack — the one which had carried double so well in their first flight — gently with his two hands, while the delighted beast bent down its head, and pressed it against him, and stretched its neck, expressing in all manner of silent ways its equine astonishment and satisfaction. By the light of tlie single dip Harry's face grew shorter and shorter, until at last a quiet humorous look began to creep back into it. As we have already taken the liberty of putting the thoughts of his betters into words, we must now do so for him ; and, if he had expressed his thoughts in his own vernacular as he rubbed the hack's ears in the stable, his speech would have been much as follows : — " How cums it as I be all changed like, as tho' sum un had tuk and rubbed all the downheartedness out o' me? — Here I be, two days out o' gaol, wi' nothin' in the world but the things I stands in — for in course I med just give up the bits o' things as is left at Daddy Collins's — and they all draggled wi' the wet — and I med be tuk in the mcrnin' and sent across the water — and yet I feels sum how as peert as a yukkel. So fur as 1 can see, 'tis jest nothin' but talkin' wi' our Master Tom. What a fine thing 'tis to be a schollard And yet seemin'ly 'tis nothin' but talk arter all's said and done. But 'tis alius the same ; whenever I gets talkin' wi' he, it all cums out as smooth as crame. Fust time as ever I seen him since we wur bwys he talked just as a do now ; and tlien my poor mother died. Then he cum in arter the funeral, and talked me up agen, till I thought as I wur to hev our cottage and all the land as I could do good by. But our cottage wur took away, and my 'lotment besides. Then cum last summer, and "twur just the same agen arter his talk, but I got dree months auver that job. And now here I be wi' un agen, a runnin' from the constable, and like to be tuk up and transpworted, and 'tis just the same — and I s'pose 'twill be just the same if ever I gets bn.ck, and sees un, and talks wi' THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS. 455 \m, if I be gwine to be hung. 'Tis a wunnerful thing to be a schollard, to be able to make things look all straight when they be ever so akkerd and unked." And then Harry left off rubbing the horse's ears ; and pulling the damp piece of paper which Tom had given him, out of his breftches' pocket, proceeded to flatten it out ten- derly on the palm of his hand, and read it by the light of the dip, when the landlady came to infoim him that the gentlefolk wanted him in the kitchen. So he folded his treasure up again, and went off to the kitchen. He found Tom standing with his back to the fire, while the lieutenant was sitting at the table, writing on a scrap of paper, wliich the landlady had produced after much hunting over of drawers. Tom began, with some little hesitation : — " Oh Harry, I've been talking your matters over with my friend here, and I've changed my mind. It won't do after all for you to stay about at railway work, or anything of that sort. You see you wouldn't be safe. They'd be sure to trace you, and you'd get into trouble about this day's work. And then, after all, it's a very poor opening for a young fellow like you. Now, why shouldn't you enlist into Mr. East's regiment? You'll be in his company, and it's a splendid profession. WHiat do you say now 1 " East looked up at poor Harry, who was quite taken aback at tliis change in his prospects, and could only mutter, that he had never turned his mind to " sodgerin." " It's just the thing for you," Tom went on. " You can write and keep accounts, and you'll get on famously. Ask Mr. East if you won't. And don't you fear about matters at home. You'll see that'll all come right. I'll pledge you my word it will and I'll take care that you shall hear every- thing that goes on there : and, depend upon it, it's your best chance. You'll be bar.k at Englebourn as a sergeant in no time, and be able to snap your fingers at them alL You'll come with us to Steventon station, and take the night train to London, and then in the morning go to Whitehall, and find Mr. East's sergeant. He'll give you a note to him, and they'U send you on to Chatham, where the regiment is. You think it's the best thing for him, don't you 1 " said Tom, turning to East. " Yes ; I think you'll do very well if you only keep steady. Here's a note to the sergeant, and I shall be back at Chatham in a day or two myself." Harry took the note mechanically ; he was quite unable yet to make any resistance. " And now get something to eat as quick as you can. 45 O TOM BKOWN AT OXFOED. for we ought to be off. The horses are all right, I 8UJ>* j)Ose r' " Yes, Master Tom," said Harry, with an appealing look. " Where are your coat and waistcoat, Harry ? " " They be in the stable, sir." " In the stable ! Why, they're all wet then still ? " " Oh, 'tis no odds about that, Master Tom." " No odds ! Get them in directly, and put them to dry here." So Harry Winburn went off to the stable to fetch his clothes. " He's a fine fellow," said East, getting up and coming to the fire ; " I've taken a fancy to him, but he doesn't fancy enlisting." " Poor fellow ! he has to leave his sweetheart. It's a sad business, but it's the best thing for him, and you'll see he'll go." Tom was right. Poor Harry came in and dried his clothes, and got his supper ; and while he was eating it, and all along the road afterwards, till they reached the station at about eleven o'clock, pleaded in his plain way with Tom against leaving his own country side. And East listened silently, and liked him better and better. Tom argued with him gently, and turned the matter round on all sides, putting the most hopeful face upon it ; and, in the end, talked first himself, and then Harry, into the belief that it was the very best thing that could have happened to him, and more likely than any other course of action to bring everything right between him and all folk at Englebourn. So Harry got into the train at Steventon in pretty good heart, with his fare paid, and half-a-sovereign in his pocket, more and more impressed in his mind with what a wonderful thing it was to be " a schoUard." The two friends rode back to Oxford at a good pace. They had both of them quite enough to think about, and were not in the humour for talk had place and time served, so that scarce a word passed between them till they had left their horses at the livery stables, and were walking through the Bilent streets, a few minutes before midnight. Then East broke sUence. " I can't make out how you do it. I'd give half-a-year'a pay to get the way of it." *• The way of what ? What are you talking about 1 " " Why, your way of shutting your eyes, and going m blind." " Well, that's a queer wish for a fighting man," said Tom, THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PEOBLEMS. 457 laughing. " We always thought a rusher no good at school, and that the tiling to learn was, to go in with your own eyes open, and shut up other people's." " Ah, but we hadn't cut our eye-teeth then. I look at these things from a professional point of view. My business is to get fellows to shut tlioir eyes tight, and I begin to think you can't do it as it sliould be done, withont shutting your own first." " I don't take." *'Why, look at the way you talked your convict — I beg your pardon — your unfortunate friend — into enlisting to- night. You talked as if you believed every word you were Saying to him." " So I did." " Well, I should like to have you for a recruiting sergeant, if you could only drop that radical bosli. If I had had to do it, instead of enlisting, he ^\ould have gone straight off and hung himself in the stable." " I'm glad you didn't try your hand at it then." " Look again at me. Do you tliink any one but such a — well, I don't want to say anything uncivil — a headlong dog like you could have got me into such a business as to day's 1 Now I want to be able to get other fellows to make just such fools of themselves as I've made of myseK to-day. How do you do it 1 " " I don't know, unless it is that I can't help always looking at the best side of things myself, and so — " " Most things haven't got a best side.'' " Well, at the pretty good side, then." " Nor a pretty good one." " If they haven't got a pretty good one, it don't matter how you look at them, I should think." " No, I don't believe it does — much. Still, I should like to be able to make a fool of myself, too, when I want — with the view of getting others to do ditto, of course." " I wish I could help you, old fellow ; but I don't see my way to it." " I shall talk to our regimental doctor about it, and get put through a course of fool's-diet before we start for India." " Flap-doodle, they call it, w^hat fools are fed on. But it's odd that you should have broken out in this place, when all the way home I've been doing nothing but envying you youi special talent." " ^^Oiat's that ? " "Just the opposite one — the art of falling on your feet I should like to exchange with you." 458 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " You'd make a precious bad bargain of it, then." *' There's twelve striking. I must knock in. Good night. You'll be round to breakfast at nine." ''All right. I believe in your breakfasts, rather," said East, as they shook hands at the gate of St. Ambrose, into which Tom disappeared, while the lieutenant strolled back to the Mitre. CHAPTER XLII. THIRD YEAR. East returned to his regiment in a few days, and at the end of the month the gallant 101st embarked for India. Tom wrote several letters to the lieutenant, inclosing notes to Harry, 'SNdth gleanings of news from Englebourn, where his escape on the night of the riot had been a nine-days' wonder ; and, now that he was fairly " 'listed," and out of the way, public opinion was beginning to turn in his favour. In due course a letter arrived from the lieutenant, dated Cape TowTi, giving a prosperous account of the voyage so far. East did not say much about " your convict," as he still insisted on calling Harry ; but the little he did say was very satisfactory, and Tom sent off this part of the letter to Katie, to whom he had confided the whole story, entreating her to make the best use of it in the interests of the young soldier. And, after this out-of-the-way beginning, he settled down into the usual routine of his Oxford life. The change in his opinions and objects of interest brought him now into more intimate relations with a set of whom he had as yet seen little. For want of a better name, we may call them " the party of progress." At their parties, instead of practical jokes, and boisterous mirth, and talk of boats, and bats, and guns, and horses, the highest and deepest questions of morals, and politics, and metaphysics, were dis- cussed, and discussed with a freshness and enthusiasm which is apt to wear off when doing has to take the place of talking, but has a strange charm of its own while it lasts, and is looked back to with loving regret by those for whom it is no longer a possibility. "With this set Tom soon fraternized, and drank in many new ideas, and took to himself also many new crotchets besides those with which he was already weighted. Almost all his new acquaintance were Liberal in politics, but a few only v.'cre read}' to go all lengths with him They were all THIRD YEAR. 459 Uuion men, and Tom, of course, followed the fashion, and soon propounded theories in that institution which gained him the name of Chartist Brown. There was a strong mixture of self-conceit in it all. He had a kind of idea that he had discovered something which it was creditahle to have discovered, and that it was a very fine thing to have all these feelings for, and sympathies with, " the masses," and to believe in democracy, and " glorious humanity," and " a good time coming," and I know not what other big matters. And, although it startled and pained him at first to hear himself called ugly names, which he had hated and despised from his youth up, and to know that many of his old acquaintance looked upon him, not simply as a madman, but as a madman with snobbish proclivities ; yet, when the first plunge was over, there was a good deal on the other hand which tickled his vanity, and was far from being unpleasant. To do him justice, however, the disagreeables were such that, had there not been some genuine belief at the bottom, he would certainly have been headed back very speedily into the fold of political and social orthodoxy. As it was, amidst the cloud of sophisms, and platitudes, and big one-sided ideas half-mastered, which filled his thoughts and overflowed in his tall?:, there was gro^\dng in him and taking firmer hold on him daily a true and broad sjonpathy for men as men, and especially for poor men as poor men, and a righteous and burning hatred against all laws, customs, or notions, which, according to his light, either were or seemed to be setting aside, or putting anything else in the place of, or above the man. It was with him the natui'al outgrowth of the child's and boy's training (though his father would have been much astonished to be told so), and the instincts of those early days v/ere now getting rapidly set into habits and faiths, and be- coming a part of himself In this stage of liis life, as in so many former ones, Tom got great help from his intercourse with Hardy, now the rising tutor of the college. Hardy was travelling much the same road himself as our hero, but was somewhat further on, and had come into it from a different country, and through quite other obstacles. Their early lives had been so different; and, both by nature and from long and severe self-restraint and discipline. Hardy was much the less impetuous and de- monstrative of the two. He did not rush out, therefore (as Tom was too much inclined to do), the moment he had seized hold of the end of a new idea which he felt to be good foi him and what he wanted, and brandish it in the face of aU 460 TOM BKOWi^' AT OXFORD. comers, and think himself a traitor to the truth if he wasn't trying to make everybody he met with eat it. Hardy, on the contrary, would test his new idea, and turn it over, and prove it as far as he could, and try to get hold of the whole of it, and ruthlessly strip oif any tinsel or rose-pink sentiment with which it might happen to be mixed up. Often and often did Tom suffer under this severe method, and rebel against it, and accuse his friend, both to his face and in his o^^'n secret thoughts, of coldness, and want of faith, and all manner of other sins of omission and commis- sion. In the end, however, he generally came round, with more or less of rebellion, according to the severity of the treatment, and acknowledge that, when Hardy brought him down from riding the high horse, it was not without good reason, and that the dust in which he was rolled was always most wholesome dust. For instance, there was no phrase more frequently in the mouths of the party of progress than "the good cause." It was a fine big-sounding phrase, which could be used with great effect in perorations of speeches at the Union, and was sufficiently indefinite to be easily defended from ordinary attacks, while it saved him who used it the trouble of ascer- taining accurately for himself or settling for his hearers what it really did mean. But, however satisfactory it might be before promiscuous audiences, and so long as vehement assertion or declaration was all that was required to uphold it, this same " good cause " was liable to come to much grief when it had to get itself defined. Hardy was particularly given to persecution on this subject, when he could get Tom, and, perhaps, one or two others, in a quiet room by themselves. While professing the utmost sympathy for " the good cause," and a hope as strong as theirs that all its enemies might find themselves suspended to lamp-posts as soon as possible, he would pursue it into corners from which escape was most difficult, asking it and its supporters what it exactly was, and driving them from one cloud-land to another, and from " the good cause " to the " people's cause," " the cause of labour," and other like troublesome definitions, until the great idea seemed to have no shaj)e or existence any longer even in their own brains. But Hardy's persecution, provoking as it was for the time, never went to tlie imdermining of any real conviction in tha minds of his juniors, or the shaking of anything which did not need shaking, but only helped them to clear their ide;is and brains as to what they were talking and thinking about, and gave them glimpses — soon clouded over again, but most TRIED YEAR. 461 useful, nevertheless — of the truth, that there were a good many knotty questions to be solved before a man could be quite sure that he had found out the way to set the world thoroughly to rights, and heal all the ills that flesh is heir to. Hardy treated another of his friend's most favourite notions even with less respect than this one of " the good cause." Democracy, that " universal democracy," which their favourite author had recently declared to be " an inevitable fact of tha days in which we live," was, perhaps, on the whole the pet idea of the small section of liberal young Oxford, with whom Tom was now hand and glove. They lost no opportunity Oi worshipping it, and doing battle for it ; and, indeed, did most of them very truly believe that that state of the world which this universal democracy was to bring about, and which was coming no man could say how soon, was to be in fact that age of peace and good-will which men had dreamt of in all times, when the lion should lie down with the kid, and nation should not vex nation any .more. After hearing something to this effect from Tom on several occasions. Hardy cunningly lured him to his rooms on the pretence of talking over the prospects of the boat club, and then, having seated him by the lire, which he himself pro- ceeded to assault gently with the poker, propounded suddenly to him the question, '* Brown, I should like to know what you mean by * de- mocracy 1 ' " Tom at once saw the trap into which he had fallen, and made several efforts to break away, but unsuccessfully ; and, being seated to a cup of tea, and allowed to smoke, was then and there grievously oppressed, and mangled, and sat upon, by his oldest and best friend. He took his ground carefully, and propounded only what he felt sure that Hardy himself would at once accept, — what no man of any worth could possibly take exception to. " He meant much more," he said, " than this ; but for the present purpose it would be enough for him to say that, whatever else it might mean, democracy in his mouth always meant that every man should have a share in the government of his country." Hardy, seeming to acquiesce, and making a sudden change in the subject of their talk, decoyed his innocent guest away from the thought of democracy for a few minutes, by holding up to him the flag of hero-worship, in which worship Tom was, of course, a sedulous believer. Then, having involved him in most difiicult country, his persecutor opened fire upon him from masked batteries of the most deadly kind, the guna being all from the armoury of his own prophets. 4G2 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " You long for the rule of the ablest man, everywhere, at all times ? To find your ablest man, and then give him power, and obey liim — that you hold to be about *he highest act of wisdom w^hich a nation can be capable of ? " " Yes ; and you know you believe that too, Hardy, just as firmly as I do." " I hope so. But then, how about our universal democracy. and every man having a share ' in the government of his country ? " Tom felt that his flank was turned ; in fact, the contrast of his two beliefs had never struck him vividly before, and he was consequently much confused. But Hardy went on tapping a big coal gently with the poker, and gave him time to recover himself and collect Ids thoughts. " I don't mean, of course, that every man is to have an actual share in the government," he said at last. " But every man is somehow to have a share ; and, if not an actual one, I cant see what the proposition comes to." " I call it having a share in the government when a man has share in saying who shall govern liim." " Well, you'll own that's a very different thing. But, let's see ; will that find our wisest governor for us — letting all the foolishest men in the nation have a say as to who he is to be ?" " Come now. Hardy, I've heard you say that you are for manhood suffrage." " That's another question ; you let in another idea there. At present we are considering whether the vox populi is the best test for finding your best man. I'm afraid all history is against you." "That's a good joke. Now, there I defy you. Hardy." " Begin at the beginning, then, and let us see." " I suppose you'll say, then, that the Egyptian and Baby- lonian empires were better than the little Jewish republic." " RepubUc ! well, let that pass. But I never heard that the Jews elected Moses, or any of the judges." " Well, never mind the Jews ; they're an exceptional case : you can't argue from them." " I don't admit that. I believe just the contrary. But go on." " Well, then, what do you say to the glorious Greek re- publics, with Athens at the head of them ?" " I say that no nation ever treated their best men so badly. I see I must put on a lecture in Aristophanes for your special benefit. Vain, irritable, shallow, suspicious old Demus, with his two oboli in his cheek, and doubting only between Cleon and the sausage-seller, which he shall choose for \ra wisest THIRD YEAR. 463 man — not to govern, but to serve his whims and caprices You must call another witness, I think." " But that's a caricature." " Take the picture, then, out of Thucydides, Plato, Xeno- phon, how you will — you won't mend the matter much. You shouldn't go so fast, Brown ; you won't mind my saying so, I know. You don't get clear in your own mind before you pitch into every one who comes across you, and so do your own side (which I admit is mostly the right one) more harm than good." Tom couldn't stand being put down so summarily, and fouglit over the ground from one country to another, from Eome to the United States, with all the arguments he could muster, but with little success. That unfortunate first admission of his, he felt it throughout, like a mill-stone round his neck, and could not help admittuig to himself, when he left, that there was a good deal in Hardy's concluding remark, — " You'll find it rather a tough business to get your * universal demo- cracy,' and ' government by the wisest,' to prdl together in one coach." Notwithstanding all such occasional reverses and cold baths, however, Tom went on strengthening himself in his new opinions, and maintaining them with all the zeal of a convert. The shelves of his bookcase, and the walls of his rooms, soon began to show signs of the change which was taking place in his ways of looking at men and things. Hitherto a framed engraving of George III. had hung over his mantel-piece ; but early in this, his third year, the frame had disappeared for a few days, and when it reappeared, the solemn face of John Milton looked out from it, while the honest monarch had retired into a portfolio. A facsimile of Magna Charta soon displaced a large coloured print of " A Day with the Pyche- iey ; " and soon afterwards the death-warrant of Charles I. with its grim and resolute rows of signatures and seals, ap- peared on the wall in a place of honour, in the neighbourhood of Milton. Squire Brown was passing through Oxford, and paid his son a visit soon after this last arrangement had been com pleted. He dined in hall, at the high table, being still a member of the college, and afterwards came with Hardy to Tom's rooms to have a quiet glass of wine, and spend the evening with his son and a few of liis friends, who had been asked to meet " the governor." Tom had a struggle with himself whether ho should not remove the death-warrant into his bedroom for the evening, and had actually taken it dowii with this view ; but in the 4C4 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD. end lie could not stomach, such a backsliding, and so restored it to its place, " I have never concealed my opinions from my father/' he thought, " though I don't think he quite knows what they are. But if he doesn't, he ought, and the sooner the better. I should be a sneak to try to hide them. I know he won't like it, but he is always just and fair, and will make allowances. At any rate, up it goes again." And so he re-hung the death-warrant, but with the devout secret hope that his father might not see it. The Avine-party went off admirably. The men were nice, gentlemanly, intelligent fellows ; and the squire, who had been carefully planted by Tom Avith his back to the death- warrant, enjoyed himself very much. At last they all went, except Hardy ; and now the nervous time approached. For a short time longer the three sat at the wine-table, while the squire enlarged upon the great improvement in young men, and the habits of the University, especially in the matter of drinking. Tom had only opeiied three bottles of port. In his time the men would have drunk certainly not less than a bottle a man ; and other like remarks he made, as he sipped his coffee, and then, pushing back his chair, said, " Well, Tom, hadn't your servant better clear away, and then we can draw round the fire, and have a talk," "Wouldn't you like to take a turn while he is clearing? There's the Martyrs' Memorial you haven't seen." " No, thank you. I know the place well enough. I don't come to walk about in the dark. We sha'n't be in your man's way." And so Tom's scout came in to clear away, took out the extra leaves of his table, put on the cloth, and laid tea. Dur- ing these operations Mr. Brown was standing with his back to the fire, looking about him as he talked : when there was more space to move in, he began to walk up and down, and very soon took to remarking the furniture and arrangements of the room. One after another the pictures came under his notice, — most of them escaped without comment, the squire simply pausing a moment, and then taking up his walk again. Magna Charta drew forth his hearty approval. It was a caj>ital notion U) hang such things on your walls, instead of bad prints of steeple-chases, or trash of that sort. "Ah, here's something else of the same kind. Why, Tom, what's this ? " said the squire, as he paused before tho. death-warrant. There was a moment or two of dead silence, while the squire's eye ran down the names, from Jo : Bradshaw to Miles Corbet ; and then he turned, and came and sat down opposite to hia son. Tom expected his father to be vexed, but was not the THIRD YEAR. 465 least prej^arcd for the tone of pain, and sorrow, and anger, in wliicli lie lirst inquired, and then remonstrated. For some time past the squire and his son had not felt so comfortable together as of old. Mr. Brown had been annoyed by much that Tom had done in the case of Harry Winburn, though he did not know all. There had sprung up a barrier somehow or other between them, neither of them knew how. They had often felt embarrassed at being left alone together during the last year, and found that there were certain topics which they could not talk upon, which tliey avoided by mutual consent. Every now and then the constraint and embarrass- ment fell off for a short time, for at bottom they loved and appreciated one another heartily ; but the divergences in their thoughts and habits had become very serious, and seemed likely to increase rather than not. They felt keenly the chasm between the two generations ; as they looked at one another from the opposite banks, each in his secret heart blamed the other in great measure for that which was the fault of neither. Mixed with the longings which each felt for a better under- standing was enough of reserve and indignation to prevent them from coming to it. The discovery of their differences was too recent, and they were too much alike in character and temper, for either to make large enough allowances for, or to be really tolerant of the other. This was the first occasion on which they had come to out- spoken and serious difference ; and, though the collision had been exceedingly painful to both, yet, when they parted for the night, it was with a feeling of relief that the ice had been thoroughly broken. Before his father left the room, Tom had torn the facsimile of the death-warrant out of its frame, and put it in the fire, protesting, however, at th^. same time, that, though " he did this out of deference to his father, and was deeply grieved at having given him pain, he could not and would not give up his honest convictions, or pretend that they were changed, or even shaken." The squire walked back to his hotel deeply moved. Who can wonder 1 He was a man full of living and vehement convictions. One of his early recollections had been the arrival in England of the news of the beheading of Louis XVI. and the doings of the reign of terror. He had been bred in the times w^hen it was held impossible for a gentleman or a Christian to hold such views as his son had been main- taining, and, Kke many of the noblest Englishmen of his time had gone with and accepted the creed of the day. Tom remained behind, dejected and melancholy ; now ac> casing his father of injustice and bigotry, now longing to go H H 4C5 Tl"*!! BKOW>- AT OXR^RD. aftoT liiin. and i;i\-e up evv^xythiiig. AVkit were i\ll his opinitnj4 aiid cvuiviotious com|\u\\l wiili his lathers cvnitidouoe juid loYo t At biwiktiisi the i\o>ct morning, however, at\er each ol thoni had had time for thinking over what had }\isin this visit of his father to him at Oxforvl Tom dated a now and moro scitisfactory epoch in thoir intorvviirsew The fact hiul lx»g\ui to dawn on the s..|uire tliat the workl had ch:uigv\i a p.xxl doiil since his time, lie si\w that young men wore much imprvn'Ovl in some waj-s, :\nd acknowledgevl the fact heartily ; on the other hivnd, they had tivken up with a lot of new notions which he could not understimd, and thought mischievous and lx\i.L l^orha|>^ Tom might gvt ovex thorn as he got to he older and wiser. luid in the mo;mtime ho must take the evil with the gv-xxi At any r:\te he Wiis too t";ur a m;ui to try to dragoon his son out of imything which he n^ally Ivlieved. Tom on his part gratefully accepted the chiuige in his father's manner, :md took all moiuis of showing his gnititude by consulting iuid tiilkiug freely to him on such subjovts as they cv^uld agree upon, which were numerous, keeping in tlie back-givimd the questions which had provokeii painful discussions between them. Uy degrees thes^e even could b^ tenderly apprvxichevl ; and, now that they were ajv proached in a dirferv^nt spirit, the honest beliefs of the lather and son no longer lookevl so monstiv^us to one iuiotlier, the harvl and shiirp outlines began to wear otf, and tlie vie^T^ of each of them to be moditied. Thus, bit by bit, by a slow but sure process, a bottoj undeistimding th;m ever was r>?-cstablished between them. Tlus beginning of a better st^te of things in his relations with his father consolevl Tom for many other matters tliat soeiuevl to go wrong with him. and was a constant bit of bright sky to turn to when the rest of his horizon looked dark and drv-^u-y, as it did often enough- Fox it proveil a very trying year to him, this his thirxi and last yoiir at the University ; a year full of large dreams and small performances, of unfulfilled hopes, and struggles to set himself right, emling ever more surely in failure and dis- appointment. The common pursuits of the place had lost their freshness, and with it much of their charm. He was beginning to feel himself in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it. Ollen, in spite of all his natural hopefulness, his heart seemed to sicken and turn oohl, without any apjxirent re;ison ; bk old pursuits palled on him, and he scaz^y cared to turn THIRD YEAK. 4C7 to new ones. "UHiat was it that made life so blank to him at these times 1 How was it that he could not keep the spirit within him alive and warm ? It was easier to ask such questions than to get an answer. Was it not this place he was living in, and the ways of it ] No, for the place and its ways were the same as ever, and his own way of life in it better than ever before. Was it the want of sight or tidings of Mary ? Sometimes he thought so. and then cast the thought away as treason. His love for her was ever sinking deeper into him, and raising and purif}dng him. Light and strength and life came from that source ; craven weariness and coldness of heart, come from whence they might, were not from that quarter. But precious as his love was to hmi, and deeply as it affected his whole life, he felt that there must be something beyond it — that its full satisfaction would not be enough for him. The bed was too narrow for a man to stretch himself on. What he was in search of must underlie and embrace his human love, and support it. Beyond and above all private and personal desires and hopes and longings, he was conscious of a restless crav- ing and feeling about after something which he could not grasp, and yet wliich was not avoiding him, which seemed to be mysteriously laying hold of him and sun-ounding him. The routine of chapels, and lectures, and reading for degree, boating, cricketing, Union- debating — all well enough in their way — left this vacuum unfilled. There was a great outer visible world, the problems and puzzles of wliich were rising before him and haunting him more and more ; and a great inner and invisible world opening round him in awful depth. He seemed to be standing on the brink of each — now, shiver- ing and helpless, feeling like an atom about to be wliirled into the great flood and carried he knew not where — now, ready to plunge in and take his part, full of hope and belief that he was meant to buffet in the strength of a man with the seen and the unseen, and to be subdued by neither. In such a year as this a bit of steady, bright blue sky was a boon beyond all price, and so he felt it to be. And it was not only with his father that Tom regained lost ground in this year. He was in a state of mind in which he could not bear to neglect or lose any particle of human sympathy, and so he turned to old friendships, and revived the correspondence with several of his old school-fellows, anvd particularly with Arthur, to the gi-eat delight of the latter, who had mourned bitterly over the few half-yearly lines, all he liad got from Tom of late, in an=5wer to his own letters, which had themsylves, under H II 2 468 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. the weight of neglect, gradually dwindled down to mere formal matters. A specimen of the later correspondence may fitly close the chapter : — **St. Ambrose. " Dear Geoedie, — I can hardly pardon you for having gone to Cambridge, though you have got a Trinity scholar- ship — which I suppose is, on the whole, quite as good a thing as anything of the sort you could have got up here. I had so looked forward to having you here though, and now I feel that we shall probably scarcely ever meet. You will go your way and I mine; and one alters so quickly, and gets into such strange new grooves, that unless one sees a man about once a week at least, you may be just like strangers when you are thrown together again. If you had come up here it would have been all right, and we should have gone on all through life as we Avere when I left school, and as I know we should be again in no time if you had come here. But now, who can tell? "What makes me think so much of this is a visit of a few days that East paid me just before his regiment went to India. T feel that if he hadn't done it, and we had not met till he came back — years hence perhaps — we should never have been to one another what we shall be now. The break would have been too great. ISTow it's all right. You would have so liked to see the old fellow grown into a man, but not a bit altered — ^just the quiet, old way, pooh-poohing you, and pretending to care for nothing, but ready to cut the nose off his face, or go through fire and water for you at a pinch, if you'll only let him go his own way about it, and have his grumble, and say that he does it all from the worst possible motives. " But we must try not to lose hold of one another, Geordie. It would be a bitter day to me if I thought anything of the kind could ever happen again. We must write more to one another. I've been awfully lazy, I know, about it for this last year and more ; but then I always thought you would be coming up here, and so that it didn't matter much. But now I will turn over a new leaf, and write to you about * my secret thoughts, my works and ways ; ' and you must do it too. If we can only tide over the next year or two we shall get into plain sailing, and I suppose it will all go right then. At least, I can't believe that one is likely to have many such up- and-down years in one's life as the last two. If one is, good- Dess knows where I shall end. You know the outline of what has happened to me from my letters, and the talks we have had in my flying visits to the old school ; but you havea't a THIED YEAR. 469 notion of the troubles of mind I've been in, and the changes I've gone through. I can hardly believe it myself when I look back. However, I'm quite sure I have got on; that's my great comfort. It is a strange blind sort of world, that's a fact, with lots of blind alleys, down which you go blundering in the fog after some seedy gas-light, which you take for tho sun till you run against the wall at the end, and find out that ihe light is a gas-light, and that there's no thoroughfare. But for all that one does get on. You get to know the sun's light better and better, and to keep out of the blind alleys ; and I am surer and surer every day, that there's always sunlight enough for ep-ery honest fellow — though I didn't think so a few months back — and a good sound road under his feet, if he will only step out on it. "Talking of blind alleys puts me in mind of your last. Aren't you going doA\Ti a blind alley, or something worse ? There's no waU to bring you up, that I can see, down the turn you've taken ; and then, what's the practical use of it all ? What good would you do to yourself, or any one else, if you could get to the end of it ? I can't for the life of me fancy, I confess, what you think will come of speculating about necessity and free will. I only know that I can hold out my hand before me, and can move it to the right or left, despite of all powers in heaven or earth. As I sit here writing to you I can let into my heart, and give the reins to, all sorts of devils' passions, or to the Spirit of God. Well, that's enough for me. I hnovj it of myself, and I believe you know it of yourself, and everybody knows it of themselves or himself; and why you can't be satisfied with that, passes my compre- hension. As if one hasn't got puzzles enough, and bothers t^nough, under one's nose, without going a-field after a lot of metaphysical quibbles. I^o, I'm wrong, — not going a-tield, — anything one has to go a-field for is all right. What a fellow meets outside himself he isn't responsible for, and must do the best he can with. But to \i,o on for ever looking inside of one self, and groping about amongst one's own sensations, and ideas, and whimsies of one kind and another, I can't conceive a poorer line of business than that. Don't you get into it now, that's a dear boy. " Very likely you'll tell me you can't help it ; that every one has his own difficulties, and must fight them out, and that mine are one sort, and yours another. Well, perhaps you may be right. I hope I'm getting to loiow that my plummet isn't to measure all the world. But it does seem a pity that men shouldn't be thinking about how to cure some of the wrongs which poor dear old England is pretty near dying o^ 470 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. instead of taking the edge off tlieir brains, and spending aU their steam in speculating about all kinds of things, which wouldn't make any poor man in the world — or rich one either, for that matter — a bit better off, if they were all found out, and settled to-morrow. But here I am at the end of my paper. Don't be angry at my jobation ; but write me a long answer of your own free will, and believe me ever affectionately yours, "T. B." CHAPTEE XLIIl. AFTERNOON VISITORS. Miss Mary Porter was sitting alone in the front drawing- room of her father's house, in Belgravia, on the afternoon of a summer's day in this same year. Two years and more have passed over her head since we first met her, and she may be a thought more sedate and better dressed, but there is no other change to be noticed in her. The room was for the most part much hke other rooms in that quarter of the world. There were few luxuries in the way of furniture which fallen man can desire which were not to be found there ; but, over and above this, there was an elegance in the arrangement of all the nic-nacs and ornaments, and an appropriateness and good taste in the placing of every j^iece of furniture and vase of flowers, which showed that a higher order of mind than the upholsterer's or housemaid's was constantly overlooking and working there. Everything seemed to be in its exact place, in the best place which could have been thought of for it, and to be the best thing which could have been thought of for the place. And yet this perfection did not strike you particularly at first, or surprise you in any way, but sank into you gradu- ally, so that, until you forced yourself to consider the matter, you could not in the least say why the room had such a very pleasant effect on you. The young lady to whom this charm was chiefly owing ^v'as sitting by a buhl work-table, on which lay her embroidery and a book. She was reading a letter, which seemed deeply to interest her ; for she did not hear the voice of the butler, who had just opened the door and disturbed her solitude, until he had repeated for the second time, " Mr. Smith." Then Mary jumped up, and, hastily folding her letter, put it into her pocket. She was rather provoked at having allowed herself to be caught there alone by afternoon visitors, and with the servants for having let any one in; nevertheless, AFTERNOON VISITORS. 471 she welcomed Mr. Smith with a cordiality of manner which perhaps rather more than represented her real feelings, and, with a ''let mamma know," to tlie butler, set to work to entertain her visitor. She would have had no difficulty in doing this under ordinary circumstances, as all that Mr. Smith wanted was a good listener. He was a somewhat lieavj'" and garrulous old gentleman, with many imaginary, and a few real troubles, the constant contemplation of which served to occupy the whole of his ovvti time, and as much of his friends' as he could get them to give him. But scarcely had he settled himself comfortably in an easy chair opposite to his victim, when the butler entered again, and announced, " Mr. St. Cloud." Mary was now no longer at her ease. Her manner of receiving her new visitor was constrained ; and yet it was clear that he was on easy terms in the house. She asked the butler where his mistress was, and heard with vexation that she had gone out, but was expected home almost imme- diately. Charging him to let her mother know the moment she returned, Mary turned to her unwelcome task, and sat herself down again with such resignation as she was capable of at the moment. The conduct of her visitors was by no means calculated to restore her composure, or make her comfortable between them. She was sure that they knew one another ; but neither of them would speak to the other. There the two sat on, each resolutely bent on tiring the other out ; the elder crooning on to her in an undertone, and ignoring the younger, who in his turn put on an air of serene uncon- sciousness of the presence of his senior, and gazed about tho room, and watched Mary, making occasional remarks to her as if no one else were present. On and on they sat, her only comfort being the hope that neither of them would have the conscience to stay on after the departure of the other. Between them Mary was driven to her wits' end, and looked for her mother or for some new visitor to come to her help, as Wellington looked for the Prussians on the afternoon of June 18th. At last youth and insolence prevailed, and Mr. Smith rose to go. Mary got up too, and after his departure remained standing, in hopes that her other visitor would take the hint and follow the good example. But St. Cloud had not the least intention of moving. " Keally your good-nature is quite astonishing. Miss Porter," he said, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, and following the pattern of one of the flowers on the carpet with his cane, which gave him the opportunity of showing his delicately gloved hand to advantage. 472 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. " Indeed, why do you think so ? " she asked, taking up hei embroidery, and pretending to begin working. " Have I not good reason, after sitting this half hour and seeing yon enduring old Smith — the greatest bore in London 1 I don't believe there are three houses where the servants dare let him in. It would be as much as their places are worth. No porter could hope for a character who let him in twice in the season." " Poor Mr. Smith," said Mary, smiling. " But you know we have no porter, and," she suddenly checked herself, and added gravely, " he is an old friend, and papa and mamma like him." " But the wearisomeness of his grievances ! Those three sons in the Plungers, and their eternal scrapes ! How you could manage to keep a civil face ! It was a masterpiece of polite patience." *' Indeed, I am very sorry for his troubles. I wonder where mamma can be '? We are going to drive. Shall you be in the Park 1 1 think it must be time for me to dress." *' I hope not. It is so seldom that I see you except in crowded rooms. Can you wonder that I should value such a chance as this ? " *'"Were you at the new opera last night?" asked Mary, carefully avoiding liis eye, and sticking to her work, but scarcely able to conceal her nervousness and discomfort. " Yes, I was there ; but " " Oh, do tell me about it, then ; I hear it was a great success." " Another time. We can t^alk of the opera anywhere. Let me speak now of something else. You must have seen. Miss Porter" " How can you think I will talk of anything till you have told me about the opera 1 " interrupted Mary, rapidly and ner- vously. " Was Grisi very fine 1 The chief part was composed for her, was it not ? and dear old Lablache " " I will tell you all about it presently, if you will let me, in five minutes' time — I only ask for five minutes " " Five minutes ! Oh, no, not five seconds. I must hear about the new opera before I will listen to a word of any- thing else." " Indeed, ^Miss Porter, you must pardon me for disobey- ing. But I may not have such a chance as this again foi months." With which prelude he drew his chair towards hers, and Mary was just trying to make up her mind to jump up and run right out of the room, when the door opened, and the AFTEENOON VISITORS. 473 butler "walked in with a card on a waiter. Mary had nevei felt so relieved in her life, and co^^ld have hugged the solemn old domestic when he said, presenting the card to her, " The gentleman ached if Mrs. or you were in, Miss, and told me to bring it up, and find whether you would see him on particular business. He's waiting in the hall." " Oh yes, I know. Of course. Yes, say I will see him directly. I mean, ask him to come up now." " Shall I show him into the library. Miss 1 " " No, no ; in here ; do you understand 1 " " Yes, Miss," replied the butler, with a deprecatory look at St. Cloud, as much as to say, " You see I can't help it," in answer to his impatient telegraphic signals. St. Cloud had been very liberal to the Porters' servants. Mary's confidence had all come back. Eelief was at hand. She could trust herself to hold St. Cloud at bay now, as it could not be for more than a few minutes. When she turned to him the nervousness had quite gone out of her manner, and she spoke in her old tone again, as she laid her embroi- dery aside. " How Incky that you should be here. Look ; I think ^you must be acquainted," she said, holding out the card which the butler had given her to St. Cloud. He took it mechanically, and looked at it, and then crushed it in his hand, and was going to speak. She pre- vented him. " I was right, I'm sure. You do know him 1 " " I didn't see the name," he said, almost fiercely. " The name on the card which I gave you just now 1 — Mr. Grey. He is curate in one of the poor Westminster districts. ' You must remember him, for he was of your college. He was at Oxford with you. I made his acquaintance at the Com- memoration. He will be so glad to meet an old friend." St. Cloud was too much provoked to answer; and the next moment the door opened, and the butler announced Mr. Grey. Grey came into the room timidly, carrying his head a little down as usual, and glancing uncomfortably about in the manner which used to make Drysdale say that he always looked aa though he had just been robbing a hen-roost. Mary went forward to meet him, holding out her hand cordially. " I am so glad to see you," she said. " How kind of you to call when you are so busy I Mamma will be here directly. I think you must remember Mr. St. Cloud — Mr. Grey." St. Cloud's patience was now quite gone. He drew him- self up, making the slightest possible inclination towarda 474. TOM BROWX AT OXFORD. Grey, and then, without taking any further notice of him, turned to Mary with a look which he meant to be full of pitying admiration for her, and contempt of her visitor ; but, as she would not look at him, it was thrcrvn away. So he made his bov/ and stalked out of the room, angrily debating with himself, as he went down the stairs, whether she could have understood him. He was so fully convinced of the sacrifice which a man in his position was making in paying serious attentions to a girl with little fortune and no con- nexion, that he soon consoled himself in the belief that her embarrassment only arose from shyness, and that the moment he could explain himself she would be hLs obedient Lnd grateful servaait. Meantime ^lary sat down opposite to the curate, and listened to him as he unfolded his errand awkwardly enough. An execution was threatened in the house of a poor struggling widow, whom Mrs. Porter had employed to do needlework occasionally, and who was behind with her rent through sickness. He was afraid that her tilings would be taken and sold in the morning, unless slie could borrow two sovereigns. He had so many claims on him that he could not lend her the money himself, and so had come out to see what he could do amongst those who knew her. By the time Grey had arrived at the end of his story, Mary had made up her mind — not without a little struggle — to sacrifice the greater part of what was left of her quarter's allowance. After all, it would only be wearing cleaned gloves instead of new ones, and giving up her new riding-hat till next quarter. So she jumped up, and said gaily, " Is that all, ^Ir. Grey ? I have the money, and I will lend it her with pleasure. I will fetch it directly." She tripped off to her room, and soon came back with the money; and just then the butler came in with tea, and Mary asked Mr. Grey to take some. He looked tired, she said, and, if he would wait a little time, he would see her mother, who would be sure to do something more for the poor woman. Grey had risen to leave, and was standing, hat in hand, ready to go. He was in the habit of reckoning with him- self strictly for every minute of his day, and was never quite satisfied with himself unless he was doing the most disagree- able thing which circumstances for the time being allowed him to do. But greater and stronger men than Grey, from Adam do\vn wards, have yielded to the temptation before which he now succumbed. He looked out of the corners of his eyes ; and there was something so fresh and bright in the picture of the dainty little tea-service and the young lady behind it, the tea which she was beginning to pour out r.mclt so refreshing, AFTERN00>5 VISITORS. 475 acd her hand and figure looked so pretty in the operation, that, ^vith a sigh of departing resohition, he gave in, put his hat on the floor, and sat down opposite to the tempter. Grey took a cup of tea, and then another. He thought he had never tasted anything so good. The delicious rich cream, and the tempting plate of bread and butter, were too much for him. He fairly gave ^vay, and resigned himself to physical enjoyment, and sipped his tea, and looked over his cup at !Mary, sitting there bright and kind, and ready to go on pouring out for him to any extent. It seemed to him as if an atmosphere of light and joy surrounded her, within the circle of which he was sitting and absorbing. Tea was the only stimulant that Grey ever took, and he had more need of it than usual, for he had given away the chop, which was his ordinary dinner, to a starving woman. He was faint with fasting and the bad air of the hovels in which he had been spending his morning. The elegance of the room, the smell of the flowers, the charm of companionship with a young woman of his o^ti rank, and the contrast of the whole to his common way of life, carried him away, and hopes and thoughts began to creep into his head to which he had long been a stranger. Mary did her very best to make his visit pleasant to him. She had a great respect for the self-denying life which she knew he was leading ; and the nervousness and shyness of his manners were of a kind, which, instead of infecting her, gave her confidence, and made her feel quite at her ease with liim. She was so grateful to him for having delivered her out of her recent embarrassment, that she was more than usually kind in her manner. She saw how he was enjoying himself, and thought what good it must do him to forget his usual occupations for a short time. So she talked positive gossip to him, asked his opinion on riding-habits, and very soon was telUng him the plot of a new novel which she had jujst been reading, with an animation and playfulness which would have warmed the heart of an ancliorite. For a short quarter of an hour Grey resigned himself; but at the end of that time he became suddenly and painfully conscious of what he was doing, and stopped himseLf short in the middle of an altogether worldly compliment, which he detected himself in the act of paying to his too fascinating young hostess. He felt that retreat was his only chance, and so grasped his hat again, and rose with a deep sigh, and a sudden change of manner which alarmed Marj'. " I hope you are not ill, Mr. Grey 1 " she said, anxiously. "No, not the least, thank you. But — but — in short, I 476 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. must go to my work. I ought to apologize, indeed, for having stayed so loner." " Oh, you have not been here more than twenty minutes. Pray stay, and see mamma ; she must be in directly." " Thank you ; you s,re very kind. I should like it very much, but indeed I cannot." Mary felt that it would be no kindness to press it further, and so rose herself, and held out her hand. Grey took it, and it is not quite certain to this day whether he did not press it in that farewell shake more than was absolutely necessaiy. If he did, we may be quite sure that he administered exem- plary punishment to himself afterwards for so doing. He would gladly have left now, but his over sensitive conscience forbade it. He had forgotten his office, he thought, hitherto, but there was time yet not to be altogether i^ te to it. So he looked grave and shy again, and said, — "You will not be olfended with me, Miss Porter, if I speak to you as a clergyman ? " Mary w^as a little disconcerted, but answered almost imme- diately, — " Oh, no. Pray say anything which you think you ought to say." " I am afraid there must be a great temptation in living always in beautiful rooms like this, w^ith no one but prosperous people. Do you not think so ? " "But one cannot help it. Surely, Mr. Grey, you do not think it can be wrong 1 " " No, not wrong. But it must be very trying. It must be very necessa y to do something to lessen the temptation of such a life." " I do not understand you. A^^lat could oue do ? " " Might you not take up some work which w^ould not be pleasant, such as visiting the poor 1 " " I should be very glad ; but we do not know any poor people in London." "There are very miserable districts uear here." "Yes, and papa and mamma are very kind, I know, in helping whenever they can hear of a proper case. But it is so different from the country. There it is so easy and pleasant to go into the cottages where every one knows you, and most of the people work for papa, and one is sure of being welcomed, and that nobody will be rude. But here I should be afraid. It would seem so impertinent to go to people's houses of whom one knows nothing. I should never know what to Bay." " It is not easy or pleasant duty which is the best for us. AFTERNOON VISITORS. 477 Great cities could never be evangelized, Miss Porter, if all ladies thought as 3'ou do." " I think, Mr. Grey," said Mary, rather nettled, " that every one has not the gift of lecturing the poor, and setting them right ; and, if they have not, they had better not try to do it. And as for all the rest, there is plenty of the same kind of work to be done, I believe, amongst the people of one's own -jlass." " You are joking, Miss Porter.*' "Xo, I am not joking at all. I believe that rich people are quite as unhappy as poor. Their troubles are not the same, of course, and are generally of their own making. But troubles of tlie mind are worse, surely, than troubles of the body?" " Certainly ; and it is the highest work of the ministry to deal with spiritual trials. But, you will pardon me for saving that I cannot think this is the proper work for — for — " "For me, you would say. Yfe must be speaking of quite different things, I am sure. I only mean that I can listen to the troubles and grievances of any one who Hkes to talk of them to me, and try to comfort them a little, and to make things look brighter, and to keep cheerful. It is not easy always even to do this." " It is not, indeed. But would it not be easier if you could do as I suggest 1 Going out of one's own class, and trying to care for and to help the poor, braces the mind more than any- thing else." " You ought to know my cousin Katie," said Mary, glad to make a diversion ; " that is just what she would say. Indeed, I think you must have seen her at Oxford ; did you not 1 " " I believe I had the honour of meeting her at the rooms of a fiiend. I think he said she was also a cousin of his." " Mr. Brown, you mean ? Yes ; did you laiow him ? " " Oh, yes. You wiU think it strange, as we are so very unlike ; but I knew him better than I knew almost any one." "Poor Katie is very anxious about him. I hope you thought well of him. You do not think he is likely to go very wrong 1 " " No, indeed. I could wish he were sounder on Church questions, but that may come. Do you know that he is in London ? " " I had heard so." " He has been several times to my schools. He used to help me at Oxford, and has a capital way with the boys." At this moment the clock on the mantel-piece struck a quarter. The sound touched some chord in Grey which made 478 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. him grasp his hat again, and prepare for another attempt to get away. " I hope you will pardon — " He pulled himself up short, in the fear lest he were going again to be false (as he deemed it) to his calling, and stood the picture of nervous discomfort. Mary came to his relief. " I am sorry you must go, Mr. Grey," she said ; "I should so like to have talked to you more about Oxford. You will call again soon, I hope 1 " At which last speech Grey, casting an imploring glance at her, muttered something which she could not catch, and fled from the room. Mary stood looking dreamily out of the window for a few minutes, till the entrance of her mother roused her, and she turned to pour out a cup of tea for her. " It is cold, mamma dear ; do let me make some fresh." " No, thank you, dear ; this will do very well," said Mrs. Porter ; and she took off her bonnet and sipped the cold tea. Mary watched her silently for a minute, and then, taking the letter slie had been reading, out of her pocket, said, " I have a letter from Katie, mamma." Mrs. Porter took the letter and read it ; and, as Mary still watched, she saw a puzzled look coming over her mother's face. Mrs. Porter finished the letter, and then looked stealthily at Mary, who on her side was now busily engaged in putting up the tea-things. " It is very embarrassing," said Mrs. Porter. "What, mamma?" "Oh, of course, my dear, I mean Katie's telling us of her cousin's being in London, and sending us his address — " and then she paused. " Why, mamma ? " " Your papa will have to make up his mind whether he will ask him to the house. Katie would surely never have told him that she has written." *'Mr. and Mrs. Brown were so very kind. It would seem f,o strange, so ungrateful, not even to ask him." " I am afraid he is not the sort of young man — in short, I must speak to your papa." Mrs. Porter looked hard at her daughter, who was still busied with the tea-things. She had risen, bonnet in liand, to leave the room ; but now changed her mind, and, crossing to her daughter, put her arm round her neck. Mary looked up steadily into her eyes, then blushed slightly, and said quietly, " No, luanima ; indeed, il i.^ not as you think." AFTERNOON VISITOBS. 479 Her mother stooped and kissed her, and left tlie room, t(5lling her to get dressed, as the carriage would be round in a fe>v minutes. Her trials for the day were not over. SLe could see by their manner at dinner that her fiither and mother had been talking about her. Her father took her to a ball in the evening, where they met St. Cloud, who fastened himself to them. She was dancing a quadrille, and her father stood near her, talking confidentially to St. Cloud. In the intervals ot the dance scraps of their conversation reached her. " You knew him, then, at Oxford ] " " Yes, very slightly." " I should like to ask you now, as a friend — " Here Mary*a partner reminded her that she ought to be dancing. When she had returned to her place again she heard — " You think, then, that it was a bad business 1 " " It was notorious in the college. We never had any doubt on the subject." "]My niece has told Mrs. Porter that there really was nothing wrong in it." " Indeed ? I am happy to hear it." " I should like to think well of him, as he is a connexion of my wife. In other respects now — " Here again she was carried away by the dance, and, when she returned, caught the end of a sentence of St. Cloud's, "You will consider what I have said in confidence 1 " " Certainly," answered Mr. Porter ; " and I am exceedingly obliged to you ; " and then the dance was over, and J^Iary returned to her father's side. She had never enjoyed a ball less than this, and persuaded her fathei to leave early, which he was delighted to do. When she reached her own room Mary took off her wreath and ornaments, and then sat down and feU into a brown study, which lasted for some time. At last she roused herself with a sigh, and thought she had never had so tiring a day, though she could hardly toll why, and felt half inclined to have a good cry, if she could only have made up her mind what about. However, being a sensible young woman, she resisted the temptation, and, hardly taking the trouble to roll up her hair, went to bed and slept soundly. Mr. Porter found his wife sitting up for him ; they were evidently both full of the same subject. "Well, dear?" she said, as he entered the room. Mr. Porter put down his candle, and shook his head. "You don't think Katie can be right then? She must have capital o])portunities of judging, you know, dear." 480 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. '• Eut she is no judge. AVhat can a girl like Katio kilo's about such things 1 " "Well, dear, do you know I really cannot think there was anything very wrong, though I did think so at first, I own." " But I find that his character was bad — decidedly bad — always. Young St. Cloud didn't like to say much to me ; which was natural, of course. Young men never like to betray one another ; but I could see what he thought. He is a right-minded young man, and very agreeable." " 1 do not take to him very much." " His connexions and prospects, too, are capital. I some times tliink he has a fancy for Mary. Haven't you remarked it?" " Yes, dear. But as to the other matter 1 Shall you ask him here ? " " Well, dear, I do not think there is any need. He is only in town, I suppose, for a short time, and it is not at all likely that we should know where he is, you see." "But if he should call?" " Of course then we must be civil. We can consider then what is to be done." CHAPTER XLIV. THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG. " Dear Katie, — At home, you see, without having an- swered your last kind letter of counsel and S}Tnpathy. But I couldn't write in town, I was in such a queer state all the time. I enjoyed nothing, not even the match at Lord's, or the race ; only walking at night in the square, and watching her window, and seeing her at a distance in Rotten Row. " I followed your advice at last, though it went against the grain uncommonly. It did seem so unlike what I had a right to expect from them — after all the kindness my father and mother had shown them Avhen they came into our neighbour- hood, and after I had been so intimate there, running in and out just like a son of their own — that they shouldn't take the slightest notice of me all the time I was in London. 1 shouldn't have wondered if you hadn't explained ; but after that, and after you had told them ni}'" direction, and when they knew that I Avas within five minutes' walk of their house constantly (for they knew all about Grey's schools, and that I was there three or four times a-week), I do think it was too "b&d. However, as I was going to tell you, I went at last, foi THE INTEIiCEPTED LETTER-BAG. 481 I couldn't leave town without trying to see lier ; and I believe I have finished it all off. I don't know. I'm very low about it, at any rate, and want to tell you all that passed, and to hear what you tliink. I have no one to consult but you, Katie. AYliat should I do without you 1 But you were born to help and comfort all the world. I shan't rest till I knD"W^ what you think about this last crisis in my history. " I put off going till my last day in town, and then called twice. The first time, * not at home.' But I was determined now to see somebody and make out something ; so I left my card, and a message that, as I was leaving town next day, I would call again. When I called again at about six o'clock, I was shown into the library, and presently your uncle camo in. I felt very uncomfortable, and I think he did too ; but he shook hands cordially enough, asked why I had not called before, and said he was sorry to hear I was going out of town so soon. Do you believe he meant it ? I didn't. But it put me out, because it made it look as if it had been my fault that I hadn't been there before. I said I didn't know that he would have liked me to call, but I felt tbat he had got the best of the start. " Then he asked after all at home, and talked of his boys, and how they were getting on at school. By tins time I had got my head again ; so I went back to my calling, and said that I had felt I could never come to their house as a common acquaintance, and, as I did not know \\hether they would ever let me come in any other capacity, I had kept away till now. "Your uncle didn't like it, I know; for he got up and walked about, and then said he didn't understand me. Well, I was quite reckless by this time. It was my last chance, I felt ; so I looked hard into my hat, and said that I had been over head and ears in love with Mary for two years. Of course there was no getting out of the business after that. I kept on staring into my hat ; so I don't know how lie too"k it ; but the first thing he said was that he had had some sus- picions of this, and now my confession gave him a right to ask me several questions. In the first place. Had I ever spoken to her 1 No ; never directly. What did I mean by directly ? I meant that I had never either spoken or written to her on the subject — in fact, I hadn't seen her except at a distance for the last two years — but I could not say that she might not have found it out from my manner. Had T ever told any one else 1 No. And this was quite true, Katie, for both you and Hardy found it out, " He tooli a good mauy turns before speaking again. Th-rJU T I 4:82 Toai BEOWN at ox^okd. he .said I had acted as a gentlemau liitiierto, and he should be very plain uith rue. Of course I must see that, looking at my prospects and his daughter s it could not be an engagement which he could look on with much favour from a worldly point of view. Nevertheless, he had the highest respect and regard for my family, so that, if in some years' time I was in a position to marry, he should not object on this score ; but there were other matters which were in his eyes of more im- portance. He had heard (who could have told him ?) that I had taken up very violent opinions — opinions which, to say nothing more of them, would very much damage my prospects of success in life ; and that I was in the habit of associating with the advocates of such opinions — persons who, he must say, were not fit companions for a gentleman — and of writing violent articles in low revolutionary newspapers, such as the Wessex Freeman. Yes, I confessed I had ^vritten. Would I give up these things ? I had a great mind to say flat, 'No, and I believe I ought to have ; but as his tone was kind, I couldn't help trying to meet him. So I said I would give up writing or speaking publicly about such matters, but I couldn't pretend not to believe what I did believe. Perhaps, as my opinions had altered so much already, very likely they might again. " lie seemed to be rather amused at that, and said he sin- cerely hoped they might. But now came the most serious point : he had heard very bad stories of me at Oxford, but he would not press me with them. There were too few young men whose lives would bear looking into for him to insist much on such matters, and he was ready to let bygones be bygones. But I must remember that he had himself seen me in one very awkward position. I broke in, and said I had hoped that had been explained to him. I could not defend my Oxford life ; I could not defend myself as to this par- ticular case at one time ; but there had been nothing in it that I was ashamed of since before the time I knew his daughter. " On my honour had I absolutely and entirely broken off all relations with her 1 He had been told that I still kept up a correspondence with her. " Yes, I still wrote to her, and saw her occasionally ; but it Nvas only to give her news of a young man from her village, who was now serving in India. He had no other way of communicating Avith her. " It was a most curious arrangement ; did I mean that this young man was going to be married to her 1 " I hoped so. THE INTERCErXED LETTEE-BAG. 483 *' Why should he not write to her at once, if they wera engaged to be married 1 "They were not exactly engaged; it was rather hard to explain. Here your uncle seemed to lose patience, for he in- terrupted me and said, ' Eoally it must bo clear to me, as a reasonable man, that, if this connexion were not absolutely broken off, there must be an end of everything, so far as his daughter was concerned. Would I give my word of honour to break it off at once, and completely 1 ' I tried to explain again ; but he would have nothing but * yes ' or * no.' Dear Katie, what could I do '? I have written to Patty that, till I die, she may always reckon on me as on a brother ; and I have promised Harry never to lose sight of her, and to let her know everything tliat happens to him. Your uncle would not hear me ; so I said, ^o. And he said, * Then our interview had better end,' and rang the bell. Somebody, I'm sure, has been slandering me to him ; who can it be ? " I didn't say another word, or offer to shake hands, but got up and walked out of the room, as it was no good waiting for the servant to come. WTien I got into the hall the front door was open, and T heard her voice. I stopped dead short. She was saying something to some people who had been riding with her. The next moment the door shut, and she tripped in in her riding-habit, and grey gloves, and hat, with the dearest Httle grey plume in it. She went humming along, and up six or eight steps, without seeing me. Then I moved a step, and she stopped and looked, and gave a start. I don't know whether my face was awfully miserable, but, when our eyes met, hers seemed to fill with pity, and uneasiness, and inquiry, and the bright look to melt away altogether; and then she blushed, and ran down stairs again, and held out her hand, saying, ' I am so glad to see you, after all this long time.' I pressed it, but I don't think I said anything. I forget ; the butler came into the hall, and stood by the door. She paused another moment, looked confused, and then, as the library door opened, w^ent away up stairs, with a kind * good-bye.' She dropped a little bunch of violets, which she had worn in the breast of her habit, as she went away. I went and picked them up, although your uncle had now come out of the library, and then made the best of my way into the street. "There, Katie, I have told you everything, exactly as it happened. Do write to me, dear, and tell me, now, what you think. Is it all over 1 What can I do 1 Can you do any- thing for me"? I feel it is better in one respect. Her father can never say now that I didn^t tell him all about it. But what is to happen 1 I am so restless. I can settle to nothing, ii2 484 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. and do notliing, but fish. I moon away all my time by ihs water-side, dreaming. But I don't mean to let it beat mo much longer. Here's the fourth day since I saw her. I came away the next morning. I shall give myself a week ; and, dear, do write me a long letter at once, and interpret it all to me. A woman knows so wonderfully what things mean. But don't make it out better than you really think. J^obody can stop my going on loving her, that's a comfort ; and while I can do that, and don't know tliat she loves anybody else, I ought to be happier than any other man in the world. Yes, I ought to be, but I ain't. I will be, though ; see if I won't. Ileigho ! Do write directly, my dear counsellor, to your affectionate cousin, T. B. " P.S. — I had almost forgotten my usual budget. I enclose my last from India. You will see by it that Harry is getting on famously. I am more glad than I can tell you that my friend East has taken him as his servant. He couldn't be under a better master. Poor Harry ! I sometimes think his case is more hopeless than my own. How is it to come right? or mine 1 " "Englebourn. "Dear Cousin, — You will believe how I devoured your letter ; though, when I had read the first few lines and saw what was coming, it made me stop and tremble. At first I could have cried over it for vexation ; but, now I have thought about it a little, I really do not see any reason to be dis- couraged. At any rate, Uncle Eobert now knows all about it, and will get used to the idea, and Mary seems to have received you just as you ought to have wished that she should. I am thankful that you have left off pressing me to write to her about you, for I am sure that would not be honourable ; and, to reward you, I enclose a letter of hers, which came yesterday. You will see that she speaks with such pleasure of having just caught a glimpse of you that you need not regret the shortness of the interview. You could not expect her to say more, because, after all, she can only guess ; and I cannot do more than answer as if I were quite innocent too. I am sure you will be very thankful to me some day for not having been your mouthpiece, as I was so very near being. You need not return the letter. I suppose I am getting more hopeful as I grow older — indeed, I am sure I am; for three or four years ago I should have been in despair about you, and now I am nearly sure that all will come right. *'But, indeed, cousin Tom, you cannot, or ought not tc wonder at Uncle Robert's objecting to your opinions. And THE INTERCEPTED LETTEK-BAG. 485 then I am so surprised to find you saying that you think you may very likely change them. Because, if that is the case, it would he so much better if you would not write and talk about them. Unless you are quite convinced of such things as you write in that dreadful paper, you really ought not to go on writing them so very much as if you believed them. " And now I am speaking to you about this, which I have often had on my mind to speak to you about, I must ask you not to send me that Wessex Freeman any more. I am always deUghted to hear what you think ; and there is a great deal in the articles you mark for me which seems very fine ; and I dare say you quite believe it all when you write it. Only I am quite afraid lest papa or any one of the servants should open the pajDers, or get hold of ^hem after I have opened them ; for 1 am sure there are a great many wicked things in the other parts of the paper. So, please do not send it m", but write and tell me yourself anything that you wish me to know of what you are thinking about and doing. As I did not like to burn the papers, and was afraid to keep them here, I have generally sent them on to your friend Mr. Hardy. He does not know who sends them ; and now you might send them yourself straight to him, as I do not know his address in the country. As you are going up again to keep a term, I wish you would talk them over with him, and see what he thinks about them. You will think this very odd of me, but you know you have always said how much you rely on his judgment, and that you have learnt so much from him. So I am sure you would wish to consult him ; and, if he thinks that you ought to go on writing, it will be a great help to you to know it. " I am so very glad to be able to tell you how well Martha is going on. I have always read to her the extracts from the letters from India which you have sent me, and she is very much obliged to you for sending them. I think there is no doubt that she is, and always has been, attached to poor widow Winburn's son, and, now that he is behaving so well, I can see that it gives her great pleasure to hear about Jiim. Only, I hope he will be able to come back before very long, because she is very much admired, and is likely to have so many chances of settling in life, that it is a great chance whether attachment to him will be strong enough to keep her single if he should be absent for many years. "Do you know I have a sort of superstition, that youi fate hangs upon theirs in seme curious marniGO" — the two 486 TOM BEOWiT AT OXFORD. stories have been so interwoven — and that they will both be settled happily much sooner than we dare to hope even just now. " Don't think, my dear cousin, that this letter is cold, or that I do not take the very deepest interest in all that concerns you. You and Mary are always in my thoughts, and there is nothing in the world I would not do for you both which I thought would help you. I am sure it would do you harm if I were only a go-between. Papa is much as usual. He gets out a good deal in his chair in the sun this fine weather. He desii-es me to say how glad he should be if you will come over soon and pay us a visit. I ho])e you will come very soon. " Ever believe me, dear Tom, " Your affectionate cousin, " Katie." *' November. " Dear Tom, — I hear that what you in England call a mail is to leave camp this evening ; so, that you may have no excuse for not writing to me constantly, I am sitting down to spin you such a yarn as I can under the dis- advantageous circumstances in which this will leave me. "This time last year, or somewhere thereabouts, I was enjoying academic life with you at Oxford; and now here I am, encamped at some mipronounceable place beyond Umbala. You won't be much the wiser for that. What do you know about Umbala? I didn't myself know that there was such a place till a month ago, when we were ordered to march up here. But one lives and learns. Marching over India has its disagreeables, of which dysentery and dust are about the worst. A lot of our fellows are down with the former ; amongst others my captain ; so I'm in command of the company. If it were not for the glorious privilege of .grumbling, I tliink we should all own that we liked the life. Moving about, though one does get frozen and broiled regularly once in twenty-four hours, suila me ; besides, they talk of matters coming to a crisis, and no e:id of fighting to be done directly. You'll know more about what's going on from the papers than we do, but here they F.i\\ the ball may begin any day ; so we are making forced I! larches to be up in time. I wonder how I shall like it. l't:!r}japs, in my next, I may tell you how a bullet sounds when it comes at yoiL If there is any fightmg I expect our regiment will make their mark. We are in tip-top order ; the coiouel is a grand felloAv, and the regiment feels his hand THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG. 487 down to the youngest drummer boj'. Wliat a deal of good I will do when I'm a colonel ! "1 duly doIivcre-BACt. 489 drew off al together. Then the fort had to he taken. Our two guns worked away at it till dark. In the night two of the gunners, who volunteered for the service, crept close up to the place, and reported that there was nothing to hinder our running right into it. Accordingly the colonel resolved to rush it at daybreak, and my company was told off to lead. The captain being absent, I had to command. I was with the dear old chief the last thing at night, getting his instruc- tions : ten minutes Avith him before going into action would make a hare fight. " There was cover to within one hundred and fifty yards of the place ; and there I, and poor little Jones, and the men, spent the night in a dry ditch. An hour before daybreak we were on the alert, and served out rations, and then they began playing tricks on one another as if we were out for a junketing. I sat with my watch in my hand, feeling queer, and wondering whether I was a greater coward than the rest. Then came a streak of light. I put up my watch, formed the men ; up went a rocket, my signal, and out into the open we went at the double. We hadn't got over a thu-d of the ground when bang went the fort guns, and the grape-shot were whistling about our ears ; so I shouted ' Forward ! ' and away we went as hard as we could go. I was obliged to go ahead, you see, because every man of them knew I had beaten Larry, their best runner, when he had no gun to carry ; but I didn't half like it, and should have blessed any hole or bramble which would have sent me over and given them time to catch me. But the ground was provokingly level ; and so I was at the first mound and over it several lengths in front of the men, and among a lot of black fellows serving the guns. They came at me like wild cats, and how I got off is a mystery. I parried a cut from one fellow, and dodged a second ; a third rushed at my left side. I just caught the flash of his tulwar, and thought it was all up, when he jumped into the air, shot through the heart by Sergeant Winburn ; and the next moment Master Larry rushed by me and plunged his bayonet into my friend in front. It turned me as sick as a dog. I can't fancy anything more disagreeable than seeing the operation for the first time, except being struck oneself. The supporting companies were in in another minute, with the dear old chief himself, who came up and shook hands with me, and said I had- done credit to the regiment. Then I began to look about, and missed poor little Jones. We found him about twenty yards from the place, with two grape-shot through him, stone dead, and smiling like a child asleep. We buried him in the fort. I cut off some of his hair, and sent it home to his 490 lOM BROWN AT OXFORD. mother. Her last letter was in his breast pocket, and a lock of bri.ffht brown hair of some one's. I sent them back, too, and his sword. " Since then we have been with the army, and had thret or four general actions ; about which I can teD you nothing, except that we have lost about a third of t)he regiment, and have always been told we have won. Steps go fast enough ; my captain died of wounds and dysentery a week ago ; so I have the company in earnest. How long I shall hold it is another question ; for, though there's a slack, we haven't done with sharp work yet, I can see. " How often we've talked, years ago, of what it must feel like going into battle ! Well, the chief thing I felt when the grape came down pretty thick for the first time, as we were advancing, was a sort of gripes in the stomach which made me want to go forward stooping. But I didn't give in to it ; the chief was riding close behind us, joking the youngsters who were ducking their heads, and so cheery and cool, that he made old soldiers of us at once. What with smoke, and dust, and excitement, you know scarcely anything of what is going on. The finest sight I have seen is the artillery going into action. Notliing stops those fellows. Places you would crane at out hunting they go I'ight over, guns, carriages, men, and all, leaving any cavalry we've got out here well behind. Do you know what a nullah is 1 Well, it's a great gap, like a huge dry canal, fifteen or twenty feet deep. We were halted behind one in the last great fight, waiting the order to advance, when a battery came up at full gallop. We all made sure they must be pulled up by the nullah. They never pulled bridle. ' Leading gun, right turn ! ' sang out the subaltern ; and down they went sideways into the nullah. Then, * Left turn ; ' up the other bank, one gun after another, the horses scrambhng like cats up and down places that my men had to use their hands to scramble up, and away on the other side to within 200 yards of the enemy ; and then, round Uke light- ning, and look out in front. "Altogether it's sickening work, though there's a grand sort of feeling of carrjdng your life in your hand. They say the Sepoy regiments have behaved shamefully. There is no sign of anything like funk amongst our fellows that I have seen. Sergeant Winburn has distinguished himself every- wliere. He is like my shadow, and I can see tries to watch over my precious carcase, and get between me and daugi^.r. He would be a deal more missed in the world than I. Except you, old friend, I don't know who would care much if I were knocked over to-morrow. Aunts and cousins are my nearest THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG. 491 relations. Y(ui know I never was a snuffler ; but this sort of life makes one serious, if one has any reverence at all in one. You'll be glad to have this line, if you don't hear from mo again. I've often thought in the last month that we shall never see one another again in this world. But, whether in this world or any other, you know I am and always shall be your afiectionate friend, " H. East." 'Camp on the Sutlej, ^^ January. *' Dear !Master Tom, — The captain's last words was, if anything happened I was to be sure to write and tell you. And so I take up my pen, though you will know as I am not used to writing, to tell you the misfortune as has happened to our regiment. Because, if you was to ask any man in our regiment, let it be whxO it would, he would say as the captain was the best officer as ever led men. Not but what there's a many of them as will go to the front as brave as lions, and don't value shot no more than if it was rotten apples ; and men as is men will go after such. But 'tis the captain's manner and ways, with a kind word for any poor fellow as is hurt, or sick and tired, and making no account of hisself, and, as you may say, no bounce with him ; that's what, makes the difference. " As it might be last Saturday, we came upon the enemy where he was posted very strong, with guns all along his front, and served till we got right up to them, the gunners being cut down and bayoneted when we got right up amongst them, and no quarter given ; and there was great banks of earth, too, to clamber over, and more guns behind ; so, with the marching up in front and losing so many officers and men, our regiment was that wild when we got amongst them 'twas awful to see, and, if there was any prisoners taken, it was more by mistake than not. " Me and three or four more settled, when the word came to prepare for action, to keep with the captain, because 'twas known to every one as no odds would stop him, and he would never mina nlsself. The dust and smoke and noise was that thick you couldn't see nor hear anything after our regiment was in action ; but, so far as I seen, when we was wheeled into line, and got the word to advance, there was as it might be as far as from our old cottage to the Hawk's Lynch to go ovei before we got to the guns, which was playing into us all the way. Our line went up very steady, only where men was knocked down ; and, when we come to within a matter of sixty yards, the officers jam2:)ed out and waved their swords, 492 TOM RTIOWN AT OXFORD. for 'twas no use to give words, and the ranks was broken by reason of the running up to take the guns from the enemy. ]\Ie and the rest went after the captain ; but he, being so light of foot, was first, by may be ten yards or so, at the mound, and so up before we was by him. But, though they was all round him like bees when we got to him, 'twas not then as he was hit. There was more guns further on, and we and they drove on all together ; and, though they was beaten, being fine tall men and desperate, there was many of them fighting hard, and, as you might say, a man scarcely knowed how he got hit. I kept to the captain as close as ever I could, but there was times when I had to mind myself Just as we come to the last guns, Larry, that's the captain's servant, was trying by hisself to turn one of them round, so as to fire on the enemy as they took the river to the back of their lines all in a huddle. So I turned to lend him a hand ; and, when I looked round next moment, there was the captain a stag- gering like a drunken man, and he so strong and lissom up to then, and never had a -scratch since the war begun, and this the last niinate of it pretty nigh, for the enemy was all cut to pieces and drowned that day. I got to him before he fell, and we laid him down gently, and did the best we could for him. But he was bleeding dreadful with a great gash in his side, and his arm broke, and two gunshot wounds. Our surgeon was killed, and 'twas hours before his wounds was dressed, and 'twill be God's mercy if ever he gets round ; though they do say, if the fever and dysentery keeps off, and he can get out of this country and home, there's no loiowing but he may get the better of it all, but not to serve with the regiment again for years to come. "I hope. Master Tom, as I've told jon all the captain would like as you should know ; only, not being much used to writing, I hope j^ou will excuse mistakes. And, if so be that it won't be too much troubling of you, and the captain should go home, and you could ^vrite to say how things was going on at home as before, w aich the captain always gave to me to read when the mail come in, it would be a great help towards keeping up of a good heart in a foreign land, which is hard at times to do. There is some tilings which I make bold to send by a comrade going home sick. I don't know as they will seem much, but I hope as you will acce];t of the sword, which belonged to one of their officers, and tlie rest to her. Also, on account of what was in the last piere as you forwarded, I send a letter to go along with the thingii, if Miss Winter, who have been so kind, or you, would deliver the same. To whom I make bold to send my respects as well THE INTEECErTED LETTEE-BAG. 493 as to yourself, and hoping this will find you well and all friends, and " From your respecful, "Henry Winburn, ^ " Colour-sergeant, 101st Regiment *' March. " My Dear Tom, — I begin to think I may see you again yet, but it has been a near shave. I hope Sergeant Winburn'3 letter, and the returns, in which I see I was put down " dangerously wounded," will not have frightened you very much. The war is over ; and, if I live to get down to Cal- cutta you will see me in the summer, please God. The end was like the beginning — going right up to guns. Our regiment is frightfully cut up ; there are only 300 men left under arms — the rest dead or in hospital. I am sick at heart at it, and weak in. body, and can only write a few lines at a time, but will get on with this as I can, in time for next mail » * * * * " Since beginjiing this letter I have had another relapse. So, in case I should never finish it, I will say at once what I most want to say. AVinburn has saved my life more than once, and is besides one of the noblest and bravest fellows in the world ; so I mean to provide for him in case anything should happen to me. I have made a will, and appointed you my executor, and left him a legacy. You must buy his discharge, and get him home and married to the Englebourn beauty as soon as possible. Eut what I want you to under- stand is, that if the legacy isn't enough to do this, and make all straight with her old curmudgeon of a father, it is my first wish that whatever will do it should be made up to him. He has been in hospital with a bad flesh wound, and has let out to me the whole of his story, of which you had only given me the heads. If that young woman does not wait for him, and book him, I shall give up all faith in petticoats, rfow that's done I feel more at ease. " Let me see. I haven't written for six weeks and more; just before our last great fight. You'll know all about it from the papers long before you get this — a bloody business — I am loath to thinly of it. I was knocked over in the last of their entrenchments, and should then and there have bled to death had it not been for Winburn. He never left me, though the killing, and plundering, and roystering afterwards, was going on all around, and strong temptation to a fellow when his blood is up, and he sees his com.rades at it, after Buch work as we had had. What's more, he caught my Irish fellow and made hiui stay by me too, and between them they 494 " TOM BllOWN AT OXFOED. managed to prop me up and stop the bleeding, tliongh it was loucli and go. I never thought they would manage it. You can't think what a curious feeling it is, the life going out of you. I was perfectly conscious, and knew all they were doing and Baying, and thought quite clearly, though in a sort'of dreamy way, about you, and a whole jumble of people and things at home. It was the most curious painless mixture of dream and life, getting more dreamy every minute. I don't suppose I could have opened my eyes or spoken ; at any rate I had no wish to do so, and didn't try. Several times tlie thought of death came close to me ; and, Avhether it was the odd state I was in, or what else I don't know, but the only feeling I had, was one of intense curiosity. I should think I must have lain there, with Winburn supporting my head, and moistening my Ups with rum-and-water, for four or five hours, before a doctor could be got. He had managed to drive Larry about till he had found, or borrowed, or stolen the drink, and then kept him making short cruises in search of help in the shape of hospital-staff, ambulances, or doctors, from which Master Larry always came back without the slightest success. My behef is, he employed those precious minutes, when he was from under his Serjeant's eye, in looting. At last, Winburn got impatient, and I heard him telling Larry what he was to do while he was gone himseK to find a doctor ; and then I was moved as gently as if I had been a sick girl. I heard him go off with a limp, but did not know tdl long after of his wound. " Larry had made such a waihng and to-do when they first found me, that a natural reaction now set in, and he began gently and tenderly to run over in his mind what could be made out of *the captin,' and what would become of his things. I found out this, partly through his habit of talking to himself, and partly from the precaution which he took of ascertaioing where my watch and purse were, and what else I had upon me. It tickled me immensely to hear him. Presently I found he was examining my boots, which he pronounced 'ihgant entirely,' and wondered whether he could get them on. The 'serjint' would never want them. And he then proceeded to assert, while he actually began unlacing tbem, that the 'captin' would never have ^bet him' but for the boots, which 'was worth ten feet in a furlong to any man.' * Shure 'tis too late now ; but wouldn't I like to run him agin with the bare feet?' I couldn't stand that, and just opened my eyes a little, and moved my hand, and said, * Done.' I wanted to add, ' you rascal,' but that was too much for me. Larry's face of horror, which I just caught through master's term. 495 my half-opened eyes, would have made me roar, if I had had strength for it. 1 believe the resolution I made that he should never go about in my boots helped me to pull through ; but, as soon as Winburn came back with the doctor, Master Larry departed, and I much doubt whether I shall ever set eyes on him again in the flesh. Not if he can help it, certainly. The regiment, what's left of it, is away in the Punjaub, and he with it. Winburn, as I told you, is hard hit, but no danger. I have great hopes that he will be invahded. You may depend upon it he will escort me home, if any interest of mine cai. manage it ; and the dear old chief is so kind to me that I think he will arrange it somehow. " I must be wonderfully better to have spun such a yarn. Writing those first ten lines nearly finished me, a week ago, and now I am scarcely thed after all this scrawl. If that rascal, Larry, escapes hanging another year, and comes back home, I will run him yet, and thrash his head off. " There is something marvellously life-giving in the idea oi sailing for old England again ; and I mean to make a strong fight for seeing you again, old boy. God bless you. Write again for the chance, directing to my agents at Calcutta, as before. Ever your half-alive, but whole-hearted and affec- tionate fiiend, "H. East." CHAPTER XLY. master's term. One more look into the old college where we have spent so much time already, not, I hope, altogether unpleasantly. Our hero is up in the summer term, keeping his three weeks' residence, the necessary preliminary to an M.A. degree. We find him sitting in Hardy's rooms ; tea is over, scouts out of college, candles lighted, and silence reigning, except when distant sounds of mirth come from some undergraduates' rooms on the opposite side of quad, through the open windows. Hardy is deep in the budget of Indian letters, some of which we have read in the last chapter ; and Tom reads them over again as his friend finishes them, and then care- fully folds them up and puts them back in their places in a large pocket-case. Except an occasional explanatory remark, or exclamation of interest, no word passes until Hardy finishes the last letter. Then he breaks out into praises of the two Harrys, which gladden Tom's heart as he fastens the case, and puts it back in his pocket, saying, " Yes, you won't find two finer fellows in a long summer's day j no, nor in twenty." 2t9G TOM BROWN AT OXFOllO. " And you expect thein home, then, in a week or two ? " " Yes, I think so. Just about the time I shall be going down." " Don't talk about going down. You haven't been here a week." " Just a week. One out of three. Tliree weeks wasted in keeping one's Master's term ! Why can't you give a fellow his degree quietly, without making him come and kick his heels here for three weeks 1 " " You ungrateful dog ! Do you mean to say you haven'l enjoyed coming back, and sitting in dignity in the bachelors' seats in chapel, and at the bachelors' table in hall, and thinking how much wiser you are than the undergi*aduates ? Besides, your old friends want to see you, and you ought to want to see them." " Well, I'm very glad to see something of you again, old fellow. I don't find that a year's absence has made any change in you. But who else is there that I care to seel My old friends are gone, and the year has made a great gap between me and the youngsters. They look on me as a sort of don." " Of course they do. Whj, you are a sort of don. You will be an M.A. in a fortnight, and a member of Convoca- tion." " Very Kkely ; but I don't appreciate the dignity. I can tell you behig up here now is anything but enjoyable. You have never broken with the place. And then, you always did your duty, and have done the college credit. You can't enter into the feelings of a fellow whose connexion with Oxford has been quite broken off, and who wasted three parts of his time here, when he comes back to keep his Master's." " Come, come, Tom. You might have read more, certainly, with benefit to yourself and the college, and taken a higher degree. But, after all, didn't the place do you a great deal of good 1 and you didn't do it much harm. I don't like to see you in this sort of gloomy state ; it isn't natural to you." " It is becoming natural. You haven't seen much of me during the last year, or you would have remarked it. And then, as I tell you, Oxford, when one has nothing to do in it but to moon about, thinking over one's past follies and sins, isn't cheerful. It never was a very cheerful place to me at the best of times." " Not even at pulling times 1 " " Well, the river is the part I like best to think o£ But MASTEll*S TERM. 497 even the river makes me ratlier melancholy vow. One feels one has done with it." " Wliy, Tom, I believe your melancholy comes from their not having asked you to pull in the boat." " Perliaps it docs. Don't you call it degrading to be pulling in the torpid in one's old age ? " " ]\Iortified vanity, man ! They have a capital boat. I wonder how we should have hked to have been turned out for some bachelor just because he had pulled a good oar in his day 1 " " ]^ot at all. I don't blame the young ones, and I hope I do my duty in the torpid. By the way, they're an uncom- monly nice set of youngsters. Much better behaved in every way than we were, unless it is that they put on their best manners before me." " !No, I don't think they do. The fact is, they are really fine young fellows," " So I think. And I'll tell you what, Jack ; since we are sitting and talking our minds to one another at last, like old times, somebody has made the most wonderful change in this college. I rather think it is seeing what St. Ambrose's is now, and thinking what it was in my time, and what an uncommon member of society I should have turned out if I had had the luck to have been here now instead of then, that makes me down in the mouth — more even than having to pull in the torpid instead of the racing boat." " You do think it is improved, then ? " " Think ! Why it is a different place altogether ; and, as you are the oidy new tutor, it must have been your doing. Now, I want to know your secret." " I've no secret, except taking a real interest in all that the men do, and living with them as much as I can. You may fancy it isn't much of a trial to me to steer the boat down, or run on the bank and coach the crew." " Ah ! I remember ; you were beginning that before I left, in your first year. I knew that would answer." " Yes. The fact is, I find that just what 1 like best is the very best thing for the men. With very few exceptions they are all glad to be stirred up, and meet me nearly half-way in reading, and three-quarters in everything else. I beheve they t^ould make me captain to-morrow." " And why don't you let them, then 1 " " No ; there's a time for everything. I go in in the scrat(;h fours for the pewters, and — more by token — my crew won them two years running. Look at my trophies," and he pointed to two pewter pots, engraved with the college arms, which stood on his side-board. K K 498 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. " WeU, I dare say you're right But what does the presi- dent say ] " " Oh, he is a convert Didn't you see hira on the bank when you torpids made your bump the other night ] " " No, you don't mean it 1 Well, do you know, a sort of vision of black tights, and a broad-brimmed hat, crossed me, but I never gave it a second thought. And so the president comes out to see the St. Ambrose boat row ? " " Seldom misses two nights running." " Then, ' carry me out, and bury me decently.* Have you seen old Tom walking round Peckwater lately on his clapper, smoking a cigar with the Dean of Christchurch ? Don't be afraid. I am ready for anything you like to tell me. Draw any amount you like on my faith ; I shall honour the draft after that" " The president isn't a bad judge of an oar, when he seta his mind to it." " Isn't he 1 But, I say, Jack — no sell — how in the world did it happen 1 " " I believe it happened chiefly through his talks with me. When I was first made tutor he sent for me and told me he had heard I encouraged the young men in boating, and he must positively forbid it 1 didn't much care about staying up ; so I was pretty plain with him, and said, ' if 1 was not allowed to take the line I thought best in such matters I must resign at the end of term.' He assented, but afterwards thought better of it, and sent for me again, and we had several encounters. I took my ground very civilly but firmly, and he had to give up one objection after another. 1 think the turning-point was when he quoted St. Paul on me, and said I was teaching boys to worship physical strength, instead of teaching them to keep imder their bodies and bring them into subjection. Of course I countered him there with tremendous elfect. The old boy took it very well, only saying he feared it was no use to argue further — in this matter of boat^racing he had come to a conclusion, not without serious thought, many years before. However, he came round quietly. And so he has on other points. In fact, he is a wonderfully open- minded man for his age, if you only put things to him the rigl'.t way." *' Has he come round about gentlemen-commoners ] I gee you've only two or three up." " Yes. We haven't given up taking them altogether. I hope that may come soon. But I and another tutor took to plucking them ruthlessly at matriculation, unless they weie quite up to the commoner standard. The consequence was, a mastek's term. 499 row in common room. We stood out, and won. Luckily, as you know, it has always been given out here that all under- graduates, gentlemen-commoners and commoners, have to pass the same college examinations, and to attend the same courses of lectures. You know also what a mere sham and pretence the rule had become. Well, we simply made a reality of it, and in answer to all objectors said, * Is it our rule or not 1 If it is, we are bound to act on it. If you want to alter it, tliere are the regular ways of doing* so.' After a little grumb- ling they let us have our way, and the consequence is, that velvet is getting scarce at St. Ambrose." *' What a blessing ! What other miracles have you been performing ] " " The best reform we have carried is throwing the kitchen and cellar open to the undergraduates." " W-h-e-w ! That's just the sort of reform we should have appreciated. Fancy Drysdale's lot with the key of the college cellars, at about ten o'clock on a shiny night." " You don't quite understand the reform. You remember, when you were an undergraduate you couldn't give a dinner in college, and you had to buy your wine anywhere 1 " " Yes. And awful firewater we used to get. The governor supplied me, like a wise man." "Well, we have placed the college in the relation of benevolent father. Every undergraduate now can give two dinners a term in his own rooms, from the kitchen ; or more, if he comes and asks, and has any reason to give. We take care that they have a good dinner at a reasonable rate, and the men are delighted mth the arrangement. I don't believe there are three men in the college now who have hotel bills. And we let them have all their wine out of the college cellars." "That's what I call good common-sense. Of course it must answer in every way. And you find they ail come to you 1 " "Almost all. They can't get anything like the wine we give them at the price, and they know it." " Do you make them pay ready money 1 " " The dinners and wine are charged in their battel bills ; so they have to pay once a term, just as they do for their orders at commons." " It must swell their battel bills awfuUy." " Yes, but battel bills always come in at the begiim.ing of term, when they are flush of money. Besides, they all know that battel bills must be paid. In a small way it is the best thing that ever was done for St. Ambrose's. You see it ?ut6 K k2 500 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. BO many ways. Keeps men in college, knocks off the most objectionable bills at inns and pastry-cooks', keeps them from being poisoned, makes them pay their bills regularly, shows them that we like them to be able to live like gentlemen — " " And lets you dons know what they are all about, and how much they spend in the way of entertaining." ^' Yes ; and a very good thing for them too. They know that we shall not interfere while they behave like gentlemen." " Oh, I'm not objecting. ' And was this your doing, too 1 " " Xo ; a joint business. We hatched it in the common room, and then the bursar spoke to the president, who was fuiious, and said we were giving the sanction of the college to disgraceful luxury and extravagance. Luckily he had not the power of stopping us, and now is convinced." "The goddess of common-sense seems to have alighted again in the quad of St. Ambrose. You'll never leave the place, Jack, now you're beginning to get everything your own way." "On the contrary, T don't mean to stop up more than another year at the outside. I have been tutor nearly three years now ; that's about long enough." " Do you think you're right 1 You seem to have hit on your line in life wonderfully. You like the work, and the work likes you. You are doing a heap of good up here. You'll be president in a year or two, depend on it. I should say you had better stick to Oxford." " No. I should be of no use in a year or two. "We want a constant current of fresh blood here." " In a general way. But you don't get a man every day who can throw himself irto the men's pursuits, and can get hold of them in the right M^ay. And then, after all, when a fellow has got such work cut out for him as you have, Oxford must be an uncommonly pleasant place to live in." " Pleasant enough in many ways. But you seem to have forgotten how you used to rail against it. "Yes. Because I never hit off the right ways of the place. But, if I had taken a fii'st and got a fellowship, I should like it well enough, I dare say." " Being a fellow, on the contrary, makes it worse. While one was an undergraduate one could feel vh'tuous and indig- nant at the vices of Oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money- worship which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. They become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart." "Why, Jack, we're changing characters to-night Fancy MASTERS TERM. 501 your coming out in the abusive line ! Why, I never said harder things of Alma Mater myself. However, there's plenty of flunkey ism and money- worship everywhere else." " Yes ; but it is not so heartbreaking in other places. When one thinks what a great centre of learning and faitli like Oxford ought to be — that its highest educational work should just be the deliverance of us all from flunkey ism and money-worship — and then looks at matters here without rose- coloured spectacles, it gives one sometimes a sort of chilly leaden despondency, which is very hard to struggle against." " I am sorry to hear you talk like that, Jack, for one can't help loving the place after all." " So I do, God knows. If I didn't I shouldn't care for its shortcomings." " Well, the flunkeyism and money- worship were bad enough, but I don't think they were the worst things — at least not in my day. Our neglects were almost worse than our worships." " You mean the want of all reverence for parents ? Well, perhaps that lies at the root of the false worships. They spring up on the vacant soil." " And the want of reverence for women. Jack. The worst of all, to my mind ! " "Perhaps you are right. But we are not at the bottom yet." " How do you mean ? " " I mean that we must worship God before we can rever- ence parents or women, or root out flunkeyism and money- worship." "Yes. But after all can we fairly lay that sin on Oxford? Surely, whatever may be growing up side by side with it, there's more Christianity here than almost anywhere else." " Plenty of common-room Christianity — belief in a dead God. There, I have never said it to any one but you, but that is the slough we have to get out of. Don't think that I despair for us. We shall do it yet ; but it will be sore work, stripping ofi" the comfortable wine-party religion in which we are wrapped up — work for our strongest and our ^visest." " And yet you think of leaving ? " " There are other reasons. I will tell you some day. But now, to turn to other matters, how have you been getting on this last year ? You write so seldom that I am all behind- hand." " Oh, much the same as usuaL" "Then you are still like one of those who went out to David?" "2^0, Pm not in debt." o02 TOM BEOWN AT OXTOED. " But discontented 1 " " Pretty much like you there, Jack. However, content is no virtue, that I can see, while there's anything to mend. Who is going to be contented with game-preserving, and corn-laws, and grinding the faces of the poor 1 David's camp was a better place than Saul's, any day." Hardy got up, opened a drawer, and took out a bundle of papers, which Tom recognised as the Wessex Freeman. lie felt rather uncomfortable, as his friend seated himself again, and began looking them over. " You see what I have here," he said. Tom nodded. " Well, there are some of the articles I should Jike to ask you about, if you don't object." "No; go on." " Here is one, then, to begin with. I won't read it all. Let me see ; here is what I was looking for," and he began reading : " One would think, to hear these landlords, our rulers, talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep woods, the everlasting hills, and the rivers that run among them, were made for the sole purpose of ministering to their greedy lusts and mean ambitions ; that they may roll out amongst unrealities their pitiful mock lives, from their silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins, studded with silver knobs, and lying coats of arms, reaping where they have not sown, and gathering where they have not strewed ; making tlie omer small and the ephah great, that they may sell the refuse of the wheat ' " "That'll do, Jack ; but what's the date of that paper?" ' " July last. Is it yours, then 1 " " Yes. And I allow it's too strong and one-sided. I have given up writing altogether ; will that satisfy you 1 I don't see my own way clear enough yet. But for all that I'm not ashamed of what I wi'ote in that paper." " I have nothing more to say after that, except that I'm heartily glad you have given up writing for the present." " But I say, old fellow, how did you get these papers, and know about my articles 1 " " They were sent me. Shall I burn them now, or would you like to have them? We needn't say anything more about them." " Burn them by all means. I suppose a friend sent them to you 1 " " I suppose so." Hardy went on burning the papers in silence ; and as Tom watched him, a sudden light seemed to break upon him. FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN. 603 " I say, Jack," he said presently, " a little bird has beea whispering something to me about that friend." Hardy winced a little, and redoubled his diligence in burning the papers. Tom looked on smiling, and thinking how to go on now that he had so unexpectedly turned the tables on his monitor, when the clock struck twelve. " Hullo !" he said, getting up ; "time for me to knock out, or old Copas will be in bed. To go back to where we started from to-night — as soon as East and Harry Winburn get back we shall have some jolly doings at Englebourn, There'll be a wedding, I hope, and you'll come over and do parson for us, won't you ? " " You mean for Patty 1 Of course I wilL" " The little bird whispered to me that you wouldn't dislike visiting that part of the old county. Good-night, Jack. I wish you success, old fellow, with all my heart, and I hope after all that you may leave St. Ambrose's within the year." CHAPTEE XLYI. FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN. If a knowledge of contemporary history must be reckoned as an important element in the civilization of any people, then I am afraid that the good folk of Englebourn must have been content, in the days of our story, with a very low place on the ladder. Hoav, indeed, was knowledge to percolate, so as to reach down to the foundations of Englebournian society — the stratum upon which all others rest — the common agricultural labourer, producer of corn and other grain, the careful and stolid nurse and guardian of youthful oxen, sheep, and pigs, many of them far better fed and housed than his own children ? All-penetrating as she is, one cannot help wondering that she did not give up Englebourn altogether as a hopeless job. So far as WTitten periodical instruction is concerned (with the exception of the Quarterly, which Dr. Winter had taken in from its commencement, but rarely opened), the supply was limited to at most half a dozen weekly papers. A London journal, sound in Church and State principles, most respectable but not otherwise than heavy, came every Satur- day to the rectory. The Conservative county paper was taken in at the Red Lion ; and David the constable, and the blacksmith, clubbed together to purchase the Liberal paper, by help of which they managed to wage unequal war 504 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. with thA knot of village quidnuncs, who assemhled almost nightly at the har of the Tory beast above referred to — that king of beasts, red indeed in colour, but of the truest blue in political principle. Besides these, perhaps three or four more papers were taken by the farmers. But, scanty as the food was, it was quite enough for the mouths ; indeed, when the papers once passed out of the parlours they had for the most part performed their mission. Few of the farm- servants, male or female, had curiosity or scholarship enough to spell through the dreary columns. And oral teaching was not much more plentiful, as how was it likely to be ? Englebourn was situated on no trunk road, and the amount of intercourse between it and the rest of the world was of the most limited kind. The rector never left home ; the curate at rare intervals. Most of the farmers went to market once a week, and dined at their ordinary, dis- cussing county politics after their manner, but bringing home little, except as much food and drink as they could cleverly carry. The carrier went to and from Kewbury once a week ; but he was a silent man, chiefly bent on collecting and selling butter. The postman, who was deaf!, only went as far as the next village. The waggoners drove their masters' produce to market from time to time, and boozed away an hour or two in. the kitchen, or tap, or skittle-alley, of some small public-house in the nearest town, while their horses rested. With the above exceptions, probably not one of the villagers strayed ten miles from home, from year's end to year's end. As to visitors, an occasional pedlar or small commercial traveller turned up about once a quarter. A few boys and girls, more enterprising than their fellows, went out altogether into the world of their own accord, in the course of the year ; and an occasional burly ploughboy, or carter's boy, was entrapped into taking the Queen's shilling by some subtle recruiting sergeant. But few of these were seen again, except at long intervals. The yearly village feasts, harvest homes, or a meet of the hounds on Englebourn Common, were the most ex- citing events which in an ordinary way stirred the surface of Englebourn life ; only faintest and most distant mui-murs of the din and strife of the great outer world, of wars, and rimours of wars, the fall of governments and the throes of nations, reached that primitive, out-of-the-way little village. A change was already showing itself since Miss Winter had been old enough to look after the schools, Ihe waters were beginning to stir ; and by this time, no doubt, the parish boasts a regular book-hawker and reading-room ; but at that day Englebourn was h'ke one of those small ponds you may FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN. 505 find in some nook of a hill-side, the banks grown over with nnderwood, to which neither man nor beast, scarcely the winds of heaven, have any access. Wlien you have found such a pond you may create a great excitement amongst the easy-going newts and frogs who inhabit it, by throwing in a pebble. The splash in itself is a small splash enough, and the waves which circle away from it are very tiny waves, but they move over the whole face of the pond, and are of more interest to the frogs than a nor'-wester in the Atlantic. So the approaching return of Harry Winburn, and the story of his doings at the wars, and of the wonderful things he had sent home, stirred Englebourn to its depths. In that small corner of the earth the sergeant was of far more im- portance than governor-general and commander-in chief. In fact, it was probably the common belief that he was somehow the head of the whole business ; and India, the war, and all that hung thereon, were looked at and cared for only as they had served to bring him out. So careless were the good folk about everything in the matter except their own hero, and so wonderful were the romances which soon got abroad abou^-. him, that Miss Winter, tired of explaining again and again to the old women without the slightest effect on the parochial faith, bethought her of having a lectnre on the subject of India and the war in the parish schoolroom. Full of this idea, she wrote off to Tom, who was the medium of communication on Indian matters, and propounded it to him. The difficulty was, that Mr. Walker, the curate, the only person competent to give it, was going away directly for a three weeks' holiday, having arranged with two neighbour- ing curates to take his Sunday duty for him. What was to be done 1 Harry might be back any day, it seemed ; so there was no time to be lost. Could Tom come himself, and help her? Tom could not ; but he wrote back to say that his friend Hardy was just getting away from Oxford for the long vaca- tion, and would gladly take Mr. Walker's duty for the three weeks, if Dr. Winter approved, on his way home : by which arrangement Englebourn would not be without an efficient paraon on week-days, and she would have the man of all others to help her in utilising the sergeant's history for the instruc- tion of the bucolic mind. The arrangement, moreover, would be particularly happy, because Hardy had already promised to perform the marriage ceremony, which Tom and she had settled would take place at the earliest possible moment after the return of the Indian heroes. Dr. Winter was very glad to accept the offer ; and so, whan 606 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. they parted at Oxford, Hardy went to Engleboum, where we must leave liim for the present. Tom went home — whence, in a few days, he had to hurry down to Southampton to meet the two Harrys. He was much shocked at first to see the state of his old school-fellow. East looked haggard and pale in the face, notwithstanding the sea- voyage. His clothes hung on him as if they had been made for a man of twice his size, and he walked with difficulty by the help of a large stick. But he had lost none of his indomitablenoss, laughed at Tom's long face, and declared that he felt himself getting better and stronger every day. " If you had only seen me at Calcutta," he said, " you would sing a different song. Eh, Win])urn ? " Harry Winburn was much changed, and had acquired all the composed and self-reliant look which is so remar liable in a good non-commissioned officer. Readiness to obey and command was stamped on every line of his face ; but it required all liis powers of self-restraint to keep within bounds his delight at getting home again. His wound was quite healed, and his health re-established by the voyage ; and, when Tom saw how wonderfully his manners and carriage were improved, and how easily his uniform sat on him, he felt quite sure that all would be soon right at Englebourn, and that Katie and he would be justified in their prophecies and preparations. The invalids had to report thi^.mselves in London, and thither the three proceeded together. When this was done, Harry AVinburn was sent off at once. He re- sisted at first, and begged to be allowed to stay with his captain until the Captain could go into Berkshire himself. But he was by this time too much accustomed to discipline not to obey a positive order, and was comforted by Tom's assurance that he would not leave East, and would do everything for him which the sergeant had been accustomed to do. Three days later, as East and Tom were sitting at breakfast, a short note came from Miss Winter, telling of Harry's arrival — how the bells were set ringing to welcome him ; how Mr. Hardy had preached the most wonderful sermon on his story tlie next day ; above all, how Patty had surrendered at dis- cretion, and the banns had been called for the first time. So the sooner they could come down the better — as it was very important that no time should be lost, lest some of the old jealousies and quarrels should break out again. Upon reading and considering which letter. East resolved to start for Engle- bourn at once, and Tom to accompany him. There was one person to whom Harry's return and approach- ing wedding was a subject of unmixed joy and triumph, and FKOM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN. 507 tliat was David the constable. He had always been a sincere friend to Harry, and had stood up for him when all the parish respectabilities had turned against him, and had prophesied that he would live to be a credit to the place. So now David felt himself an inch higher as he saw Harry walking about in his uniform with his sweetheart, the admiration of all Engle- bourn. But, besides all the unselfish pleasure which David enjoyed on his young friend's account, a little piece of private and personal gratification came to him on his own. Ever since Harry's courtship had begun David had felt himself in a false position towards, and had sufi'ered under, old Simon, the rector's gardener. The necessity for keeping the old man in good humour for Harry^s sake had always been present to the constable's mind ; and, for the privilege of putting in a good word for his favourite every now and then, he had allowed old Simon to assume an air of superiority over him, and to trample upon him and dogmatize to him, even in the matters of flowers and bees. This had been the more galling to David on accoimt of old Simon's intolerant Toryism, which the constable's soul rebelled against, except in the matter of Church music. On this one point they agreed, but even here Simon managed to be anpleasant. He would lay the whole blame of the changes which had been effected upon David, accusing him of having given in when there was no need. As there was nothing but a wall between the Eectory garden and David's little strip of ground, in which he spent all his leisure time untn the shades of evening summoned him to the bar of the Red Lion for his daily pint and pipe, the two were con- stantly within hearing of one another, and Simon, in times past, had seldom neglected an opportunity of making himself disagreeable to his long-suffering neighbour. But now David was a free man again ; and he took the earliest occasion of making the change in his manner apparent to Simon, and of getting, as he called it, "upsides" with him. One would have thought, to look at him, that the old gardener was as pachydermatous as a rhinoceros ; but somehow ho seemed to feel that things had changed between them, and did not appreciate an interview with David now nearly so much as of old. So he found very little to do in that part of the garden which abutted on the constable's premises. When he could not help working there, he chose the times at which David was most likely to be engaged, or even took the trouble to ascertain that he was not at home. Early on Midsummer-day, old Simon reared his ladder against the boundary wall, with the view of " doctorin* " some of the fruit trees, relying on a parish meeting, at which the j08 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. constable's presence was required. But he had not more than half finished his operations before David returned from vestry^ and, catching sight of the top of the ladder and Simon's head above the wall, laid aside all other business, and descended into the garden. Simon kept on at his work, only replying by a jerk of the head and one of his grunts to his neighbour's salutation. David took his coat off, and his pruning knife out, and, estabhshing himself within easy shot of his old oppressor, opened fire at once — " Thou'st gi'en thy consent then ] " " 'Tis no odds, consent or none — her's old enough to hev her own waay." " But thou'st gi'en thy consent 1 " " Ees, then, if thou wilt hev't," said Simon, surlily ; " wut then?" "So I heerd," said David, indulging in an audible chuckle. " What bist a lar.ghin' at 1 " " I be laughin' to tlunk how folks changes, Do'st mind the hard things as thou hast judged and said o' Harry 1 Not as ever I know^n thy judgment to be o' much account, 'cept about roots. But thou saidst, times and times, as a would come to the gallows." " So a med yet — so a med yet," answered Simon. " ^N'ot but wut I wishes well to un, and bears no gi-udges ; but others as hev got the law ov un medn't." " 'Tis he as hev got grudges to bear. He don't need none o' thy forgiveness." "Pr'aps a medn't. But hev 'em got the law ov un, or hevn't 'em 1 " " Wut do'st mean : got the law ov un 1" " Thaay warrants as wur out agen un, along wi' the rest as was transpworted auver Farmer Tester's job." " Oh, he' ve got no call to be afeard o' thaay now. Thou knoVst I hears how 'tis laid down at Sessions and 'Sizes, wher' I've a been this twenty year." " Like enuff. Only, wut's to hinder thaay tryin' ov un, if thaay be a minded to 't ? That's wut I wants to know." "'Tis wut the counsellors calls the Statut o' Lamentations," said the constable, proudly. " Wutever's Lamentations got to do wi't 1 " " A gurt deal, 1 tell 'ee. What do'st thou know o* Lamen. tations 1 " " Lamentations cums afore Ezekiel in the Bible." " That ain't no kin to the Statut o' Lamentations. But there's summut 'ike to't m the Bible,'* said the constable, FROM INDIA TO El^GLEBOURN. 50y stopping liis work to consider a moment. " Do'st mind the year when the land wur all to be guv back to thaay as owned it fust, and debts wur to be wiped out 1 " " Ees, I minds summut o' that." " Well, this here statut says, if so be as a man hev bin to the wars, and sarved his country like, as nothin' shan't be reckoned agen he, let alone murder. Kothin' can't do away wi' murder." " No, ner oughtn't. Hows'mdever, you seems clear about the law on't. There's Miss a callin'." And old Simon's head disappeared as he descended the ladder to answer the summons of his young mistress, not displeased at having his fears as to the safety of his future son-ill-law set at rest by so eminent a legal authority as the constable. Fortunately for Harry, the constable's law was not destined to be tried. Young Wurley was away in London. Old Tester was bedridden with an accumulation of diseases brought on by his bad life. His illness made him more violent and tyrannical than ever ; but he could do little harm out of his own room, for no one ever went to see him, and the wretched farm-servant who attended him was much too fright- ened to tell him anything of what was going on in the parish. There was no one else to revive proceedings against Harry. David pottered on at his bees and his flowers till old Simon returned, and ascended his ladder again. " You be ther' still, be 'ee 1 " he said, as soon as he saw David. " Ees. Any news ? " " Ah, news enuff. He as wur Harry's captain and young Mr. Brown be comin' down to-morrow, and hev tuk all the Red Lion to theirselves. And thaay beant content to wait for banns — not thaay — and so ther's to be a license got for Saturday. 'Taint scarce decent, that 'taint." " 'Tis best to get drough wi't," said the constable. ** Then nothin'll sarve 'em but the church must be hung wi' flowers, and wher' be thaay to cum from without strippin' and starvin' ov my beds? 'Tis shameful to see how folks acts wi' flowers now-a-days, a cuttin' on 'em and puttin' on 'em ah 'J as prodigal as though thaay growed o* their- selves." " So 'tis shameful," said David, whose sympathies for flowers were all with Simon. " I heers tell as young Squire Wurley hevs 'em on table at dinner-time instead o' the wittles." " Do'ee though ! I calls it reg'lar papistry, and so I telk Miss ; but her only laughs." 510 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. The constable shook his head solemnly as he replied; "HerVe been led away wi' such doin's ever sence Mr. Walker cum, and took to organ-playin' and chantin'." " And he ain't no sich gurt things in the pulpit neether, ain't Mr. Walker," chimed in Simon (the two had not been so in harmony for years), " I reckon as he ain't nothiu' to speak ov alongside o' this here new un as hev tuk his place. He've a got a good deal o' move in un, he hev." " Ah, so a hev. A wunnerful sight o' things a telled ua t'other night about the Indians and the wars." " Ah ! talking cums as nat'ral to he as buttermilk to a litterin' sow." " Thou shoulds't a heerd un, though, about the battles. I can't mind the neames on 'em— let me see — " " I dwun't vally the neames," interrupted Simon. " Thaay makes a deal o' fuss auver't aal, but I dwun't tek no account on't. 'Tain't like the owld wars and fightin' o' the French, this here hghtin' wi' blackamoors, let 'em talk as thaay wool" " ^0 more 'tain't. But 'twur a 'mazin' fine talk as he gi'n us. Hev'ee seed ought 'twixt he and young missus ? " " Nothin' out o' th' common. I got plenty to do without looldn' arter the women, and 'tain't no bisness o' mine, nor o' thine neether." David was preparing a stout rejoinder to this rebuke of the old retainer of the Winter family on his curiosity, but was summoned by his wife to the house to attend a customer ; and by the time he could get out again Simon had dis- appeared. The next day East and Tom arrived, and took possession of the Eed Lion ; and Englebourn was soon in a ferment of preparation for the wedding. East was not the man to do things by halves ; and, seconded as he was by Miss Winter and Hardy and Tom, had soon made arrangements for all sorts of merrymaking. The school-children were to have a w^hole holiday, and, after scattering flowers at church and marching in the bridal procession, were to be entertained in a tent pitched in the home paddock of the Rectory, and to have an afternoon of games and prizes, and tea and cake. The bell-ringers, Harry's old comrades, were to have five shillings apiece, and a cricket match, and a dinner afterwards at the second public-house, to which any other of his old friends whom Harry chose to ask were to be also invited. The old men and women were to be fed in the village school-room ; and East and Tom were to entertain a select party of the farmers and tradesmen at the Red Lion, the tap of which THE WEDDING-DAY. Oil hostelry was to be thro\vii open to all comers at tlie Captain's expense. It was not without considerable demur on the part of Miss Winter that some of these indisciiminate festivities were allowed to pass. But after consulting with Hardy- she relented, on condition that the issue of beer at the two public-houses should be put under the control of David the constable, who, on his part, promised that law and order should be well represented and maintained on the occasion. " Artei all, Miss, you sees, 'tis only for once in a waay," he said ; " and 'twill make 'em remember aal as hev bin said to 'em about the Indians and the rest on't." So the Captain and his abettors, having gained the constable as an ally, prevailed ; and liiglebourn, mii3li wondering at itself, made ready for a general holiday. CHAPTEK XLYII. THE VEDDING-DAY. One — more — poor — man — un-done — One — more — poor — man — un-done. ThTfi bel fry-to wer rocked and reeled, as that peal rang out, now merry, now scornful, now plaintive, from those narrow belfry windows, into the bosom of the soft south-west wind which was playing round the old grey to'wcr of Englebourn church. And the wind cauglit the peal and played with it, and bore it away over Rectory and village street, and many a homestead, and gently waving field of ripening corn, and rich pasture and water-meadow, and tall whispering woods of the Grange, and roUed it against the hill-side, and up the slope past the clump of firs on the Hawk's Lynch, till it died away on the wild stretches of common beyond. The ringers bent lustily to their work. There had been no such ringing in Englebourn since the end of the great war. Not content with the usual peal out of church, they came back again and again in the afternoon, full of the good cheer which had been provided for them ; and again and again the wedding peal rang out from the belfry in honour of their old comrade — One — m ore — poor — man — ^un-done — One — more — poor — man — im-done. Such was the ungallant speech which for many generations had been attributed to the Englebourn wedding-bells ; and when you had once caught the words— a^ you would be sure to do from some wide-mouthed grinning boy, lounging over 512 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. the churchyard rails to see the -wedding pass — it would be impossible to persuade yourself that they did, in fact, say anything else. Somehow, Harry Winburn bore his undoing in the most heroic manner, and did his duty throughout the trying day as a non-commissioned officer and bridegroom should. The only part of the performance arranged by his captain which he fairly resisted, was the proposed departure of himself and Patty to the station in the solitary post-chaise of Englebourn — a real old yellow — "udth a pair of horses. East, after hearing the sergeant's pleading on the subject of vehicles, at last allowed them to drive off in a tax-cart, taking a small boy with them beliind, to bring it back. As for the festivities, they went off without a hitch, as such affairs will, where the leaders of the revels have their hearts in them. The children had all played, and romped, and eaten, and drunk themselves into a state of torpor by an early hour of the evening. The farmers' dinner was a de- cided success. East proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom, and was followed by Farmer Grove and the con- stable. David turned out in a new blue swallow-taUed coat, with metal buttons, of his own fabulous cut, in honour of the occasion. He and the farmer spoke like the leader of the Government and the Opposition in the House of Commons on an address to the Crown. There was not a pin to choose between their speeches, and . a stranger hearing them would naturally have concluded that Harry had never been anything but the model boy and young man of the parish. Fortunately, the oratorical powers of Englebourn ended here ; and East, and the majority of liis guests, adjourned to the green, where the cricket was in progress. Each game lasted a very short time only, as the youth of Englebourn were not experts in the noble science, and lost their wickets one after another so fast, that Tom and Hardy had time to play out two matches with them, and then to retire on their laurels, while the after- noon was yet young. The old folk in the village school-room enjoyed their beef and pudding, under the special superintendence of Miss Winter, and then toddled to their homes, and sat about in the warmest nooks they could find, mumbling of old times and the doings at Dr. Winter's wedding. David devoted himself to superintending the issue of beer, swelling with importance, but so full of the milk of human kindness from the great event of the day that nobody minded his little aiT-s. Ho did his dut}'' so satisfactorily that, with the exception of one or two regular confirmed soakers, who stuck steadily to the tap of the Red Lion and there managed THE WEDDING-DAY. 513 successfully to fuddle themselves, there was nothing like drunkenness. In short, it was one of those rare days when everything goes right, and everybody seems to be inclined to give and take, and to make allowances for their neighbours. By degrees tlie cricket flagged, and most of the men went off to sit over their pipes, and finish the evening in their own way. The boys and girls took to playing at " kissing in the ring ;" and the children who had not already gone home sat in groups watching then. Miss Winter had already disappeared, and Tom, Hardy, and the Captain began to feel that they might consider their part finished. They strolled together off the green towards Hardy's lodgings, the Eed Lion being still in the possession of East's guests. " W«ell, how do you thing it all went off?" asked he. " Notliing could have been better," said Hardy ; and they all seem so inclined to be reasonable that I don't think we shall even have a roaring song along the street to-night when the Red Lion shuts up." " And you are satisfied, Tom 1 " " I should think so. I have been hoping for this day any time this four years, and now it has come, and gone off well, too, thanks to you, Harry." " Thanks to me ? Ver} good ; I am open to any amount, of gratitude." " I think you have every reason to be satisfied with your second day's work at Englebourn, at auy rate." "So I am. I only hope it may turn out as well as the first." " Oh, there's no doubt about that." " I don't know. I rather believe in the rule of contraries." " How do you mean ? " " Why, when you inveigled me over from Oxford, and we carried off the sergeant from the authorities, and defeated the yeomanry in that tremendous thunder-storm, I thought we were a couple of idiots, and deserved a week each in the lock- up for our pains. That business turned out well. This timo we have started with flying colours and bells ringing, and so " " This business will turn out better. Why not ?" "Then let us manage a third day's work in these parts as soon as possible. I should like to get to the third degree of comparison, and perhaj)s the superlative will turn up trumps for me somehow. Are there many more young women in the place as pretty as Mrs. Winburn ? This marrying complaint is very catching, 1 find." 514 TOM BP.OWN AT OXFORD. " There's ray cousin Katie," said Tom, looking stealthily at Hardy ; " I won't allow that there's any face in the country- side to match hers. TNTiat do you say. Jack ?" Hardy was confused by tliis sudden appeal. " I haven't been loiig enough here to judge," he said. " I have always thought Miss Winter very beautiful. I see it ia nearly seven o'clock, and I have a call or two to make in the village. I should think jou ought to get some rest after this tiring day. Captain East 1 " " What are you going to do, Tom 1 " *' Well, I was thioking of just thro\Adng a fly over the mill tail. There's such a fine head of water on." "Isn't it too briglit?" " Well, perhaps it is a little : marrying weather and fishing weather don't agree. Only what else is there to do 1 But if you are tired," he added, looking at East, " I don't caic a straw about it. I shall stay with you." " Not a bit of it. I shall hobble down with you, and lie on the bank and smoke a cheroor." " No, you shan't walk, at any rate. I can borrow the constable's pony, old Nibble, the quietest beast in the world. He'll stand for a week if we like, wliile I fish and you lie and look on. ril be off, and bring him round in two minutes." " Then we shall meet for a clumsy tea at nine at my lodg- ings," said Hardy, as he went off to his pastoral duties. Tom and East, in due time, found themselves by the side of the stream. There was only a small piece of fishable water in Englebourn. The fine stream, which, a mile or so below, in the Grange grounds, might be called a river, came into respectable existence only about two hundred yards above EngleV)ourn Mill Here two little chalk brooks met, au'l former millers had judiciously deepened the channel, and dammed the united waters back so as to get a respectable reservoir. Above the junction the little weedy, bright, creeping brooks afforded good sport for small truants groppling about with their hands, or bobbing with lobworms under the hollow banks, but were not available for the scientific angler. The parish ended at the fence next below the mill garden, on the other si-de of which the land was i)art of the Grange estate. S:: there was just the piece of still water above the mill, and t}';i> one field below it, over which Tom had leave. On ordi- nary occasions this would have been enough, with careful fishing, to last him till dark ; but his nerves were probably somewhat excited by the events of the day, and East sat near and kept talking ; so he got over his water faster than usual At any rate, he had arrived for the second time at the envious THE WEDDING-DAY. 515 fence before the sun was down. The fish were wondrous wary in the miller's bit of water — as might be expected, for they led a dog of a life there, between the miller and his men, and their nets, and baits of all kinds always set. So Tom thought himself lucky to get a couple of decent fish, the only ones that were moving within his liberty ; but he could not help looking \\itli covetous eyes on the fine stretch of water below, all dimpling with rises. " Why don't you get over and fish below ?" said East, from his seat on the bank ; " don't mind me. I can watch you ; besides, lying on the turf on such an evening is luxury enough by itself." " I can't go. Both sides below belong to that fellow Wurley." "The sergeant's amiable landlord and prosecutor ]" " Yes ; and the yeoman with whom you exchanged shots on the common." " Hang it, Tom, just jump over and catch a brace of his trout. Look how they are rising." " No, I don't know. I never was very particular about poaching, hut somehow I shouldn't like to do it on his land. I don't like him well enough." " You're right, I believe. But, just look there. There's a whopper rising not more than ten yards below the rail. You might reach him, I think, without tresspasing, from where you stand." " Shall I have a shy at him V '* Yes ; it can't be poaching if you don't go on his grounds." Tom couid not resist the temptation, and threw over the rails, which crossed the stream from hedge to hedge to mark the boundaries of the ])arish, until he got well over the place where the fish was risuig. " There, that was at your fly," said East, hobbling up in great excitement. " All right, 1 shall have him directly. There he is. IIullo ! Harry, I say ! Splash with your stick Drive the brute back. Bad luck to him. Look at that !" The fish when hooked had come straight up stream towards his captor, and notwithstanding East's attemi)ts to frighten him back, had rushed in under the before-mentioned rails, v«'hich were adorned with jagged nails, to make crossing on them unpleasant for the Englebourn boys. Against one of these Tom's line severed, and the waters closed over two beauteous flies, and some six feet of lovely taper gut. East laughed loud and merrily ; and Tom, crestfallen as he L L 2 516 TOM BROWN AT OXTOKD. was, was delighted to hear the old ring coming back into his friend's voice. " Harry, old fellow, you're picking iip already in this glo- rious air." " Of course I am. Two or three more weddings and fish- ings will set me up altogether. How could you be so green as to throw over those rails ] It's a proper lesson to you, Tom, for poaching." " Well, that's cool. Didn't I throw down stream to please you?" " You ought to have resisted temptation. But, I say, what are you at 1 " '* Putting on another cast, of course." " Wliy, you're not going on to Wurley's land V* " Ko ; I suppose not. I must try the mill tail again." " It's no good. You've tried it over twice, and I'm getting bored." " Well, what shall we do then ?" " I've a mind to get up to the hill there to see the sun set — what's its name] — where I waited with the cavahy that night, you know." " Oh ! the Hawk's Lynch. Come along, then ; I'm your man." So Tom put up his rod, and caught the old pony, and the two friends were soon on their way towards the common, through lanes at the back of the village. The wind had sunk to sleep as the shadows lengthened. There was no sound abroad except that of Nibble's hoofs on the tm-f, — not even the hum of insects ; for the few perse- vering gnats, who were still dancing about in the slanting glints of sunshine that struck here and there across the lanes, had left off humming. Nothing hving met them, except an occasional stag-beetle, steering clumsily down the lane, and seeming, like a heavy coaster, to have as much to do as he could fairly manage in keeping clear of them. They walked on in silence for some time, which was broken at last by East. '' I haven't had time to tell you about my future pros- pects." " How do you mean 1 Has anything happened 1 " "Yes. I got a letter two days ago from New Zealand, ■where I find I am a considerable landowner. A cousin of mine has died out there and left me his property." " Well, you're not going to leave England, surely 1 " " Yes, I am. The doctors say the voyage will do me good, and the climate is just the one to suit me. What's the good of my staying here? I shan't be fit for service again for THE WEDDING-DAY. 517 years. I shall go on half-pay, and become an enterprising agriculturist at the Antipodes. I have spoken to the ser- geant, and arranged that he and his wife shall go with me ; so, as soon as I can get his discharge, and he has done honeymooning, we shall start. I vdsh you would come with us." Tom could scarcely believe his ears ; but soon found that East was in earnest, and had an answer to all his remon- strances. Indeed, he had very little to say against the plan, for it jumped with his own humour ; and he could not help admitting that, under the circumstances, it was a wise one, and that, with Harry Winburn for his head man, East couldn't do better than carry it out. " I knew you would soon come round to it," said the captain ; " what could I do dawdling about at home, with just enough money to keep me and get me into mischief? There I shall have a position and an object ; and one may be of some use, and make one's mark in a new country. And we'll get a snug berth ready for you by the time you're starved out of the old country. England isn't the place for poor men with any go in them." " I believe you're right, Harry," said Tom, mournfully. " I know I am. And in a few years, when we've made our fortunes, we'll come back and have a look at the old country, and perhaps buy up half Englebourn, and lay our bones in the old churchyard." " And if we don't make our fortunes 1 " ** Then we'll stay out there." " Well, if I were my own master I think I should make one with you. But I could never leave my father and mother, or — or — " *' Oh, I understand. Of course, if matters go all right in that quarter, I have nothing more to say. But, from what you have told me, I thought you might be glad of a regular break in your life, a new start in a new world." " Very likely I may, I should have said so myself this morning. But somehow I feel to-night more hopeful than I have for years." " Those wedding chimes are running in your head." " Yes ; and they have lifted a load off my heart too. Four years ago I was very near doing the greatest wrong a man can do to that girl who was married to-day, and to that fine fellow her husband, who was the first friend I ever had. Ever since then I have been doing my best to set matters straight, and hava often made them crookeder. But to-day they are all straight, thank God, and I feel as if a chain were 518 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. broken from off my neck. All has come right for them, £Uid perhaps my own turn ^vill come before long." "To be sure it will. I must be introduced to a certain young lady before we start. I shall tell her that I don't mean to give up hopes of seeing her on the other side of the world." "Well, here we are on the common. What a glorious sunset ! Come, stir up, Nibble. We shall be on the Lynch just in time to see him dip if we push on." Nibble, that ancient pony, finding that there was no help for it, scrambled up the greater part of the ascent successfully. I'ut his wheezings and roarings during the operation excited East's pity. So he dismounted when they came to the foot of the Hawk's Lj-nch, and, tying Nibble's bridle to a furze- bush — a most unnecessary precaution — set to work to scale the last and steepest bit of the ascent with the help of his stick and Tom's strong arm. They paused every ten paces or so to rest and look at the sunset. The broad vale below lay in purple shadow ; the soft flocks of little clouds high up over their heads, and stretching away to the eastern horizon, floated in a sea of rosy light ; and the stems of the Scotch firs stood out like columns of ruddy flame, " VThj, this beats India," said East, putting up his hand to shade his eyes, which were fairly dazzled by the blaze. " What a contrast to the last time I was up here ! Do you remember that awful black-blue sky ? " " Don't I ? Like a night-mare. Hullo ! who's here ?" " Why, if it isn't the parson and Miss Winter ! " said East, smiling. True enough, there they were, standing together on the very verge of the mound, beyond the firs, some ten yards in front of the last comers, looking out into the sunset " I say, Tom, another good omen," whispered East ; " hadn't we better beat a retreat 1 " Before Tom could answer, or make up his mind w^hat to do, Hardy turned his head and caught sight of them, and then Katie turned too, blushing like the little clouds overhead. It was an embarrassing moment. Tom stammered out that they had come up quite by chance, and then set to work, well seconded by East, to look desperately unconscious, and to expatiate on the beauties of the view. The light began to fade, and the little clouds to change again from soft pink to grey, and the evening star shone out clear as they turned to descend the hill, when the Englebourn clock chimed nine. Katie attached herself to Tom, while Hardy helped the THE WTEDDING-DAY. 519 Captain down the steep pitch, and on to the back of Mbble. They went a little ahead. Tom was longing to speak to his cousiii, but could not tell how to begin. At last Katie broke silence : " I am 60 vexed that this should have happened ! " " Are you, dear ? So am not I," he said, pressing her arm to his side. *' But I mean, it seems so forward — as if I had met Mr. Hardy here on purpose. What will your friend think of me?" " He will think no evil." " But indeed, Tom, do tell him, pray. It was quite an accident. You know how I and Mary used to go up the Hawk's Lynch whenever we could, on fine evenings. " Yes, dear, I know it well." " And I thought of you both so much to-day, that I couldn't help coming up here." " And you found Hardy 1 I don't wonder, I should come up to see the sun set every night, if I lived at Engle- bourn." " No. He came up some time after me. Straight up the hill. I did not see him till he was quite close. I could not run away then. Indeed, it was not five minutes before you came." " Five minutes are as good as a year sometimes." " And you will tell your friend, Tom, how it happened 1 " " Indeed I will, Katie. May I not tell him something more 1 " He looked roimd for an answer, and there was just light enough to read it in her eye. " My debt is deepening to the Hawk's Lynch," he said, as they walked on through ths twilight. " Blessed five minutes ! Whatever else they may take with them, they will carry my thanks for ever. Look how clear and steady the light of that star is, just over the church tower. I wonder whether ^lary is at a great hot dinner. Shall you write to her soon ?" « Oh, yes. To-night." "You may tell her that there is no better Englishman walking the earth than my friend, John Hardy. Here we are at his lodgings. East and I are going to tea with him. W^ish them good night, and I wiU see you home." o2() TOM BEO\\^T AT OXFOKD. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END. From the Englebourn festivities Tom and East returried to London. The Captain was bent on starting for his posses- sions in tlie South Pacific ; and, as he regained strength, energized over all his preparations, and went about in cabs ]nirchasmg agricultural implements, sometimes by the light of nature, and sometimes under the guidance of Harry Winburn. He invested also in something of a library, and in large quan- tities of saddlery. In short, packages of all kinds began to increase and multiply upon him. Then there was the select- ing a vessel, and all the negotiations with the ship's husband as to terms, and the businesa of getting introduced to, and conferring with, people from the colony, or who were supposed to know something about it. Altogether, East had plenty of work on his hands ; and the more he had to do, the better and more cheery he became. Tom, on the contrary, was rather lower than usual. His half-formed hopes that some good luck was going to happen to him after Patty's marriage, were beginning to grow faint, and the contrast of his friend's definite present purpose in life with his own uncertainty, made him more or less melancholy in spite of all his eJBforts. His father had offered him a tour abroad, now that he had finished with Oxford, urging that he seemed to want a change to freshen him up before buckling to a profession, and that he would never, in all likelihood, have such anotlier chance. But he could not make up his mind to accept the offer. The attraction to London was too strong for him ; and, though he saw little hope of anything happening to improve his prospects, he could not keep away from it. He spent most of his time when not with East, in haunting the neighbourhood of Mr. Porter's house in Belgravia, and the places where he was likely to catch distant ghmpses of Mary, avoiding all chance of actual meeting or recognition, from which he shrank in his present frame of mind. Tlie nearest approach to the flame which he allowed him- self was a renewal of his old friendship with Gi-ey, who was still working on in his Westminster rookery. He had become a great favourite with Mrs. Porter, who was always trying to get him to her house to feed him properly, and was much astonished, and sometimes almost pwvoked, at the small success of her hospitable endeavours. Grey was so taken up trith his own pursuits that it did not occur to him to be sur THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 521 prieed that he never met Tom at the house of his relations. He was innocent of all knowledge or suspicion of the real state of things, so that Tom could talk to him with perfect freedom about his uncle's household, picking up all such scraps of information as Grey possessed without compromising himself or feeling shy. Thus the two old schoolfellows lived on together after th( ir return from Englebourn, in a set of chambers in the Temple, which one of Tom's collegb friends (who had been beguiled from the perusal of Stephen's Commentaries and aspirations after the woolsack, by the offer of a place on board a yacht and a cruise to ]S"orway,) had fortunately lent him. We join company with our hero again on a fine July morning. Readers will begin to think that, at any rate, ho is always blessed with tine weather whatever troubles he may have to endure ; but, if we are not to have fine weather in novels, when and where are we to have it] It was a fine July morning, then, and the streets were already beginning to feel sultry as he worked his way westward. Grey, who had never given up hopes of bringing Tom round to his own views, had not neglected the opportunities which this resi- dence in town offered, and had enlisted Tom's services on more than one occasion. Pie had found him specially useful in instructing the big boys, whom he was trying to bring together and civilize in a " Young Men's Club," in the rudi- ments of cricket on Saturday evenings. But on the morning in question an altogether different work was on hand. A lady living some eight or nine miles to the north-west of London, who took great interest in Grey's doings, had asked him to bring the children of his night-school down to spend a day in her grounds, and tliis was the happy occasion. It was before the days of cheap excursions by rail, so that vans had to be found for the party ; and Grey had discovered a benevolent remover of furniture in Paddington, who was ready to take them at a reasonable figure. The two vans, with awnings and curtains in the height of the fashion, and horses with tasseDed ear-caps, and everything handsome about them, were already drawn up in the midst of a group of ex- cited children, and scarcely less excited mothers, when Tom arrived. Grey was arranging his forces, and labouring to reduce the Irish children, who formed almost half of hia ragged little flock, into something like order before starting. By degrees this was managed, and Tom was placed in com- mand of the rear van, while Grey reserved the leading ono to himself. The children were divided, and warned not to lean over the sides and tumble out — a somewhat superfluoua 522 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. caution, as most of them, though unused to riding in any legitimate manner, were pretty well used to balancing them- selves behind any vehicle which offered as much as a spike tc sit on, out of sight of the driver. Then came the rush into the vans. Grey and Tom took up their places next the doors as conductors, and the procession lumbered off with great success, and much shouting from treble voices. Tom soon found that he had plent}'" of work on his hands to keep the peace amongst his flock. The Irish element was in a state of wild effervescence, and he had to draft them down to his own end, lea\^ng the foremost part of the van to the soberer English children. He was much struck by the contrast of the whole set to the Englebourn school children, whom he had lately seen under somewhat similar circum- stances. The difficulty with them had been to draw them out, and put anything like life into them ; here, all he had to do was to repress the superabundant life. However, the vans held on their way, and got safely into the suburbs, and so at last to an occasional hedge, and a suspicion of trees, and green fields beyond. It became more and more difficult now to keep the boys in ; and when they came to a hill, where the horses had to walk, he yielded to their entreaties, and, opening the door, let them out, insisting only that the girls should remaiu seated. They scattered over the sides of the roads, and up the banks ; now chasing pigs and fowls up to the very doors of their owners ; now gathering the commonest road-side weeds, and running up to show them to him, and ask their names, as if they were rare treasures. The ignorance of most of the children as to the commonest country matters astonished him. One small boy particularly came back time after time to ask him, with solemn face, " Please, sir, is this the country 1 " and when at last he allowed that it was, rejoined, "Then, please, where are the nuts 1 " The clothing of most of the Irish boys began to tumble to pieces in an alarming manner. Grey had insisted on their being made tidy for the occasion, but the tidiness was of a superficial kind. The hasty stitching soon began to give way, and they were rushing about with A\dld locks ; the strips of what once might have been nether garments hanging about their legs ; their feet and heads bare, the shoes which their mothers had borrowed for the state occasion having been deposited under the seat of the van. So, when the proces- sion arrived at the trim lodge-gates of their hostess, and his charge descended and fell in on tlic beautifully clipped turf at the side of the drive, Tom felt some of the sensations of THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 523 Falstair when he had to lead his ragged regiment through Coventry streets. He was soon at his ease again, and enjoyed the day tho- roughly, and the drive home ; but, as they drew near town again, a sense of discomfort and shyness came over him, and he wished the journey to Westminster well over, and hoped that the carman would have the sense to go through the quiet parts of the town. He was much disconcerted, consequently, when the vans came to a sudden stop, opposite one of the Park entrances, in the Bayswater Road. " What in the world is Grey about ? " he thought, as he saw him get out, and all the children after him. So he got out himself, and went forward to get an explanation. " Oh, I have told the man that he need not drive us round to Westminster. He is close at home here, and his horses have had a hard day ; so we can just get out and walk home." " \\n}at, across the Park 1 " asked Tom. " Yes, it will amuse the children, you know." " But they're tired," persisted Tom ; " come now, it's ail nonsense letting the fellow off; he's bound to take us back." "~iTn afraid I have promised him," said Grey; "besides, the children all think it a treat. Don't you all want to wallv across the Park?" he went on, turning to them, and a general affirmative chorus was the answer. So Tom had nothing for it but to shrug his shoulders, empty his own van, and follow into the Park with his convoy, not in the best humour with Grey for having arranged this ending to their excursion. They might have got over a third of the distance between the Bayswater Road and the Serpentine, when he was aware of a small thin voice addressing him. " Oh, please, won't you carry me a bit 1 I'm so tired," said the voice. He turned in some trepidation to look for the speaker, and found her to be a sickly undergrown little girl, of ten or thereabouts, with large pleading gi'ey eyes, very shabbily dressed, and a little lame. He had remarked her several times in the course of the day, not for any beauty or grace about her, for the poor child had none, but for her transparent confidence and trustfulness. After dinner, as they had been all sitting on the grass under the shade of a great elm to hear Grey read a story, and Tom had been sitting a little apart from the rest with his back against the trunk, she had come up and sat quietly down by him, leaning on hia 524 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. knee. Then he had seen her go up and take the hand of the lady who had entertained them, and walk along by her, talking without the least shyness. Soon afterwards she had squeezed into the swing by the side of the beautifully-dressed little daughter of the same lady, who, after looking for a minute at her shabby little sister with large round eyes, had jumped out and run off to her mother, evidently in a state oi childish bewilderment as to whether it was not wicked for a child to wear such dirty old clothes. Tom had chuckled to himself as he saw Cinderella settling herself comfortably in the swing in the place of the ousted princess, and had taken a fancy to the child, speculating to himself as to how she could have been brought up, to be so utterly unconscious of differences of rank and dress. " She seems really to treat her fellow- creatures as if she had been studying the Sartor Besarhis," he thought. " She has cut down tlirough all clothes-philosophy without knowing it. I wonder, if she had a chance, whether she would go and sit down in the Queen's lap 1 " He did not at the time anticipate that she would put his own clothes-philosophy to so severe a test before the day was over. The child had been as merry and active as any of the rest during the- earlier part of the day ; but now, as he looked down in answer to her reiterated plea, " VYon't you carry me a bit ? I'm so tired ! " he saw that she could scarcely drag one foot after another. Vfhat was to be done 1 He was already keenly alive to the discomfort of walking across Hyde Park in a procession of ragged children, with such a iBgure of fun as Grey at their head, looking, in his long, rusty, straight-cut black coat, as if he had come fresh out of Noah's ark. He didn't care about it so much while they were on the turf in the out-of-the-way parts, and would meet nobody but guards, and nurse-maids, and tradespeople, and mechanics out for an evening's stroll. But the Drive and Rotten Row lay before them, and must be crossed. It was just the most crowded time of the day. He had almost made up his mind once or twice to stop Grey and the procession, and propose to sit down for half-an-hour or so and let the children play, by which time the world would be going home to dinner. But there was no play left in the children ; and he had resisted the temptation, meaning, when they came to the most crowded part, to look unconscious, as if it were by chance that he had got iuto such company, and had in fact nothing to do with them. But now, if he Ustened to the child's plea, and carried her, all hope of concealment was over. H he did not> he felt that there would be no greater THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 525 flunkey in tlie Park that evening than Thomas Brown, the enlightened radical and philosopher, amongst the young gentle- men riders in Rotten Row, or the powdered footmen lounging behind the great blaring carriages in the Drive. So he looked down at the child once or twice in a state of puzzle. A third time she looked up with her great eyes, and said, " Oh, please carry me a bit ! " and her piteous, tired face turned the scale. " If she were Lady Mary or Lady Blanche," thought he, " I should pick her up at once, and be proud of the burden. Here goes ! " And he took her up in his arms, and walked on, desperate and reckless. Notwithstanding all his philosophy, he felt his ears tingling and his face getting red, as they approached the Drive. It was crowded. They were kept standing a minute or two at the crossing. He made a desperate effort to abstract himself wholly from the visible world, and retire into a state of serene contemplation. But it would not do ; and he was painfully conscious of the stare of lack-lustre eyes of well-dressed men leaning over the rails, and the amused look of delicate ladies, lounging in open carriages, and surveying him and Grey and their ragged rout through glasses. At last they scrambled across, and he breathed freely for a minute, as they struggled along the comparatively quiet path leading to Albert Gate, and stopped to drink at the fountain. Then came Rotten Row, and another pause amongst the loungers, and a plunge into the Ride, where he was nearly run down by two men whom he had known at Oxford. They shouted to him to get out of the way ; and he felt the hot defiant blood rushing through his veins, as he strode across without heeding. They passed on, one of them having to pull his horse out of his stride to avoid him. Did they recognise him ? He felt a strange mixture of utter indifference, and longing to strangle them. The worst was now over ; besides, he was getting used to the situation, and his good sense was beginning to rally. So he marched through Albert Gate, carrying his ragged little charge, who prattled away to him without a pause, and sur- rounded by the rest of the children, scarcely caring who might see him. They won safely through the omnibuses and carriages on the Kensington Road, and so into Belgravia. At last he was quite at his ease again, and began Hstening to what the child was saying to him, and was strolling carelessly along, when once more, at one of the crossings, he was startled by a shout from some riders. There was straw laid down in the street, so that he had not heard them as they cantered round the 525 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. corp'^-r, hurrying home to dress for dinner ; and they were all but upon him, and had to rein up their horses sharply. The party consisted of a lady and two gentlemen, one old, the other young ; the latter dressed in the height of fashion, and with the supercilious air which Tom hated from his soul. The shout came from the young man, and drew Tom'o atten- tion to him tirst. All the devd rushed up as he recognised St. Cloud. The ladj^s horse swerved against his, and began to rear. He put his hand on its bridle, as if he had a right to protect her. Another glance told Tom that the lady was Mary, and the old gentleman, fussing up on his stout cob on the other side of her, Mr. Porter. They all knew him in another monient. He staied from one to the otlier, was conscious that she turned her horse's head sharply, so as to disengage the bridle from St. Cloud's hand, and of his insolent stare, and of the embarrassment of l^Ir. Porter ; and then, setting his face straight before him, he passed on in a bewildered dream, never looking back till they were out of sight. The dream gave way to bitter and wild thoughts, upon which it will do none of us any good to dwell. He put down the little girl outside the schools, turning abruptly from the mother, a poor widow in scant, well-pre- served black clothes, who was waiting for the child, and began thanking him for his care of her ; refused Grey's pressing invitation to tea, and set his face eastward. — Bitterer and more wild and more scornful grew his thoughts as he strode along past the Abbey, and up Whitehall, and away down the Strand, holding on over the crossings without paying the slightest heed to vehicle, or horse, or man. Incensed coachmen had to pull up with a jerk to avoid running over him, and more than one sturdy walker turned round in indignation at a collision which they felt had been intended, or at least which there had been no effort to avoid. As he passed under the window of the Banqueting ILill, and by the place in Charing-cross where the pillory used to stand, he growled to hunself what a pity it was that the times for cutting olf heads and cropping ears had gone by. The whole of the dense population from either side of the Strand seemed to have crowded out into that thoroughfare to impede his march and aggravate him. The further eastward he got the thicker got the crowd ; and the vans, the omnibuses, the cabs, seemed to multiply and get noisier. Not an altogether pleasant sight to a man in the most Christian frame of mind is the crowd that a fine summer evening fetches out into the roaring Strand, as the sun fetches out flies on the window of a village grocery. To him just then it was at once depressing THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 527 and provoking, and he went shouldering his way toward? Temple Bar as thoroughly out of tune as he had been for many a long day. As he passed from the narrowest part of the Strand into the space round St. Clement Danes' church, he was startled, in a momentary lull of the uproar, by the sound of chiming bells. He slackened his pace to listen ; but a huge van lumbered by, shaking the houses on both sides, and drowning all sounds but its owti rattle ; and then he found himself suddenly immersed in a crowd, vociferating and gesticulating round a policeman, who was conveying a woman towards the station house. He shouldered through it — anotlier lull came, and with it the same slow, gentle, calm cadence of chiming bells. Again and again he caught it as he passed on to Temple Bar ; whenever the roar subsided the notes of the old hymn tune came dropping down on him like balm from the air. K the ancient benefactor who caused the bells of St. Clement Danes' church to be arranged to play that chime so many times a day is allowed to hover round the steeple at such times, to watch tlie effect of Ins benefaction on posterity, he must have been well satisfied on that evening. Tom passed under the Bar, and turned into the Temple another man, softened again, and in his right mind. "There's always a voice saying the right thing to yon somewhere, if you'll only listen for it," he thought. He took a few turns in the court to clear his head, and then went up. and found Harry East reclining on a sofa, lq full view of the gardens and river, solacing himself with his accustomed cheroot, " Oh, here you are," he said, making room on the sofa ; — "how did it go off?" " Well enough. "VN^iere have you been 1 " " In the City and at the Docks. I've been all over our vessel. She's a real clipper." " When do you sail 1 " "Not quite certain. I should say in a fortnight, though." East puffed away for a minute, and then, as Tom said nothing, went on. " I'm not so sweet on it as the time draws near. There are more of my chums turning up every day from India at the Kag. And this is uncommonly pleasant, too, living with you here in chambers. You may think it odd, but I don't half like getting rid of you." " Thanks : but I don't think you will get rid of me." " How do you mean ? " " I mean that I shall go with you, if my people will let me, and you will take me." " W-h-e-w ! Anything happened ? " 528 TOM BEOWN aI OXFOBD. "Yes." " You've seen her 1 " " Yes." *' Well, go on. Don't keep a fellow in suspense. I shall be introduced, and eat one of the old boy's good dinners, after all, before I sail." Tom looked out of window, and found some difficulty ir getting out the words, " No, it's all up." " You don't mean it ] " said East, coming to a sitting posi- tion by Tom's side. " But how do you know ? Aie you sure ? What did she say 1 " " Nothing. I haven't spoken to her ; but it's all up. She was riding with her father and the fellow to whom she's engaged. I have heard it a dozen times, but never would beliove it." " But, is that all ? Ridiug with hex father and another man ! Why, there's notliing in that." "Yes, but there is though. You should have seen his look. And they all knew me well enough, but not one of them nodded even." " Well, there's not much in that after all. It may have been chance, or you may have fancied it." "No, one isn't quite such a fool. However, I have no right to complain, and I won't. 1 could bear it all well enough if he weie not such a cold-hearted blackguard." " WTiat, this fellow she was riding wdth 1 " " Yes. He hasn't a heart the size of a pin's head. HeTl break her's. He's a mean brute, too. She can't know him, though he has been after her this year and more. They must have forced her into it. Ah ! it's a bitter business," and he ])ut his head between his hands, and East heard the deej; catches of his labouring breath, as he sat by him, feeling deeply for him, but puzzled what to say. " She can't be worth so much after all, Tom," he said at List, '* if she would have such a fellow as that Depend upon it she's not what you thought her." Tom made no answer ; so the captain went on presently, thinking he had hit the right note. " Cheer up, old boy. There's as good fish in the sea yet as ever came out of it. Don't you remember the song — whose is it ? Lovelace's : — *' ' If she be not fair for rao, What care 1 for whom she be ? '" Tom started up almost fiercely, but recovered himself in a moment, and then leant his head down again. " Pon't talk about her, Harry ; you don't know her," he said. THE END. 529 *< And don't want to know her, Tom, if she is going to throw you over. Well, I shall leave you for an hour or so. Come up to me presently at the Eag, when you feel better." East started for his club, debating within himself what he could do for his friend — whether calling out the partj mightn't do good. Tom, left to himself, broke dovm at first sadly ; but, as the evening wore on he began to rally, and sat down and wrote a long letter to his father, making a clean breast, and asking his permission to go with East. CHAPTEE XLIX. THE END. " My dear Katie, — I know you will be very much pained when you read this letter. You two have been my only confidantes, and you have always kept me up, and encouraged me to hope that all would come right. And after all that happened last week, Patty's marriage, and your engagement — the two things upon earth, with one exception, that I most wished for — I quite felt that my own turn was coming. I can't tell why I had such a strong feeling about it, but some- how all the most important changes in my life for the last four years have been so interwoven with Patty and Harry Winburn's history, that, now they were married, I was sure Bomething would happen to me as soon as I came to London. And I was not wi'ong. Dear Katie, I can hardly bring myself to write it. It is all over. I met her in the street to-day ; she was riding with her father and the man I told you about. They had to pull up not to ride over me ; so I had a good look at her, and there can be no mistake about it. I have often tried to reason myself into the belief that the evil day must come sooner or later, and to prepare myself for it ; but I might have spared myself, for it could not have been worse than it is if I had never anticipated it. My future is all a blank now. I can't stay in England ; so I have written home to ask them to let me go to !New Zealand with East, and I am sure they will consent, when they know all. "I shall wait in town till I get the answer. Perhaps I may be able to get off with East in a few weeks. The sooner the better ; but, of course, I shall not go without seeing you and dear old Jack. You mustn't mind me calling him Jack« The only thing that it gives me any pleasure to think about, is your engagement. It is so right ; and one wants to see something going right, some one getting their due, to keep 530 rOM BKOWi^ AT OXFORD. alive one's belief in justice being done somehow or anothe? in the world. And I do see it, and acknowledge it, when I think over his history and mine since we first met. We have both got our due ; and you have got yours, Katie, for you have got the best fellow in England. " Ah ! if I only could think that she has got liers ! If I could only believe that the man she has chosen is worthy of her ! I will try hard to think better of him. There must be more good in him than I have ever seen, or she would never have engaged herself to him. But I can't bear to stop here, and see it all going on. The sooner I am out of England the better. I send you a parcel with this ; it contains her notes, and some old flowers, and other matters which I haven't the heart to burn. You will be the best judge what should be done with them. If you see your way to managing it, I should like her to know that I had sent them all to you, and that, whatever may happen to me hereafter, my love for her has been the mainstay and the guiding-star of my life ever since that happy time when you all came to stay with us in my first long vacation. It found me eaten up with selfishness and conceit, the puppet of my own lusts and vanities, and has left me — "Well, never mind what it has left me. At any rate, if I have not gone from worse to woree, it is all owing to her ; and she ought to know it. It cannot be wrong to let her know what good she has scattered unknowingly about her path. May God bless and reward her for it, and you, too, dear cousin, for all your long love and kindness to one who is very unworthy of, but very thankful for, them. " Ever yours, affectionately, " T. B." Tlie above letter, and that to his father, asking for leave to emigrate, having been written and sent off, Tom was left, on the afternoon of the day following his upset, making manfu^ if not very successfid, efforts to shake off the load of depres- sion which weiglied on him, and to turn his thoughts resolutely forward to 'a new hfe in a new country. East was away at the Docks. TTiere was no one moving in the Temple. The men who had business were all at Westminster, or out of sight and hearing in the recesses of their chambers. Those who had none were for the most part away enjoying them- selves, in one way or another, amongst the mighty whirl of the mighty human sea of London. There was nothmg left for him to do ; he had written the only tAvo letters he had tc write, and had only to sit still and wait for the answers, kill- u\^ the mean time as well as he could. Readip.g came hard THE END. 531 to him, but it was the best thing to do, perhaps ; at any rate he was trying it on, though liis studies were constantly inter- rupted by long fits of al)senco of mind, during which, though his body remained in the Temple, he was again in the well- kept garden of Barton, or in the hazel-wood under the lee of the Berkshire hills. He was roused out of one of these reveries, and brought back to external life and Fig-tree Court, by a single knock at the outer door, and a shout of the newsman's boy for the paper. So he got up, found the paper, which he had for- gotten to read, and, as he went to the door, cast his eye on it, and saw that a great match was going on at Lord's. This gave a new turn to his thoughts. He stood looking down- stairs after the boy, considering whether he should not start at once for the match. lie would be sure to see a lot of acquaintance there at any rate. But the idea of seeing and having to talk to mere acquaintance was more distasteful than his present solitude. He was turn- ing to bury himself again in his hole, when he saw a white dog walk quietly up seven or eight stairs at the bottom of the flight, and then turn round, and look for some one to follow. . " How odd ! " thought Tom, as he watched him ; "as lilve as two peas. It can't be. I^o. Vfhy, yes it is." And then he whistled, and called "Jack," and the dog looked up, and wagged his tail, as much as to say, " All right, I'm coming directly ; but I must wait for my master." The next moment Drj^sdale appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and looking up, said — " Oh ! that's you, is it ? I'm all right then. So you knew the old dog ? " " I should rather think so," said Tom. " I hope I never forget a dog or a horse I have once known." In the short minute which Drysdale and Jack took to arrive at his landing, Tom had time for a rush of old college memories, in which grave and gay, pleasant and bitter, were strangely mingled. The night when he had been first brought to his senses about Patty came up very Wvidly before him, and the commemoration days, when he had last seen Drysdale. " How strange ! " he thought, " is my old life coming back again just now 1 Here, on the very day after it is all over, comes back the man with whom I was so intimate up to the day it began, and have never seen since. What does it mean?" There was a little touch of embarrassment in the manner of both of them as they shook hands at the top of the stairs, and turned into the chambers. Tom motioned to Jack to take his old place at one end of the sofa, and began caressing him thei-e, the dog showing unmistakably, by gesture and M M 2 532 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. whine, tliat delight at renewing an old friendship foi which his race are so noblj distinguished. Drysdale tlirew himself down in an arm-^bair, and watched them. " So you kne w tae old dog, Brown 1 " he repeated. "Knew him? — of course I did. Dear old Jack! How well he wears ; he is scarcely altered at all." " Very little ; only steadier. More than I can say for his master. I'm very glad you knew Jack." " Come, Drysdale, take the other end of the sofa, or it won't look like old times. There, now I can fancy myself back at St. Ambrose's." " By Jove, Brown, you're a real good fellow. I always said so, even after that last letter. You pitched it rather too strong in that though. I was very near coming back from Norway to quarrel ^Ndth you." " Well, I was very angry at being left in the lurch by you and Blake." " You got the coin all right, I suppose ? You never ac- knowledged it." "Didn't r? Then I ought to have. Yes, I got it all right about six months afterwards. I ought to have acknow- ledged it, and I thought I had. I'm sorry I didn't, l^oyt we're all quits, and won't talk any more about that rascally bill" " I suppose I may light up," said Drysdale, dropping into his old lounging attitude on the sofa, and pulling out his cigar-case. " Yes, of course. Will you have anything ] " " A cool drink wouldn't be amiss." " They make a nice tankard with cider and a lump of ice at the Rainbow. What do you say to that 1 " " It sounds touching," said Drysdale. So Tom posted off to Fleet Street to order the liquor, and came back followed by a waiter with the tankard. Drysdale took a long pull, and smacked his lips. " That's a wrinkle," he said, handing the tankard to Tom. *' I suppose the lawyers teach all the pubUcans about here a trick or two. Why, one can fancy oneself back in the old quad, looking out on this court. If it weren't such an out- landish out-of-the-way place, I think I should take some ctambers here myself How did you get here ? " " Oh, they belong to a friend of mine who is away. But how did ?/ou get here 1 " " Why, along the Strand in a Hansom." " I mean, how did you know I was here ? " "Grey told me." " What ! Grey who was at St. Ambrose's with us f " " Yes. You look puzzled." THE END. 533 " I didn't think you knew Grey." " No more I do. But a stout old party I met last night — your godfather, I should think he is — told me where he was, and said I should get your address from him. So I looked him up this morning, in that dog-hole in AVestminster where he lives. He didn't know Jack from Adam." " But what in the world do you mean by my godfather 1 " "I had batter tell my story from the beginning, I sep= Last night I did what I don't often do, went out to a great drum. There was an awful crush, of course, and you may guess what the heat was in these dog-days, with gas-lights and wax-lights going, and a jam of people in every corner. I was fool enough to get into the rooms, so that my retreat was cut off; and I had to work right through, and got at last into a back room, wliicli v/as not so full The window was in a recess, and there was a balcony outside, looking over a little bit of garden. I got into the balcony, talking with a girl who was sensible enough to like the cool. Presently I heard a voice I thought I knew inside. Then I heard St. Ambrose, and then your name. Of course I listened ; I couldn't help myself. They were just inside the window, in the recess, not five feet from us ; so I heard pretty nearly every word. Give us the tankard ; I'm as dry as an ash- heap with talking." Tom, scarcely able to control his impatience, handed the tankard. " But who was it 1 — you haven't told me/' he said, as Drysdale put it down at last empty. "Wliy, that d d St. Cloud. He was giving you a nice character, in a sort of sneaking deprecatory way, as if he w^as sorry for it. Amongst other little tales, he said you used to borrow money from Jews — he knew it for a certainty because he had been asked himself to join you and another man — meaning me, of course — in such a transaction. You remember how he wouldn't acknowledge the money I lent him at play, and the note he wrote me which upset Blake 80. I had never forgotten it. I knew I should get my chance some day, and here it was. I don't know what the girl thought of me, or how she got out of the balcony, but I stepped into the recess just as he had finished his precious story, and landed between him and a comfortable old boy, who was looking shocked. He must be your godfather, oi sometning of the kind. I'll bet you a pony you are down for something handsome in his wilL" " What was his name ? Did you find out 1 " " Yes ; Potter, or Porter, or something like it. I've got his card somewhere. I just stared St. Cloud in the face, and 534 TOM BllOWX AT OXFORD. 3fou may depend upon it he winced. Then I told the old boy that I had licard their talk, and, as I was at St. Ambrose with you, I should like to have five minutes with him when St. C/loud had done, lie seemed rather in a corner between us. However, I kept in sight till St. Cloud was obliged to draw off ; and, to cut my story short, as the tankard is empty, I think I put you pretty straight there. You said we were quits just now : after last night, perhaps we are, for I told him the truth of the Benjamin story, and I think ke is squared. Ha seems a good sort of old boy. He's a relation of yours, eh 1 " " Only a distant connexion. Did anything more happen 1 " " Yes ; I saw that he was flurried and didn't know quite what to think ; so I asked him to let me call, and I would bring him some one else to speak to your character. He gave me his card, and I'm going to take Blake there to-day. Then I asked him where you were, and he didn't know, but said he thought Grey could tell me." '* It is very kind of you, Drysdala to take so much trouble." " Trouble ! I'd go from here to Jericho to be even with our fine friend. I never forget a bad turn. I met him after- wards in the cloak-room, and went out of the door close after him, to give him a chance if he wants to say anything. I only wish he would. But why do you su^^pose he is lying about you ? " " I can't tell. I've never spoken to him since he left Oxford. Never saw him till yesterday, riding with Mr. Porter. I suppose that reminded them of me." " AYell, St. Cloud is bent on getting round him for some reason or another, you may take your oath of that. Now my time's up ; I shall go and pick up Blake. I should think I had better not take Jack to call in Eaton Square, though he'd give you a good character if he could speak ; wouldn't you, Jack ? " Jack wagged his tail, and descended from the sofa. " Does Blake live up here 1 What he is doing ] " ** Burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle, as usual. Yes, he's living near his club. He writes political articles, devilish well I hear, too, and is reading for the bar ; beside which he is getting into society, and gomg out when- ever he can, and fretting his soul out that he isn't prime minister, or something of the kind. He won't last long at the pace he's going." " I'm very sorry to hear it. But you'll come here again, Drysdale ; or let me come and see you 1 I shaU be very anxious to hear what has happened." THE END. 535 " Here's my pasteboard ; I shall be in town for another fortnight. Drop in when yon like." And so Drysdale and Jack went off, leaving Tom in a chaotic state of mind. All his old hopes were roused again as he thought over Drysdale's narrative. He could no longer sit still ; so he rushed out, and waUted up and down the riverside walk, in the Temple gardens, where a fine breeze was blowing, at a pace which astonished the gate-keepers and the nursery-maids and children, who were taking the air in that favourite spot. Once or twice he returned to chambers, and at last found East reposing after liis excursion to the Docks. East's quick eye saw at once that something had happened ; and he had very soon heard the whole story ; upon which he deliberated for some minutes, and rejoiced Tom's heart by saying : " Ah ! all up with New Zealand, I see. I shall be introduced after all before we start. Come along ; I must stand you a dinner on the strength of the good news, and well drink her health." Tom called twice that evening at Drysdale's lodgings, but he was out. The next mornmg he called again. Drysdale had gone to Hampton Court races, and had left no message. He left a note for him, but got no answer. It was trjdng work. Another day passed without any word from Drysdale, who seemed never to be at home ; and no answer to either of his letters. On the third morning he heard from his father. It was just the answer which he had expected — as kind a letter as could be written. ]\Ir. Brown had suspected how matters stood at one time, but had given up the idea in consequence of Tom's sdence ; which he regretted, as possibly things might have happened otherwise had he known the state of the case. It was too late now, however ; and the less said the better about what might have been. As to New Zealand, he should not oppose Tom's going, if, after some time, he continued in his present mind. It was very natural for him just now to wish to go. They would talk it over as soon as Tom came home ; which Mr. Brown begged him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as he had seen his friend off. Home was the best place for him. Tom sighed as he folded it up ; the hopes of the last three days seemed to be fading away again. He spent another rest- less day ; and by night had persuaded himself that Drys- dale's mission had been a complete failure, and that he did not write and kept out of the way out of kindness to him. " Why, Tom, old fellow, you look as down in the mouth as ever to-night," East said, when Tom opened the door for 536 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. hiui about midniglit, on liis return from his club; "cheer up you may depend it's all to go right." " But I haven't seen Drysdale again, and he hasn't written." " There's nothing in that. He was glad enough to do you a good turn, I dare say, when it came in liis way, but that sort of fellow never can keep anything up. He has been too much used to having his own way, and following his own fancies. Don't 3'^ou lose heart because he won't put himseli out for you." " Well, Harry, you are the best fellow in the world. You would put backbone into any one." " Kow, we'll just have a quiet cheroot, and then turn in ; and see if you don't have good news to-morrow. How hot it is ! the Strand to-night is as hot as the Punjaub and the reek of it — phah ! my throat is full of it still." East took off his coat, and was just throwing it on a chair, when he stopped, and, feeling in the pocket, said — " Let's see, here's a note for you. The porter gave it me as I knocked in." Tom took it carelessly, but the next moment was tearing it open with trembling fingers. "From my cousin," he said. East watched him read, and saw the blood rush to his face, and the light come into his eyes. " Good news, Tom, I see. Bravo, old boy. You've had a long fight for it, and deserve to win." Tom got up, tossed the note across the table, and began walk- ing up and down the room ; his heart was too full for speech. " May I read ? " said East, looking up. Tom nodded, and he read — " Dear Tom, — I am come to town to spend a week with them in Eaton Square. Call on me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are engaged then, between three and five. I have no time to add more now, but long to see you. — Your loving cousin, Katie. " P.S. — I will give you your parcel back to-morrow, and then you can burn the contents yourself, or do what you like with them. Uncle bids me say he shall be glad if you will come and dine to-morrow, and any other day you can spare while I am here." ^Yhen he had read the note. East got up and shook hands heartily with Tom, and then sat down again quietly to finish his cheroot, watching with a humorous look his friend'a march. " And you think it is really all right now 1 " Tom asked, in one form or another, after every few turns ; and East THE END. 637 replied in various forms of cliaffing assurance that there could not be much further question on the point. At last, when he had finished his cheroot, he got up, and, taking hia candle, said, " Good night, Tom ; when that revolution comes, which you're always predicting, remember, if you're not shot or hung, you'll always find a roost for you and your wife in New Zealand." " I don't feel so sure about the revolution now, Harry." " Of course you don't. Mmd, I bargain for the dinner i:^ Eaton Square. I always told you I should dine there before I started." ♦ * -jf % * * The next day Tom found that he was not engaged at twelve o'clock, and was able to appear in Eaton Square. He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found Katie alone there. The quiet and coolness- of the darkened room was most grateful to him after the glare of the streets, as he sat down by her side. " But, Katie," he said, as soon as the first salutations and congratulations had passed, " how did it all happen ] I can't believe my senses yet. I am afraid I may wake up any minute." " Well, it was chiefly owing to two lucky coincidences ; though no doubt it would have all come right in time without them." " Our meeting the other day in the street, I suppose, for one?" " Yes. Coming across you so suddenly, carrying the little girl, reminded Mary of the day when she sprained her ancle, and you carried her through Hazel Copse. Ah, you never told me all of that adventure, either of you." " All that was necessary, Katie." " Oh ! I have pardoned you. Uncle saw then that she was very much moved at something, and guessed well enough what it was. He is so very kind, and so fond of Mary, he would do anything in the world that she wished. She was quite unwell that evening ; so he and aunt had to go out alone, and they met that ]\Ir. St. Cloud at a party, who was said to be engaged to her." " It wasn't true, then 1 " "No, never. He is a very designing man, though I believe he was really in love with poor Mary. At any rate he has persecuted her for more than a year. And, it is very wicked, but I am afraid he spread all those reports himself." " Of their engagement ? Just like him ! " 'Uncle is so good-natured, you know; and he took ad« 638 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. vantage of it, and was always coming here, and riding with them. And he had made uncle believe dreadful stoiies about you, which made him seem so unkind. He was quite afraid to have you at the house." " Yes, I saw that last year ; and the second coincidence ? " " It happened that very night. Poor uncle was very much troubled what to do ; so, when he met Mr. St. Cloud, as I told you, he took him aside to ask him again about you. Somehow, a gentleman who was a friend of yours at Oxford overheard what was said, and came forward and explained everything." " Yes, he came and told me." " Then you know more than I about it." " And you think Mr. Porter is convinced that I am not quite such a scamp after all ? " " Yes, indeed ; and the boys are so delighted that they will see you again. They are at home for the holidays, and so grown." " And Mary 1 " " She is very well. You will see her before long, I dare say." " Is she at home 1 " " She is out riding with un.cle. Now I will go up and get your parcel, which I had opened at home before I got aunt's note asking me here. No wonder we could never find her boot." Katie disappeared, and at the same time Tom thought he heard the sound of horses' feet. Yes, and they have stopped, too ; it must be Mary and her father. He could not see, because of the blinds and other devices for keeping the room cool. But the next moment there were voices in the hall below, and then a light step on the carpeted stair which no ear but his could have heard. His heart beat with heavy, painful pulsations, and liis head swam as the door opened, and Mary in her riding-habit stood in the room. CHAPTER L. THE POSTSCRIPT. Our curtain must rise once again, and it shall be on a finnliar spot. Once more we must place ourselves on the Hawk's Lynch, and look out over the well-known view, and the happy autumn fields, ripe with the golden harvest. Two people are approaching on horseback from the Barton side, who have been made one since we left them at the fall of tho curtain ,in the last chapter. They ride lovingly together, close to one another, and forgetful of the whole world, as THE POSTSCRIPT. 539 they should do, for they have scarcely come to the end of their honeymooiL They are iii country costume — she in a light plain habit, but well cut, and sitting on her as well as she sits on her dainty grey ; he in shooting-coat and wide-awake, with his fishing basket slung over his shoulder. They come steadily up the hill-side, rousing a yellow-hammer here and there fi'om the furze-bushes, and only draw bit when they have reached the very top of the knoU. Then they dismount, and Tom produces two halters from his fishing basket, and taking oif the bridles, fastens the horses up in the shade of the fir-trees, and loosens their girths, while Mary, after searching in the basket, pulls out a bag, and pours out a prodigal feed of corn before each of them, on the short grass. *' What are you doing, you wasteful little woman ? You should have put the bag underneath. They won't be able to pick up half the corn." "Never mind, dear ; then the birds will get it." " And you have given them enough for three feeds." *' Why did you put so much in the bag 1 Besides, you know it is the last feed I shall give her. Poor dear little Gipsy," she added, patting the neck of her dapple grey ; " you have found a kind mistress for her, dear ; haven't you 1 " " Yes ; she will be lightly worked and well cared for," he said shortly, turning away, and busying himself with the basket again. " But no one will ever love you, Gipsy, like your old mis- tress. Now give me a kiss, and you shall have your treat/' and she pulled a piece of sugar out of the pocket of her riding habit ; at the sight of which the grey held out her beautiful nose to be fondled, and then lapped up the sugar with eager lips from Mary's hand, and turned to her corn. The young wife tripped across, and sat down near her husband, who was laying out their luncheon on the turf. " It was very dear of you to think of coming here for our las* ride," she said. " I remember how charmed I was with the place the first Sunday I ever spent at Englebourn, when Katie brought me up here directly after breakfast, before we went to the school. Such a time ago it seems — before I ever saw you. And I have never been here since. But I love It most for your sake, dear. Now tell me again all the times you have been here." Tom proceeded to recount some of his visits to the Hawk'a Lynch, in which we have accompanied him. And then they talked on about Katie, and East, and the Englebourn people, past and present, old Betty, and Harry and his wife in New 540 TOM BUOWN AT OXFORD. Zealand, and David patching coats and tending bees, emd executing the Queen's justice to the best of his ability in the village at their feet. " Poor David, I must get over somehow to see him before we leave home. He feels your uncle's death, and the other changes in the parish, more than any one." " I am so sorry the living was sold," said Mary ; " Katie and her husband would have made Englebourn into a little paradise." " It could not be helped, dear. I can't say I'm sorry. There would not have been Avork enough for him. He is better where he is, in a great town-parish." " But Katie did love the place so, and was so used to it ; she had become quite a little queen there before her marriage. See what we women have to give up for you," she said, play- fully, tui-ning to him. But a shadow passed over his face, and he looked away without answering. " What makes you look sorrowful, dsar ? What are vou thinking of?" " Oh, nothing ! " " That isn't true. Now, tell me what it is. You have no right, you know, to keep anything from me." *' I can't bear to think that you have had to sell Gipsy. You have never been without a riding horse till now. You will miss your riding dreadfully, I am sure, dear." " I shall do very weU without riding. I am so proud ot learning my lesson from you. You will see what a poor man's wife I shall make . I have been getting mamma to let me do the housekeeping, and know how a joint should look, and all sorts of useful things. And I have made my own house-Unen. I shall soon get to hate all luxuries as much as you do." " Now, Mary, you mustn't run into extremes. I never said you ought to hate all luxuries, but that almost everybody one knows is a slave to them." "Well, and I hate anything that wants to make a slave of me." " You are a dear little free woman. But now we are on this subject again, Mary, I really want to speak to you about keeping a lady's maid. We can quite afford it, and you ought to have one." " I shall do nothing of the sort." " Not to oblige me, jNFary ?" "No, not even to oblige you. There is something to be said for dear Gipsy. But, take a maid again ! to do nothing but torment me, and pretend to take care of my clothes, and my hair ! I never knew what freedom was till I got rid of poor, foolish, grumbling Iliggins." THE POSTSCRIPT. 641 " But you may get a nice girl who will be a comfort to you.' " No, I never will have a woman again to do nothing but. look after me. It isn't fair to them. Besides, dear, you can't say that I don't look better since I have done my own hair. Did you ever see it look brighter than it does now 1 " " Never ; and now here is luncheon all ready." So they sat down on the verge of the slope, and ate their cold chicken and tongue, with the relish imparted by youth, a long ridej and the bracing air. Mary was merrier and brighter than ever, but it was an effort with him to respond ; and soon she began to notice this, and then there was a pause, which she broke at last with something of an effort. "There is that look again. What makes you look so " AVas I looking serious ? I beg your pardon, dearest, and I won't do so again any more ; " and he smiled as he answered, but the smile faded away before her steady, loving gaze, and he turned slightly from her, and looked out over the vale below. She watched him for a short time in silence, her own fair young face changing like a summer sea as the light clouds pass over it. Presently she seemed to have come to some decision ; for, taking off her riding hat, she threw it and her wliip and gauntlets, on the turf beside her, and drawing nearer to his side, laid her hand on his. He looked at her fondly, and, stroking her hair, said — " Take care of your complexion, Mary." ** Oh, it wiU take care of itself in this air, dear. Besides, you are between me and the sun ; and now you must tell me why you look so serious. It is not the first time I have noticed that look. I am your wife, you know, and I have a right to know your thoughts, and to share all your joy, and all your sorrow. I do not mean to give up any of my rights 'yhich I got by marrying you." " Your rights, dearest ! your poor little rights, which you have gained by changing name, and plighting troth. It is thinking of that — thinking of what you have bought, and the price you have paid for it, which makes me sad at times : even when you are sitting by me, and laying your hand on my hand, and the sweet burden of your pure life and being on my soiled and baffled manhood." " But it was my own bargain, you know, dear, and I am satis- fied with my purchase. I paid the price with my eyes open." "Ah, if I could only feel that ! " " But you know that it is true." " No, dearest, that is the pinch. I do not know that it is 542 TOM BRO^Artf AT OXFORD. true. I often feel that it is just not a bit true. It was a one- sided bargain, in which on'^ of the parties l\ad eyes open and got all the advantage ; and that party was I." " I will not have you so conceited," she said, patting his hand once or twice, and looking more bravely than ever up into his eyes. " Why should you think you were so much the cleverer of the two as to get all the good out of our bar- gain 1 I am not going to aUow that you were so much the most quick-witted and clear-sighted. Women are said to be as quick-witted as men. Perhaps it is not I who have been outwitted after all," " Look at the cost, Mary. Think of what you will have to give up. You cannot reckon it up yet." " What ! you are going back to the riding-horses and lady's maid again. I thought I had convinced you on those points." " They are only a very small part of the price. You have left a home where everybody loved you. You knew it ; you were sure of it. You had felt their love ever since you could remember anything." " Yes, dear, and I feel it stilL They will be all just as fond of me at home, though I am your wife." " At home ! It is no longer your home." "No, I have a home of my own now. A new home with new love there to live on ; and an old home, with the old love to think of." " A new home instead of an old one ; a poor home in- stead of a rich one — a home where the cry of the sorrow and suffering of the world will reach you, for one in which you had — " " In which I had not you, dear. There now, that was ray purchase. I set my mind on having you — buying you, as that is your word. I have paid my price, and got my bargain, and — you know, I was always an oddity, and rather willul — am (Content with it." " Yes, Mary, you have bought me, and you little know, dearest, what you have bought I can scarcely bear my own selfishness at times when I think of what your life might have been had I left you alone, and what it must be with me." " And what might it have been, dear ] " " Why you might have married some man with plenty of money, who could have given you everything to which you have been used." " I shall begin to think that you beHeve in luxuries, after £ill, if you go on making so much of them. You must not go on preaching one thing \nd practising another. I am a THE POSTSCRIPT. 54':i convert to your preaching, and believe in the misery of maltiplying artificial wants. Your wife must have none." " Yes, but wealth and position are not to bo despised, I feel that, now that it is all done past recall, end I have to think of you. But the loss of them is a mere nothing to what you will have to go through." ''What do you mean, dear? Of course we must expect some troubles, like other people." " ^\Tiy, I mean, ISIary, that you might, at least, have mar- ried a contented man ; some one who found the world a very good world, and was satisfied with things as they are, and had light enough to steer himself by ; and not a fellow like me, full of all manner of doubts and perplexities, who sees little but wrong in the world about him, and more in himself." " You think I should have been more comfortable 1 " " Yes, more comfortable and happier. What right had I to bring my worries on you? For 1 know you can't live with me, dearest, and not be bothered and annoyed when I am anxious and dissatisfied." " But what if I did not marry you to be comfortable 1 " " My darling, you never thought about it, and I was too selfish to thinlt for you." " There now, you see, it is just as I said." " How do you mean 1 " " I mean that you are quite wrong in thinking that I have been deceived. I did not marry you, dear, to be comfortable — and I did think it all over ; ay, over and over again. So you are not to run away with the belief that you have talcen me in." " I shall be glad enough to give it up, dearest, if you can convince me." " Then you will listen while I explain ? " " Yes, with all my ears and all my heart." " You remember the year that we met, when we danced and went nutting together, a thoughtless boy and girl — " " Kemember it ! Have I ever — " " You are not to interrupt. Of course you remember it all, and are ready to tell me that you loved me the first moment you saw me at the window in High-street. Well, perhaps T shall not object to be told it at a proper time, but now I am making my confessions. I liked you then, because you were Katie's cousin, and almost my first partner, and were never tired of dancing, and were generally merry and pleasant, though you sometimes took to lecturing, even in those days." " But, Mary—" " You are to be silent now and listen. I liked you then. D44 TOM r.ROWN AT OXFORD But you are not to look conceited and flatter yourself. It wa? only a girl's fancy. I couldn't have married you then — given myself up to you. No, I don't think I could, even on the night when you fished for me out of the window with the heather and heliotrope, though I kept them and have them still. And then came that scene down below, at old Simon'g cottage, and I thought I should never wish to see you again. And then I came out in London, and went abroad. I scarcely heard of you again for a year, for Katie hardly ever mentioned you in her letters ; and, though I sometimes cashed that she would, and thought I should just like to know what you were doing, I was too proud to ask. JNIeantime I went out and enjoyed myself, and had a great many pretty things said to me — much prettier things than you ever said — and made the acquaintance of pleasant young men, friends of papa and mamma ; many of them with good establishments too. But I shall not tell you anything more about them, or you will b'^. going off about the luxuries I have been used to. Then T began to hear of you again. Katie came to stay with us, and I met some of your Oxford friends. Poor dear Katie 1 fc>he was full of you and your wild sayings and doings, half- frightened and half-pleased, but all the time the best and trues L friend you ever had. Some of the rest were not friends at all ; and I have heard many a sneer and unkind word, and stories of your monstrous speeches and habits. Some said you were mad ; others that you liked to be eccentric ; that you couldn't bear to live with your equals ; that you sought the society of your inferiors to be flattered. I listened, and thought it all over, and, being wilful and eccentric myself, you know, liked more and more to hear about you, and hoped I should see you again some day. I was curious to judge for myself whether you were much changed for the better or the worse. And at last came the day when I saw you again, carrying the poor lame child ; and, after that, you laiow what happened. So here we are, dear, and you are my husband. And you will please never to look serious again, from any foolish thought that I have been taken in ; that I did not know what I was about when I took you * for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.' Kow, what have you to say for yourself? " "JS'o thing; but a great deal for you. I see more and more, my darling, what a brave, generous, pitying angel I have tied to myself But seeing that makes me despise myself more." " What ! you are going to dare to disobey me already ? ' " I can't help it, dearest. All you say shows me more and THE rOSTSCllIPT. 545 more tliat you have made all the sacrifice, and I am to get all the benefit. A man like me has no riglit to bring such a woman as you under his burthen." " But you couldn't help yourself. It was because you were out of sorts with the world, smarting with the wrongs you saw on every side, struggling after something better and higher, and siding and sympathising with the poor and weak, that I loved you. AYe should never have been here, dear, if you had been a young gentleman satisfied with himself and the world, and likely to get on well in society." " Ah, ^lary, it is all very well for a man. It is a man's business. But why is a woman's life to be made wretched 1 Why should you be dragged into all my perplexities, and doubts, and dreams, and struggles 1 " "And why should I not?" " Life should be all bright and beautiful to a woman. It is every man's duty to shield her from all that can vex, oi pain, or soil." " But have women different souls from men ] " "God forbid!" " Then are we not fit to share your highest hopes 1 " " To share our highest hopes ! Yes, when we have any. But the mire and clay where one sticks fast over and over again, with no high hopes or high anything else in sight — a man must be a selfish brute to bring one he pretends to love into all that." " !N'ow, Tom," she said almost solemnly, " you are not true to yourself. Would you part with your own deepest convic- tions 1 Would you, if you could, go back to the time when you cared for and thought about none of these things 1 " He thought a minute, and then, pressing her hand, said — " Ko, dearest, I would not. The consciousness of the dark- ness in one and around one brings the longing for light. And then the light dawns ; through mist and fog, perhaps, but enough to pick one's way by." He stopped a moment, and then added, "and shines ever brighter unto the perfect day. Yes, I begin to know it." " Then, why not put me on your own level 1 Why not let Die pick my way by your side? Cannot a woman feel the wrongs that are going on in the world? Cannot she long to see them set right, and pray that they may be set right 1 We are not meant to sit in fine silks, and look pretty, and spend money, any more than you are meant to make it, and cry peace where there is no peace. If a woman cannot do much herself, she can honour and love a man who can." He turned to her, and bent over her, and kissed her fore NN 34:0 lUM LKOWJs' AT OXFOED. head, and Icissid lier lips. She looked up with sparkling eyca and said — " Am I not right, dear 1 " " Yes, you are right, and I have been false to my creed. You have taken a load off my heart, dearest. Henceforth there shall be but one mind and one soul between us. You have made me feel what it is that a man wants, what is the help that Is meet for him." He looked into her eyes, and kissed her again ; and then rose up, for there was something within him hke a moving of new life, which lifted him, and set him on his feet. And he stood with kindling brow, gazing into the autumn air, as his heart went sorrowing, but hopefully " sorrowing, back through all the faultful past." And she sat on at first, and watched his face; and neither spoke nor moved for some minutes. Then she rose too, and stood by his side :— And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold ; And bo across the hills they went, In that new world which is the old. Yes, that new world, through the golden gates of which they had passed together, which is the old, old world after all, and nothing else. The same old and new world it was to our fathers and mothers as it is to us, and shall be to our children — a world clear and bright, and ever becoming clearer and brighter to the humble, and brue, and pure of heart, to every man and woman who will live in it as the children of tho Maker and Lord of it, their Father. To them, and to them alone, is that world, old and new, given, and all that is in it, fully and freely Id enjoy. All others but these are occupying where they have no title ; " they are sowing much, but bring- ing in little ; they eat, but have not enough ; they drink, but are not filled with drink ; they clothe themselves, but there is none warm ; and he of them who earneth wages earnetb wages to put them into a bag with holes." But these have the world and all things for a rightful and rich inheritance ; for they hold them as dear children of Him in whose hand it and they are lying, and no power in earth or hell shall pluck them out of their Father's hand. THE SND. WORKS BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE. JOHN INGLESANT. A Romance. 13mo, $1.00. "Its success has been all that its judicious admirers could expect. . . . "Will alwaj^s attract men who think, the studious few, the ' elect ' of literature. Its sale has heen constant, and here in America it has passed through six editions in as many years. "We have not space for an extended examination of the work ; indeed it has been ah'cady reviewed in these pages ; but we do desire to commend it to the readers who love a profoundly interesting story— a story of the life of a man who passed through great trials and was not found wanting, and who, though so nearly falling under the pressure of strong temptation, is shown to be intensely human The naturalness of the story is its abounding charm. Although presenting a succession of pictures of life as it existed more than 200 years ago, it certifies to its genuineness in every page, and approves itself a rare piece of literary workmanship. 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Mr, Crawford's management of this stock personage is highly effective, all the situations in which he figures are dramatic, the diffi- cult scene of his first meeting with the wife is admirably done, and the closing chapter is one of the strongest, and at the same time one of the most natural pieces of writing that any author has given us. — Neix. York Tribune. SARACINESCA. His highest achievement as yet in the realms of fiction. The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make it great — that of telling a perfect love story in a perfect way, and of giv- ing a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope's temporal power. . . , The story is exquisitely told. — Boston Traveller. One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read. — Boston Times. Will add greatly to his reputation as a novelist. . . . If " Sara- cinesca " receives its deserts from the reading public, it will be the most popular, as it is the most admirable of its author's works. 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FROM THE NATION. ** Tliis study of a man (St. Bernard de Morlaix) wlio repre- sents almost, if not quite, ideally the typical Apostle of Humanity, in whom mere excellence dominates and blesses the life of men in their grand social relations, is the most valuable of the fifteen papers which the book contains, and is of the highest moral reach and sug- gestiven^ss. The same seriousness, though not so intense, pervades the book ; and though there are many passages of cleverness, of wit and shai-p sarcasm, and flashes of the lighter play of his brilliant literary art, the preacher's earnestness is never far away. It is good sermonizing, too. The glowing indignation at the lot of the poor, the fixed faith in the destiny of the people, the unrestrained denun- ciation of the waste and folly of the energies and pursuits of most of us, kindle many an ardent page ; and through all breathes the spirit of a man who, whether duped or inspired, is settled on doing his part in the work of the time. 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It is as clear and convincing as a law treatise, as full of charm as a fairy tale. * * * * we -wish it could be read by every sick or sore or discouraged soul and help them to new faith in themselves and their kind. * * * Altogether we must pronounce it one of the most wholesome and helpful books of the day.'"''— New York Commercial Advertiser. " Fascinating in style, peculiarly felicitous in allusion and illustration, and informing and profitable in every w&j.''''— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. "We heartily commend 'The Pleasures of Life' as a work which cannot fail to exert a healthful influence wherever it may chance to be read."— PwWic Opinion. MACMILLAN & CO., NEW YORK. A Companion Series to "Ward's English Poets." A HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE In Four Volumes. Student's Edition, each, $1.00 ; Cabinet Edition, cloth, gilt top, each, $1.75. 1.— Pre-Elizabethan Period. By Rev. Stopford Brooke. In Press. 2.— Age of Elizabeth. By George Saintsbury. Beady. 3.— The Literature of the Eighteenth Century. By Edmund GossE. In Press. 4. — Modern Period. By Edward Dowden. In Press. PRESS NOTICES OF THE YOLUME 01 ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. "Mr. Saintsbury has undertaken the role of adviser, and performs it with admirable tact. The lesser Elizabethan literature marches in his pages at the side of the great familiar works of Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton, Bacon, and the rest. He illustrates his critical opinions by well-chosen extracts, which form an instructive anthology LookingatMr. Saintsbury'scriticism as a whole, allowing for the vast tract of country it traverses, we regard it as a healthy stimulant for those who are studying, or are preparing to study, Elizabethan literature.'"— Lonc?on Atherueum. "Mr. Saintsbury lias produced a most useful first-hand survey— comprehen- sive, compendious, and spirited— of that unique period of literary history when 'all the muses still were in tueir prime." One knows not where else to look for so well-proportioned and well-ordered a conspectus of the astonishingly varied and rich products of the teeming English mind during the century that begins with Totters Miscellany and the birth of Bacon, and closes with the Restora- tion If , as there is good reason to hope, the other authors of this literary history do their parts as thoroughly as Mr. Saintsbury has done his, the result will be a more satisfactory survey of the whole field of our literature than we have hitherto possessed."— M. B. Anderson, in The Dial. "Within comparatively brief limits, the greatest century of English literary production is described with sufficient fullness to satisfy the student of English literature, and with sufficient interest to hold the attention of one who desires chiefly to get a clear conception of the general drift of the time This latest history, when completed, promises to be the most satisfactory history of English literature that has yet been written."— CAris^ian Union. "Will be valuable both to the student and to the general reader ; and if the other volumes of the series are equally well done, the whole work will be the standard history of English literature."— ^Science. "A thoroughly delightful book. Mr. Saintsbury is recognized as one of the best critics in England, and he has here a subject exactly suited to him. The Elizabethan literature, for quality and quantity taken together, is unequaled by any similar body of writings in the world."— .^oc^. MACMILLAN & CO., NEW YORK. UACMILLAN' AND CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. "yo library will be complete without it.'''' — Commercial ADVEBTisaaL "J. Library in J<^4^i Mlll:*-^l ^;,'-^: