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. Everything 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 example the fact, that eating and drinking are 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 Miss 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? I never dreamt that any town could be so beautiful. Don't you feel wild about it, Katie?”
“It is the queen of towns, dear. But I 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 with the targets up, where they were shooting? Don't you remember?”
“New College Gardens, on the old city wall, you mean?”
“No, no. They were 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?”
“I don't hate him, dear. He was a Berkshire 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 garden? How lucky I brought it, wasn't it? I shouldn't have liked to have been in nothing but muslin. 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-waiting on Henrietta Maria. Didn't you hear one of the gentlemen say that she was lodged in St. John's when Charles marched to relieve Gloucester? Ah! Can't you fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her ladies following her, and Bishop Laud walking just a little behind her, and talking in a low voice about—let me see—something very important?”
“Oh, Mary, where has your history gone? He was Archbishop, 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?”
“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 after the queen in a buff coat and breastplate, 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 dispatches; 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 the 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, only a little stiff. But how do you think my bonnet looked.
“Charmingly, but when are you going to have done looking in the glass? You don't care for the buildings, I believe, 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.
“What's that, Katie?” 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 themselves the mark for a whole coach load of male eyes, shrank back a little before the cricketers had passed on towards the “Mitre.” As 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 flannel 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.”
“No, not at all. He is no relation of yours.”
“Well I sha'n't break my heart. But is he a good partner?”
“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 uncle is getting on at the Vice-Chancellor's. Look, it is past eight by St. Mary's. When were we to go?”
“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—I shall be so shy, I know, if there are nothing but wise people. How do you talk to a Regius Professor, Katie? 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 I 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 appearance 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.”
“Hello, Brown, do you know them?”
“One of them is my cousin,” said Tom, who had just been guilty of the salutation which, as we saw, excited the indignation of the younger lady.
“What luck!—You'll ask me to meet them—when shall it be? To-morrow at breakfast, I vote.”
“I say, you'll introduce me before the ball on Monday? 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 lionesses, particularly if they were pretty, should not use it to the utmost for the benefit of the rest, and the glory and honor of the college, was revolting to the undergraduate mind. So the whole body escorted Tom to the door of the lodgings, impressing upon him the necessity of engaging both his lionesses for every hour of every day in St. Ambrose's, and left him not till they had heard him ask for the young ladies, and seen him fairly on his 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 them quickly and surely enough without any urging. Moreover, 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 meeting again, mixed with a feeling of shyness and wonder whether they should be able to step back into their old relations.
Mary looked on demurely, really watching them, but ostensibly 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? Why didn't you write and tell me you were coming?”
“We have been so shut up lately, owing to papa's bad health, that I really had almost forgotten that you were at Oxford.”
“By the bye,” said Tom, “where is uncle?”
“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 we spirited him up to coming.”
“You haven't made any engagements yet, I hope?”
“Indeed we have; I can't tell how many. We came in time for luncheon in Balliol. 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.”
“What, with a lot of dons, I suppose?” said Tom, spitefully; “you won't enjoy Oxford, then; they'll bore you to death.”
“There now, Katie; that is just what I was afraid of,” joined in Mary; “you remember we didn't hear a word about balls all the afternoon.”
“You haven't got your tickets for the balls, then?” said Tom, brightening up.
“No, how shall we get them?”
“Oh, I can manage that, I've no doubt.”
“Stop; how are we to go? Papa will never take us.”
“You needn't think about that; anybody will chaperone you. Nobody cares about that sort of thing at Commemoration.”
“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.”
“No, that will scarcely do, I'm afraid. But really, Mary, we must go and dress.”
“Where are you going, then?” 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?”
“Not one.”
“Then I will try to get you some by the time you are ready. May I?”
“Oh yes, pray, do,” said Mary. “That's capital, Katie, isn't it? Now I shall have some thing 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 little round white hands could clasp, to her, and deposited the rest on the table.
“Now, Katie, which shall I wear—this beautiful white rose all by itself, or a wreath of these pansies? Here, I have a wire; I can make them up in a minute.” She turned to the glass, and held the rich cream-white rose against her hair, and then turning on Tom, added, “What do you think?”
“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? 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 crown, 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 injuction 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 mantle-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 further 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 fellow's, 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 bonnets present, and the doctors and proctors on the floor, and the undergraduates in the gallery. On the whole, she was, perhaps, better employed than her cousin, who knew enough of religious party strife to follow the preacher, and was made very uncomfortable by his discourse, which consisted of an attack upon the recent publications of the most eminent and 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 and aspires, and cannot be satisfied with the regulation draught of spiritual doctors in high places. Being naturally 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 was in fact denouncing, although in words he had praised them as the great lights of the Church. The words which she had heard in one of the lessons kept running in her head, “Truly 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 went 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 equaled 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. He 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 mind, he proceeded, I regret to say, to take the length of the old gentleman's foot, by entering into a minute and sympathizing in quiry into the state of his health. Tom had no faith whatever 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 was 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 his nephew's care for that evening in the Long Walk; and generally to look upon his nephew, Thomas Brown, as his natural prop and supporter in the University, whose one object in life just now would 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 troubled at the idea of having to leave the unrivalled old port of that learned house to escort his daughter and niece to the Long Walk. 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 compromise. 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. Mr. Winter was getting impatient. As soon as they arrived he started for St. John's, after advising them to remain at home for the evening, as they looked quite tired and knocked up; but if they resolved to go to the Long Walk, his nephew would escort them.
“How 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?”
“I 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.”
“We 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 Walk, Katie?”
“Well, 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 cup of tea.”
“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 Winter smiled and said, “Very well.” She saw that her cousin was bent on going, and she could deny her 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. We dined in the middle of the day.”
“Then I may call 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 whole 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 be 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 sure, now, you 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 here quietly. But it is not the same thing with you. You have 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?”
“I'm not so sure 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 tea?”
“Do well unto thyself and men will speak good of thee,” is a maxim as old as King David'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 known that his was a very good first. His college tutor had made his own inquiries, and repeated on several occasions in a confidential 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 thecurriculumprovided by St. Ambrose's College for the training of the youth entrusted 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 weeks before, this excessive affability 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 friends meditated emigration but chiefly by the unwillingness to quit a hard post for an easier one, which besets natures like his to their own discomfort, but, may one hope, to the single 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 impatient with themselves for not making it at once, but when it comes to the actual leaving the old post, even though it may be a march out with all the honours of war, drums beating and colors 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 see this job through somehow, come what may.”
So Hardy stayed on at St. Ambrose, waiting for the fellowship 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 back 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 offices 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 circumstances 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 fellowship 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 this 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 hand. The sword, epaulettes, and picture of his father's old ship—his tutelary divinities, as Tom called them—occupied their accustomed places in his new rooms, except that there was a looking-glass over the mantel-piece here, by 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 window 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 the 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 recognized the fact, and tradesmen and college servants became obsequious, and began to bow before him, and recognize him as one of their lords and masters.
It was to Hardy's lodgings that Tom repaired straight-way, 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 all right; I'm so glad you're in,” he said as he entered the room. “Now I want you to come to the Long Walk with me to-night.”
“Very well—will you call for me?”
“Yes, and mind you come in your best get-up, old fellow; we shall have two of the prettiest girls who are up, with us.”
“You won't want me then; they will have plenty of escort.”
“Not 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 I should take them.”
“Yes, but you see I don't know them.”
“That doesn't matter, I can't take them both myself—I must have somebody with me, and I'm so glad to get the chance of introducing you to some of my people. You'll know them all, I hope, before long.”
“Of course I should like it very much, if you are sure it's all right.”
Tom was perfectly sure as usual, and so the matter was arranged. Hardy was 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. The 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 his 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 demure 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 apologetically,
“Mr. Hardy is a bachelor, Kate—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 everything wrong again.
Then came one of those awkward pauses which will occur so very provokingly at the most inopportune times. Miss Winter was seized with one of the uncontrollable fits of shyness, 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 himself 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 ought to 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 behavior, and a little pique that two young men should be standing there like unpleasant images, and not availing 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 herself, 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.
“I 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, Kate? Well, then, isn't it very ridiculous, and enough to make one laugh, that we four should be standing here in a sort of Quaker's meeting, when we ought to be half-way to the Long Walk by this time?”
“Oh do let us start,” said Mary; “I know we shall be missing all the best of the sight.
“Come along, then,” said Tom, leading the way down 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 on 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 Miss 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 without 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 with enthusiasm of the beauty of Magdalen Chapel, and betrayed a little knowledge of traceries 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 neighborhood. To Miss Winter he seemed so learned on the subject, that she began to doubt 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? He says that he shall feel quite comfortable as long as you and Katie are with me. In fact, I feel quite responsible already, like an old dragon in 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. Poor old uncle!”
“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 lights.”
“Then I shall be a model dragon,” said Tom. Twenty-four hours earlier he had declared that nothing should induce him to go to the balls; but his views 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 whom declared that the whole thing was spoilt by the miscellaneousness 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 of 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 cousin by courtesy, there were none there whose faces, figures and dresses carried more unmistakably the marks of that thorough quiet high breeding, that refinement which is no mere surface polish, and that fearless unconsciousness which looks out from pure hearts, which are still, thank God, to be found in so many homes of the English gentry.
The Long Walk was filling rapidly, and at every half-dozen paces Tom was greeted by some of his friends or acquaintance, and exchanged a word or two with them. But he allowed them one after another to pass by without effecting any introduction.
“You seem to have a great many acquaintances,” said his companion, upon whom none of these salutations were lost.
“Yes, of course; one gets to know a great many men up here.”
“It must be very pleasant. But does it not interfere a great deal with your reading?”
“No; because one meets them at lectures, and in hall and chapel. Besides,” he added in a sudden fit of honesty, “it is my first year. One doesn't read much in one's first year. It is a much harder thing than people think to take to reading, except just before an examination.”
“But your great friend who is walking with Katie—what did you say his name is?”
“Hardy.”
“Well, he is a great scholar, didn't you say?”
“Yes, he has just taken a first class. He is the best man of his year.”
“How proud you must be of him! I suppose, now, he is a great reader?”
“Yes, he is great at everything. He is nearly the best oar in our boat. By the way, you will come to the procession of boats to-morrow night? We are the head boat on the river.”
“Oh, I hope so. Is it a pretty sight? Let us ask Katie about it.”
“It is the finest sight in the world,” said Tom, who had never seen it; “twenty-four eight oars with their flags flying, and all the crews in uniform. You see the barges over there, moored along the side of the river? You will sit on one of them as we pass.”
“Yes, I think I do,” said Mary, looking across the meadow in the direction in which he pointed; “you mean those great gilded things. But I don't see the river.”
“Shall we walk round there. It won't take up ten minutes.”
“But we must not leave the Walk and all the people. It is so amusing here.”
“Then you will wear our colors at the procession to-morrow?”
“Yes, if Katie doesn't mind. At least if they are pretty. What are your colors?”
“Blue and white. I will get you some ribbons to-morrow morning.”
“Very well, and I will make them up into rosettes.”
“Why, do you know them?” asked Tom, as she bowed to two gentlemen in masters' caps and gowns, whom they met in the crowd.
“Yes; at least we met them last night.”
“But do you know who they are?”
“Oh, yes; they were introduced to us, and I talked a great deal to them. And Katie scolded me for it when we got home. No; I won't say scolded me, but looked very grave over it.”
“They are two of the leaders of the Tractarians.”
“Yes. That was the fun of it. Katie was so pleased and interested with them at first; much more than I was. But when she found out who they were, she fairly ran away, and I stayed and talked on. I don't think they said anything very dangerous. Perhaps one of them wrote No. 90. Do you know?”
“I dare say. But I don't know much about it. However, they must have a bad time of it, I should think, up here with the old dons.”
“But don't you think one likes people who are persecuted? I declare I would listen to them for an hour, though I didn't understand a word, just to show them that I wasn't afraid of them, and sympathized with them. How can people be so ill-natured? I'm sure they only write what they believe and think will do good.”
“That's just what most of us feel,” said Tom; “we hate to see them put down because they don't agree with the swells up here. You'll see how they will be cheered in the Theatre.”
“Then they are not unpopular and persecuted after all?”
“Oh yes, by the dons. And that's why we all like them. From fellow-feeling you see, because the dons bully them and us equally.”
“But I thought they were dons too?”
“Well, so they are, but not regular dons, you know, like the proctors, and deans, and that sort.”
His companion did not understand this delicate distinction, but was too much interested in watching the crowd to inquire further.
Presently they met two of the heads of houses walking with several strangers. Everyone was noticing them when they passed, and of course Tom was questioned as to who they were. Not being prepared with an answer, he appealed to Hardy, who was just behind them talking to Miss Winter. They were some of the celebrities on whom honorary degrees were to be conferred, Hardy said; a famous American author, a foreign ambassador, a well-known Indian soldier, and others. Then came some more M.A.'s, one of whom this time bowed to Miss Winter.
“Who was that, Katie?”
“One of the gentlemen we met last night. I did not catch his name, but he was very agreeable.”
“Oh, I remember. You were talking to him for a long time after you ran away from me. I was very curious to know what you were saying, you seemed so interested.”
“Well, you seem to have made the most of your time last night,” said Tom; “I should have thought, Katie, you would hardly have approved of him either.”
“But who is he?”
“Why, the most dangerous man in Oxford. What do they call him—a Germanizer and a rationalist, isn't it, Hardy?”
“Yes, I believe so,” said Hardy.
“Oh, think of that! There, Katie; you had much better have stayed by me after all. A Germanizer, didn't you say? What a hard word. It must be much worse than Tractarian, isn't it, now?”
“Mary dear, pray take care; everybody will hear you,” said Miss Winter.
“I wish I thought that everybody would listen to me,” replied Miss Mary. “But I really will be quiet, Katie, only I must know which is the worst, my Tractarians or your Germanizer?”
“Oh, the Germanizer, of course,” said Tom.
“But why?” said Hardy, who could do no less than break a lance for his companion. Moreover, he happened to have strong convictions on these subjects.
“Why? Because one knows the worst of where the Tractarians are going. They may go to Rome and there's an end of it. But the Germanizers are going into the abysses, or no one knows where.”
“There, Katie, you hear, I hope,” interrupted Miss Mary, coming to her companion's rescue before Hardy could bring his artillery to bear, “but what a terrible place Oxford must be. I declare it seems quite full of people whom it is unsafe to talk with.”
“I wish it were, if they were all like Miss Winter's friend,” said Hardy. And then the crowd thickened and they dropped behind again. Tom was getting to think more of his companion and less of himself every minute, when he was suddenly confronted in the walk by Benjamin, the Jew money-lender, smoking a cigar, and dressed in a gaudy figured satin waistcoat and waterfall of the same material, and resplendent with jewelry. He had business to attend to in Oxford at this time of the year. Nothing escaped the eyes of Tom's companion.
“Who was that?” she said; “what a dreadful-looking man! Surely he bowed as if he knew you?”
“I dare say. He is impudent enough for anything,” said Tom.
“But who is he?”
“Oh, a rascally fellow who sells bad cigars and worse wine.”
Tom's equanimity was much shaken by the apparition of the Jew. The remembrance of the bill scene at the Public house in the Corn-market, and the unsatisfactory prospect in that matter, with Blake plucked and Drysdale no longer a member of the University, and utterly careless as to his liabilities, came across him, and made him silent and absent.
He answered at hazard to his companion's remarks for the next minute or two, until after some particularly inappropriate reply, she turned her head and looked at him for a moment with steady wide open eyes, which brought him to himself, or rather drove him into himself, in no time.
“I really beg your pardon,” he said; “I was very rude, I fear. It is so strange to me to be walking here with ladies. What were you saying?”
“Nothing of any consequence—I really forget. But it is a very strange thing for you to walk with ladies here?”
“Strange! I should think it was! I have never seen a lady that I knew up here, till you came.”
“Indeed! but there must be plenty of ladies living in Oxford?”
“I don't believe there are. At least, we never see them,”
“Then you ought to be on your best behavior when we do come. I shall expect you now to listen to everything I say, and to answer my silliest questions.”
“Oh, you ought not to be so hard on us.”
“You mean that you find it hard to answer silly questions? How wise you must all grow, living up here together!”
“Perhaps. But the wisdom doesn't come down to the first-year men; and so—”
“Well, why do you stop?”
“Because I was going to say something you might not like.”
“Then I insist on hearing it. Now, I shall not let you off. You were saying that wisdom does not come so low as first-year men; and so—what?”
“And so—and so, they are not wise.”
“Yes, of course; but that was not what you were going to say; and so—”
“And so they are generally agreeable, for wise people are always dull; and so—ladies ought to avoid the dons.”
“And not avoid first-year men?”
“Exactly so.”
“Because they are foolish, and therefore fit company for ladies. Now, really—”
“No, no; because they are foolish, and, therefore, they ought to be made wise; and ladies are wiser than dons.”
“And therefore, duller, for all wise people, you said, were dull.”
“Not all wise people; only people who are wise by cramming,—as dons; but ladies are wise by inspiration.”
“And first-year men, are they foolish by inspiration and agreeable by cramming, or agreeable by inspiration and foolish by cramming?”
“They are agreeable by inspiration in the society of ladies.”
“Then they can never be agreeable, for you say they never see ladies.”
“Not with the bodily eye, but with the eye of fancy.”
“Then their agreeableness must be all fancy.”
“But it is better to be agreeable in fancy than dull in reality.”
“That depends upon whose fancy it is. To be agreeable in your own fancy is compatible with being dull in reality as—”
“How you play with words! I see you won't leave me a shred either of fancy or agreeableness to stand on.”
“Then I shall do you good service. I shall destroy your illusions; you cannot stand on illusions.”
“But remember what my illusions were—fancy and agreeableness.”
“But your agreeableness stood on fancy, and your fancy on nothing. You had better settle down at once on the solid basis of dullness like the dons.”
“Then I am to found myself on fact, and try to be dull? What a conclusion! But perhaps dullness is no more a fact than fancy; what is dullness?”
“Oh, I do not undertake to define; you are the best judge.”
“How severe you are! Now, see how generous I am. Dullness in society is the absence of ladies.”
“Alas, poor Oxford! Who is that in the velvet sleeves? Why do you touch your cap?”
“That is the Proctor. He is our Cerberus; he has to keep all undergraduates in good order.”
“What a task! He ought to have three heads.”
“He has only one head, but it is a very long one. And he has a tail like any Basha, composed of pro-proctors, marshals and bull-dogs, and I don't know what all. But to go back to what we were saying—”
“No, don't let us go back. I'm tired of it; besides you were just beginning about dullness. How can you expect me to listen now?”
“Oh, but do listen, just for two minutes. Will you be serious? I do want to know what you really think when you hear the case.”
“Well, I will try—for two minutes, mind.”
Upon gaining which permission, Tom went off into an interesting discourse on the unnaturalness of men's lives at Oxford, which it is by no means necessary to inflict on our readers.
As he was waxing eloquent and sentimental, he chanced to look from his companion's face for a moment in search of a simile, when his eyes alighted on that virtuous member of society, Dick, the factotum of “The Choughs,” who was taking his turn in the Long Walk with his betters. Dick's face was twisted into an uncomfortable grin; his eyes were fixed on Tom and his companion; and he made a sort of half motion towards touching his hat, but couldn't quite carry it through, and so passed by.
“Ah! ain't he a going of it again,” he muttered to himself; “jest like 'em all.”
Tom didn't hear the words, but the look had been quite enough for him, and he broke off short in his speech, and turned his head away, and, after two or three flounderings which Mary seemed not to notice, stopped short, and let Miss Winter and Hardy join them.
“It's getting dark,” he said, as they came up; “the Walk is thinning; ought we not to be going? Remember, I am in charge.”
“Yes, I think it is time.”
At this moment the great Christchurch bell—Tom by name—began to toll.
“Surely that can't be Tom?” Miss Winter said, who had heard the one hundred and one strokes on former occasions.
“Indeed it is, though.”
“But how very light it is.”
“It is almost the longest day in the year, and there hasn't been a cloud all day.”
They started to walk home all together, and Tom gradually recovered himself, but left the labouring oar to Hardy, who did his work very well, and persuaded the ladies to go on and see the Ratcliffe by moonlight—the only time to see it, as he said, because of the shadows—and just to look in at the old quadrangle of St. Ambrose.
It was almost ten o'clock when they stopped at the lodgings in High-street. While they were waiting for the door to be opened, Hardy said—
“I really must apologize, Miss Winter, to you, for my intrusion to-night. I hope your father will allow me to call on him.”
“Oh yes! pray do; he will be so glad to see any friend of my cousin's.”
“And if I can be of any use to him; or to you, or your sister—”
“My sister! Oh, you mean Mary? She is not my sister.”
“I beg your pardon. But I hope you will let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Indeed we will. Now, Mary, papa will be worrying about us.” And so the young ladies said their adieus and disappeared.
“Surely you told me they were sisters,” said Hardy, as the two walked away towards college.
“No, did I? I don't remember.”
“But they are your cousins?”
“Yes, at least Katie is. Don't you like her?”
“Of course, one can't help liking her. But she says you have not met for two years or more.”
“No more we have.”
“Then I suppose you have seen more of her companion lately?”
“Well, if you must know, I never saw her before yesterday.”
“You don't mean to say that you took me in there tonight when you had never seen one of the young ladies before, and the other not for two years! Well, upon my word, Brown—”
“Now don't blow me up, old fellow, to-night—please don't. There, I give in. Don't hit a fellow when he's down. I'm so low.” Tom spoke in such a depreciating tone that Hardy's wrath passed away.
“Why, what's the matter?” he said. “You seemed to be full of talk. I was envying your fluency I know, often.”
“Talk! yes so I was. But didn't you see Dick in the Walk? You have never heard anything more?”
“No! but no news is good news.”
“Heigho! I'm awfully down. I want to talk to you. Let me come up.”
“Come along then.” And so they disappeared into Hardy's lodgings.
The two young ladies, meanwhile, soothed old Mr. Winter, who had eaten and drank more than was good for him, and was naturally put out thereby. They soon managed to persuade him to retire, and then followed themselves—first to Mary's room, where that young lady burst out at once, “What a charming place it is! Oh! didn't you enjoy your evening, Katie!”
“Yes, but I felt a little awkward without a chaperone. You seemed to get on very well with my cousin. You scarcely spoke to us in the Long Walk till just before we came away. What were you talking about?”
Mary burst into a gay laugh. “All sorts of nonsense,” she said. “I don't think I ever talked so much nonsense in my life. I hope he isn't shocked. I don't think he is. But I said anything that came into my head. I couldn't help it. You don't think it wrong?”
“Wrong, dear? No, I'm sure you could say nothing wrong.”
“I'm not so sure of that. But, Katie dear, I know there is something on his mind.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Oh, because he stopped short twice, and became quite absent, and seemed not to hear anything I said.”
“How odd! I never knew him do so. Did you see any reason for it?”
“No; unless it was two men we passed in the crowd. One was a vulgar-looking wretch, who was smoking—a fat black thing, with such a thick nose, covered with jewelry—”
“Not his nose, dear?”
“No, but his dress; and the other was a homely, dried-up little man, like one of your Englebourn troubles. I'm sure there is some mystery about them, and I shall find it out. But how did you like his friend, Katie?”
“Very much, indeed. I was rather uncomfortable at walking so long with a stranger. But he was very pleasant, and is so fond of Tom. I am sure he is a very good friend for him.”
“He looks a good man; but how ugly!”
“Do you think so? We shall have a hard day to-morrow. Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Katie. But I don't feel a bit sleepy.” And so the cousins kissed one another, and Miss Winter went to her own room.