12857	----	BEAUTIFUL BRITAIN--CAMBRIDGE By Gordon Home [Illustration: THE OLD GATEWAY OF KING'S COLLEGE This is now the Entrance to the University Library. At the end of the short street is part of the north side of King's College Chapel.] CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER 3 I. SOME COMPARISONS 6 II. EARLY CAMBRIDGE 15 III. THE GREATER COLLEGES 35 IV. THE LESSER COLLEGES 51 V. THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, THE SENATE HOUSE, THE PITT PRESS, AND THE MUSEUMS 57 VI. THE CHURCHES IN THE TOWN 64 INDEX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE ILLUSTRATION Frontispiece 1. THE OLD GATEWAY OF KING'S COLLEGE 17 2. THE LIBRARY WINDOW OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE 24 3. IN THE CHOIR OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL 33 4. THE ENTRANCE GATEWAY OF TRINITY COLLEGE 40 5. THE GATE OF HONOUR, CAIUS COLLEGE 49 6. THE OLD COURT IN EMMANUEL COLLEGE 56 7. THE CIRCULAR NORMAN CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE On the cover 8. THE "BRIDGE OF SIGHS," ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE CHAPTER I SOME COMPARISONS "..._and so at noon with Sir Thomas Allen, and Sir Edward Scott and Lord Carlingford, to the Spanish Ambassador's, where I dined the first time.... And here was an Oxford scholar, in a Doctor of Laws' gowne.... And by and by he and I to talk; and the company very merry at my defending Cambridge against Oxford._"--PEPYS' _Diary_ (May 5, 1669). In writing of Cambridge, comparison with the great sister university seems almost inevitable, and, since it is so usual to find that Oxford is regarded as pre-eminent on every count, we are tempted to make certain claims for the slightly less ancient university. These claims are an important matter if Cambridge is to hold its rightful position in regard to its architecture, its setting, and its atmosphere. Beginning with the last, we do not hesitate to say that there is a more generally felt atmosphere of repose, such as the mind associates with the best of our cathedral cities, in Cambridge than is to be enjoyed in the bigger and busier university town. This is in part due to Oxford's situation on a great artery leading from the Metropolis to large centres of population in the west; while Cambridge, although it grew up on a Roman road of some importance, is on the verge of the wide fenlands of East Anglia, and, being thus situated off the trade-ways of England, has managed to preserve more of that genial and scholarly repose we would always wish to find in the centres of learning, than has the other university. Then this atmosphere is little disturbed by the modern accretions to the town. On the east side, it is true, there are new streets of dull and commonplace terraces, which one day an awakened England will wipe out; there are other elements of ugly sordidness, which the lack of a guiding and controlling authority, and the use of distressingly hideous white bricks, has made possible, but it is quite conceivable that a visitor to the town might spend a week of sight-seeing in the place without being aware of these shortcomings. This fortunate circumstance is due to the truly excellent planning of Cambridge. It is not for a moment suggested that the modern growth of the place is ideal, but what is new and unsightly is so placed that it does not interfere with the old and beautiful. The real Cambridge is so effectively girdled with greens and commons, and college grounds shaded with stately limes, elms, and chestnuts, that there are never any jarring backgrounds to destroy the sense of aloofness from the ugly and untidy elements of nineteenth-century individualism which are so often conspicuous at Oxford. Cambridge has also made better use of her river than has her sister university; she has taken it into her confidence, bridged it in a dozen places, and built her colleges so that the waters mirror some of her most beautiful buildings. Further than this, in the glorious chapel Henry VI. built for King's College, Cambridge possesses one of the three finest Perpendicular chapels in the country--a feature Oxford cannot match, and in the church of the Holy Sepulchre Cambridge boasts the earliest of the four round churches of the Order of the Knights Templars which survive at this day. But comparisons tend to become odious, and sufficient has been said to vindicate the exquisite charm that Cambridge so lavishly displays. CHAPTER II EARLY CAMBRIDGE Roman Cambridge was probably called Camboritum, but this, like the majority of Roman place names in England, fell into disuse, and the earliest definite reference to the town in post-Roman times gives the name as Grantacaestir. This occurs in Bede's great _Ecclesiastical History_, concluded in A.D. 731, and the incident alluded to in connection with the Roman town throws a clear ray of light upon the ancient site in those unsettled times. It tells how Sexburgh, the abbess of Ely, needing a more permanent coffin for the remains of AEtheldryth, her predecessor in office, sent some of the brothers from the monastery to find such a coffin. Ely being without stone, and surrounded by waterways and marshes, they took a vessel and came in time to an abandoned city, "which, in the language of the English, is called Grantacaestir; and presently, near the city walls, they found a white marble coffin, most beautifully wrought, and neatly covered with a lid of the same sort of stone." That this carved marble sarcophagus was of Roman workmanship there seems no room to doubt, and Professor Skeat regards it as clear that this ruined town, with its walls and its Roman remains, was the same place as the Caer-grant mentioned by the historian, Nennius. In course of time the Anglo-Saxon people of the district must have overcome their prejudices against living in what had been a Roman city, and Grantacaestir arose out of the ruins of its former greatness. In the ninth century a permanent bridge was built, and the town began to be known as Grantabrycg, or, as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle gives it, Grantebrycge. Domesday toned this down to Grentebrige, and that was the name of Cambridge when a Norman castle stood beside the grass-grown mound which is all that remains to-day of the Saxon fortress. What caused the change from G to C is hard to discover, but when King John was on the throne the name was written Cantebrige, and the "m" put in its appearance in the earlier half of the fifteenth century, the "t" being discarded at the same period. It seems that the name of the river was arrived at by the same process. Perhaps the oddest feature of the whole of these vicissitudes in nomenclature is the similarity between the Roman Camboritum and Cambridge, for the two names have, as has been shown, no connection whatsoever. A map of Cambridgeshire, compiled by the Rev. F.G. Walker, showing the Roman and British roads reveals instantly that the university town has a Roman origin, for it stands at the junction of four roads, or rather where Akeman Street crossed Via Devana, the great Roman way connecting Huntingdon and Colchester. Two or three miles to the south, however, the eye falls on the name of a village called Grantchester, and if we had no archaeology to help us, we would leap to the conclusion that here, and not at Cambridge, was the ancient site mentioned by the earlier chroniclers. And this is precisely what happened. Even recent writers have fallen into the same old mistake in spite of the discovery of Roman remains on the site of the real Roman town, and notwithstanding the fact that the two roads mentioned intersect there. The trouble arose through the alterations in spelling in the name of the village of Granteceta, or, as it often appears in early writings, Gransete, but now that Professor Skeat has given us the results of his careful tracking of the name back to 1080, when it first appears in any record, we see plainly that this village has never had a past of any importance, and that the original name means nothing more than "settlers by the Granta." There is a Roman camp near this village, and a few other discoveries of that period have been made there, but such finds have been made in dozens of places near Cambridge. It is therefore an established fact that modern Cambridge has been successively British, Roman, Saxon, and Norman, and the original town, situated on the north-western side of the river, has extended across the water and filled the space bounded on three sides by the Cam. Being on the edge of the Fen Country, where the Conqueror found the toughest opposition to his completed sovereignty in England, the patch of raised ground just outside modern Cambridge was a suitable spot for the erection of a castle, and from here he conducted his operations against the English, who held out under Hereward the Wake on the Isle of Ely. In the hurried operations preceding the taking of the "Camp of Refuge" in 1071, there was probably only sufficient time to strengthen the earthworks and to build stockades, but soon afterwards William erected a permanent castle of stone on this marsh frontier--a building Fuller describes as a "stately structure anciently the ornament of Cambridge." In her scholarly work on the town, Miss Tuker tells us how Edward III. quarried the castle to build King's Hall; how Henry VI. allowed more stone to be taken for King's College Chapel; and how Mary in 1557 completed the wiping out of the Norman fortress by granting to Sir Robert Huddleston permission to carry away the remaining stone to build himself a house at Sawston! Wherever building materials are scarce such things have happened, even to the extent of utilizing the stones of stately ruins for road-making purposes. It thus comes about that the artificial mound and the earthworks on the north side of it are as bare and grass-grown as any pre-historic fort which has not at any period known a permanent edifice. Owing to its fairs, and particularly to the famous Stourbridge Fair, an annual mart of very great if uncertain antiquity, held near the town during September, Cambridge at an early date became a centre of commerce, and it had risen to be a fairly large town of some importance before the Conquest. In the time of Ethelred a royal mint had been established there, and it appears to have recovered rapidly after its destruction by Robert Curthose in 1088, for it continued to be a mint under the Plantagenets, and even as late as Henry VI. money was coined in the town. A bridge, as already stated, was built at Cambridge in the ninth century, but in 870, and again in 1010, the Danes sacked the town, and it would seem that the bridge was destroyed, for early in the twelfth century we find a reference to the ferry being definitely fixed at Cambridge, and that before that time it had been "a vagrant," passengers crossing anywhere that seemed most convenient. This fixing of the ferry, and various favours bestowed by Henry I., resulted in an immediate growth of prosperity, and the change was recognized by certain Jews who took up their quarters in the town and were, it is interesting to hear, of such "civil carriage" that they incurred little of the spite and hatred so universally prevalent against them in the Middle Ages. The trade guilds of Cambridge were founded before the Conquest, and, becoming in course of time possessed of wealth and influence, some of them were enabled to found a college. As England settled down under the Norman Kings, the great Abbey of Ely waxed stronger and wealthier, and in the wide Fen Country there also grew up the abbeys of Peterborough, Crowland, Thorney, and Ramsey--all under the Benedictine rules. To the proximity of these great monasteries was due the beginning of the scholastic element in Cambridge, and perhaps the immense popularity of Stourbridge Fair, which Defoe thought the greatest in Europe, may have helped to locate the University there. Exactly when or how the first little centre of learning was established in the town is still a matter of uncertainty, but there seems to have been some strong influence emanating from the Continent in the twelfth century which encouraged the idea of establishing monastic schools. Cambridge in quite early times began to be sprinkled with small colonies of canons and friars, and in these religious hostels the young monks from the surrounding abbeys were educated. Mr. A.H. Thompson, in his _Cambridge and its Colleges_, suggests that the unhealthy dampness of the fens would have made it very desirable that the less robust of the youths who were training for the cloistered life in the abbeys of East Anglia should be transferred to the drier and healthier town, where the learning of France was available among the many different religious Orders represented there. In 1284 the first college was founded on an academic basis. This was Peterhouse. Its founder was Hugh de Balsham, Bishop of Ely, who had made the experiment of grafting secular scholars among the canons of St. John's Hospital, afterwards the college. Finding it difficult to reconcile the difficulties which arose between secular and religious, he transferred his lay scholars, or Ely clerks, to two hostels at the opposite end of the town, and at his death left 300 marks to build a hall where they could meet and dine. After this beginning there were no imitators until forty years had elapsed, but then colleges began to spring up rapidly. In 1324 Michael House was founded, and following it came six more in quick succession: Clare in 1326, King's Hall in 1337, Pembroke in 1347, Gonville Hall in 1348, Trinity Hall in 1350, and Corpus Christi in 1352. These constitute the first period of college-founding, separated from the succeeding by nearly a century. The second period began in 1441 with King's, and ended with St. John's in 1509. After an interval of thirty-three years the third period commenced with Magdalene, and concluded with Sidney Sussex in 1595. A fourth group is composed of the half-dozen colleges belonging to last century. CHAPTER III THE GREATER COLLEGES St. John's.--With its three successive courts and their beautiful gateways of mellowed red brick, St. John's is very reminiscent of Hampton Court. Both belong to the Tudor period, and both have undergone restorations and have buildings of stone added in a much later and entirely different style. Across the river stands the fourth court linked with the earlier buildings by the exceedingly beautiful "Bridge of Sighs." To learn the story of the building of St. John's is a simple matter, for the first court we enter is the earliest, and those that succeed stand in chronological order,--eliminating, of course, Sir Gilbert Scott's chapel and the alterations of an obviously later period than the courts as a whole. To Lady Margaret Beaufort, the foundress of the college, or, more accurately, to her executor, adviser and confessor, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, who carried out her wishes, we owe the first court, with its stately gateway of red brick and stone. It was built between 1511 and 1520 on the site of St. John's Hospital of Black Canons, suppressed as early as 1509. [Illustration: THE LIBRARY WINDOW ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE FROM THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. From this spot beautiful views are obtained up and down the river.] The second court, also possessing a beautiful gate tower, was added between 1595 and 1620, the expense being mainly borne by Mary Cavendish, Countess of Shrewsbury, whose statue adorns the gateway. Filling the space between the second court and the river comes the third, begun in 1623, when John Williams, then Lord Keeper and Bishop of Lincoln, and afterwards Archbishop of York, gave money for erecting the library whose bay window, projecting into the silent waters of the Cam, takes a high place among the architectural treasures of Cambridge. If anyone carries a solitary date in his head after a visit to the University it is almost sure to be 1624, the year of the building of this library, for the figures stand out boldly above the Gothic window just mentioned. The remaining sides of the third court were built through the generosity of various benefactors, and then came a long pause, for it was not until after the first quarter of the nineteenth century had elapsed that the college was extended to the other side of the river. This new court came into existence, together with the delightful "Bridge of Sighs," between the years 1826 and 1831, when Thomas Rickman, an architect whose lectures and published treatises had given him a wide reputation, was entrusted with the work. The new buildings were not an artistic success, in spite of the elaborate Gothic cloister, with its stupendous gateway and the imposing scale of the whole pile. Their deficiencies might be masked or at least diminished if ivy were allowed to cover the unpleasing wall spaces, and perhaps if these lines are ever read by the proper authority such a simple and inexpensive but highly desirable improvement will come to pass. The stranger approaching St. John's College for the first time might be easily pardoned for mistaking the chapel for a parish church, and those familiar with the buildings cannot by any mental process feel that the aggressive bulk of Sir Gilbert Scott's ill-conceived edifice is anything but a crude invasion. More than half a century has passed since this great chapel replaced the Tudor building which had unluckily come to be regarded as inadequate, but the ponderous Early Decorated tower is scarcely less of an intrusion than when its masonry stood forth in all its garish whiteness against the time-worn brick of Lady Margaret Beaufort's court. A Perpendicular tower would have added a culminating and satisfying feature to the whole cluster of courts, and by this time would have been so toned down by the action of weather that it would have fallen into place as naturally as the Tudor Gothic of the Houses of Parliament has done in relation to Westminster Abbey. Like Truro Cathedral, and other modern buildings imitating the Early English style, the interior is more successful than the exterior; the light, subdued and enriched by passing through the stained glass of the large west window (by Clayton and Bell) and others of less merit, tones down the appearance of newness and gives to the masonry of 1869 a suggestion of the glamour of the Middle Ages. Fortunately, some of the stalls with their "miserere" seats were preserved when the former chapel was taken down, and these, with an Early English piscina, are now in the chancel of the modern building. The Tudor Gothic altar tomb of one of Lady Margaret's executors--Hugh Ashton, Archdeacon of York--has also been preserved. At the same time as the chapel was rebuilt, Sir Gilbert Scott rebuilt parts of the first and second courts. He demolished the Master's Lodge, added two bays to the Hall in keeping with the other parts of the structure, and built a new staircase and lobby for the Combination Room, which is considered without a rival in Cambridge or Oxford. It is a long panelled room occupying all the upper floor of the north side of the second court and with its richly ornamented plaster ceiling, its long row of windows looking into the beautiful Elizabethan court, its portraits of certain of the college's distinguished sons in solemn gold frames, it would be hard to find more pleasing surroundings for the leisured discussion of subjects which the fellows find in keeping with their after-dinner port. There is an inner room at one end, and continuing in the same line and opening into it, so that a gallery of great length is formed, is the splendid library, built nearly three centuries ago and unchanged in the passing of all those years. The library of St. John's is rich in examples of early printing by Caxton and others whose books come under the heading of incunabula, but it would have been vastly richer in such early literature had Bishop Fisher's splendid collection--"the notablest library of books in all England, two long galleries full"--been allowed to come where the good prelate had intended. When he was deprived, attainted, and finally beheaded in 1535 for refusing to accept Henry as supreme head of the Church, his library was confiscated, and what became of it I do not know. Over the high table in the hall, a long and rather narrow structure with a dim light owing to its dark panelling, hangs a portrait of Lady Margaret Beaufort, the foundress of the college, and on either side of this pale Tudor lady are paintings of Archbishop Williams, who built the library, and Sir Ralph Hare. The most interesting portraits are, however, in the master's lodge, rebuilt by Sir Gilbert Scott on a new site north of the library. [Illustration] It was through no sudden or isolated emotion that Lady Margaret was led to found this college in 1509, the year of her death, for she had four years earlier re-established the languishing grammar college, called God's House, under the new name of Christ's College, and had been a benefactress to Oxford as well. On the outer gateways of both her colleges, therefore, we see the great antelopes of the Beauforts supporting the arms of Lady Margaret, with her emblem, the daisy, forming a background. Sprinkled freely over the buildings, too, are the Tudor rose and the Beaufort portcullis. St. John's Hospital, which stood on the site of the present college, had been founded in 1135, and was suppressed in 1509, when it had shrunk to possessing two brethren only. The interest of this small foundation of Black Canons would have been small had it not been attached to Ely, and through that connection made the basis of Bishop Balsham's historic experiment already mentioned. The founding of St. John's by a lady of even such distinction as the mother of Henry VII. could not alone have placed the college in the position it now occupies: such a consummation could only have been brought about by the capacity and learning of those to whom has successively fallen the task of carrying out her wishes, from Bishop Fisher down to the present time. To mention all, or even the chief, of these rulers of the college is not possible here, and before saying farewell to the lovely old courts, we have only space to mention that among the famous students were Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; Matthew Prior, the poet-statesman; William Wilberforce, and William Wordsworth. KING'S COLLEGE.--Henry VI. was only twenty when, in 1441, he founded King's College. In that year the pious young Sovereign himself laid the foundation stone, and five years later it is believed that he performed the same ceremony in relation to the chapel, which grew to perfection so slowly that it was not until 1515 that the structure had assumed its present stately form. It was Henry's plan to associate his college at Eton, which he founded at the same time, with King's. The school he had established under the shadow of his palace at Windsor was to be the nursery for his foundation at Cambridge in the same fashion as William of Wykeham had connected Winchester and New College, Oxford. Henry's first plan was for a smaller college than the splendid foundation he afterwards began to achieve with the endowments obtained from the recently-suppressed alien monasteries. Had the young King's reign been peaceful, there is little doubt that a complete college carried out on such magnificent lines as the chapel would have come into being; but Henry became involved in a disastrous civil war, and his ambitious plans for a great quadrangle and cloister, three other courts, one on the opposite side of the river connected with a covered bridge and an imposing gate tower as well, never came to fruition. Fortunately, Henry's successor, anxious to be called the founder of the college, subscribed towards the continuance of the chapel, but he also diverted (a mild expression for robbery) a large part of Henry's endowments. Richard III., in his brief reign, found time to contribute £700 to the college, but it was not until the very end of the next reign that Henry VII., in 1508, devoted the first of two sums of £5,000 to the chapel, so that the work of finishing the building could go forward to its completion, which took place in 1515. At the present time the chapel is on the north side of the college, but when originally planned it stood on the south, for the single court which was built is now incorporated in the University Library, and the existing buildings, all comparatively modern, stand in somewhat disjointed fashion to the south, and extend from King's Parade down to the river. Fellows' Building, the isolated block running north and south between the chapel and this long perspective of bastard Gothic, was designed by Gibbs in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, and its severe lines, broken by an open archway in the centre, are a remarkable contrast to the graceful detail, of the chapel. Framed by the great arch, there is a delicious peep of smooth lawn sloping slightly to the river, with a forest-like background beyond. In the other buildings of King's it is hard to find any interest, for the crude Gothic of William Wilkins, even when we remember that he designed the National Gallery, St. George's Hospital, and other landmarks of London, is altogether depressing. Even the big hall, presided over by a portrait of Sir Robert Walpole, is unsatisfying. It is the custom to scoff at the gateway and stone arcading Wilkins afterwards threw across the fourth side of the grassy court of the college; but, although its crocketed finials are curious, and we wonder at the lack of resource which led to such a mass of unwarranted ornament, it is not aggressive, neither does it jar with the academic repose of King's Parade. [Illustration: IN THE CHOIR OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL. This Chapel and that of Henry VII at Westminster and St. George's at Windsor, are the finest examples of the gorgeous fan tracery belonging to the last phase of English gothic architecture.] Owing to the extreme uniformity of the exterior of the chapel the eye seems to take in all there is to see in one sweeping vision, refusing subconsciously to look individually at each of the twelve identical bays, each with its vast window of regularly repeated design. But there are some things it would be a pity to pass over, for to do so would be to fail to appreciate the profound skill of the mediaeval architects and craftsmen who could rear a marvellous stone roof upon walls so largely composed of glass. In this building, like its only two rivals in the world--St. George's Chapel at Windsor Castle and Henry VII.'s Chapel at Westminster--the wall space between the windows has shrunk to the absolute minimum; in fact, nothing is left beyond the bare width required for the buttresses, and to build those reinforcements with sufficient strength to take the thrust of a vaulted stone roof must have required consummate capacity and skill. At Eton, where, however, the stone roof was never built, the buttresses planned to carry it appear so enormous that the building seems to be all buttress, but here such an impression could never for a moment be gained, for the chapel filling each bay completely masks the widest portion of the adjoining buttresses. The upper portions are so admirably proportioned that they taper up to a comparatively slight finial with the most perfect gradations. Directly we enter the chapel our eyes are raised to look at the roof which necessitated that stately row of buttresses, but for a time it is hard to think of anything but the splendour of colour and detail in this vast aisleless nave, and we think of what Henry's college might have been had the whole plan been carried out in keeping with this perfect work. Wordsworth's familiar lines present themselves as more fitting than prose to describe this consummation of the pain and struggle of generations of workers since the dawn of Gothic on English soil: Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the architect who planned-- Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only--this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. When the sunlight falls athwart the great windows the tracery and the moulded stonework on either side are painted with "the soft chequerings" of rainbow hues, and the magnificent glass shows at its best all its marvellously fine detail, as well as the beauty of its colour. The whole range of twenty-six windows having been executed under two contracts, dated 1516 and 1526, there was opportunity for carrying out a great subject scheme, and thus it was found possible to illustrate practically the whole Gospel story, culminating in the Crucifixion in the east window, and continuing into apostolic times until the death of the Virgin Mary. At the west end is the one modern window. It represents the Last Judgement. It is safe to say that of their period this glorious set of windows has no real rival, and it is hardly possible to do them any justice if the visitor has become a little jaded with sight-seeing. In one of the windows there is a splendidly drawn three-masted ship of the period (Henry VIII.'s reign), high in the bow and stern, with her long-boat in the water amidships, and every detail of the rigging so clearly shown that the artist must have drawn it from a vessel in the Low Countries or some English port. It is one of the best representations of a ship of the period extant. This is merely an indication of the vivid archaeological interest of the glass, apart from its beauty in the wonderful setting of fan vaulting and tall, gracefully moulded shafts. The splendid oaken screen across the choir, dividing the chapel into almost equal portions, was put up in 1536, at the same time as nearly the whole of the stalls. It is rather startling to see the monogram of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, entwined with true lovers' knots, on this wonderful piece of Renaissance woodwork, for in 1536, the date of the screen, Anne, charged with unfaithfulness, went to the scaffold. How was it, we wonder, that these initials were never removed? The screen also reminds us of the changes in architecture and religion which had swept over England between the laying of the foundation stone and the completion of the internal fittings, for, not only had the Gothic order come to its greatest perfection in this building, and then its whole traditions been abandoned and a reversion to classic forms taken place, but the very religion for which the chapel had been built had been swept away by the Reformation. The Tudor rose and portcullis frequently repeated within and without the chapel constantly remind us of the important part Henry VII. played in the creation of one of the chiefest flowers of the Gothic order and the architectural triumph of Cambridge. TRINITY COLLEGE.--Oxford does not possess so large a foundation as Trinity College, and the spaciousness of the great court impresses the stranger as something altogether exceptional in collegiate buildings, but, like the British Constitution, this largest of the colleges only assumed its present appearance after many changes, including the disruptive one brought about by Henry VIII. In that masterful manner of his the destroyer of monasticism, having determined to establish a new college in Cambridge, dissolved not only King's Hall and Michael House, two of the earliest foundations, but seven small university hostels as well. The two old colleges were obliged to surrender their charters as well as their buildings; the lane separating them was closed, and then, with considerable revenues obtained from suppressed monasteries, Henry proceeded to found his great college dedicated to the Trinity. There is something in the broad and spacious atmosphere of the Great Court suggestive of the change from the narrow and cramped thought of pre-Reformation times to the age when a healthy expansion of ideas was coming like a fresh breeze upon the mists which had obscured men's visions. But even as the Reformation did not at once sweep away all traces of monasticism, so Henry's new college retained for a considerable time certain of the buildings of the two old foundations which were afterwards demolished or rebuilt to fit in with the scheme of a great open court. Thus it was not until the mastership of Thomas Nevile that King Edward's gate tower was reconstructed in its present position west of the chapel. On this gate, beneath the somewhat disfiguring clock, is the statue of Edward III., regarded as a work of the period of Edward IV. Shortly before Henry made such drastic changes, King's Hall had been enlarged and had built itself a fine gateway of red brick with stone dressings, and this was made the chief entrance to the college. The upper part and the statue of Henry VIII. on the outer face were added by Nevile between 1593 and 1615, but otherwise, the gateway is nearly a whole century earlier. It is interesting to read the founder's words in regard to the aims of his new college, for in them we seem to feel his wish to establish an institution capable in some measure of filling the gap caused by the suppression of so many homes of learning in England. Trinity was to be established for "the development and perpetuation of religion" and for "the cultivation of wholesome study in all departments of learning, knowledge of languages, the education of youth in piety, virtue, self-restraint and knowledge; charity towards the poor, and relief of the afflicted and distressed." To the right on entering the great gateway is the chapel, a late Tudor building begun by Queen Mary and finished by her sister Elizabeth about the year 1567. The exterior is quite mediaeval, and all the internal woodwork, including the great _baldachino_ of gilded oak, the stalls and the organ screen dividing the chapel into two, dates from the beginning of the eighteenth century. In the ante-chapel the memory of some of the college's most distinguished sons is perpetuated in white marble. Among them we see Macaulay and Newton, whose rooms were between the great gate and the chapel, Tennyson, Whewell--the master who built the courts bearing his name, was active in revising the college statutes, and died in 1866--Newton, Bacon, Wordsworth and others. On the west side of the court, beginning at the northern end, we find ourselves in front of the Lodge, which is the residence of the Master of the College. The public are unable to see the fine interior with its beautiful dining- and drawing-rooms and the interesting collection of college portraits hanging there, but they can see the famous oriel window built in 1843 with a contribution of £1,000 from Alexander Beresford-Hope. This sum, however, even with £250 from Whewell, who had just been elected to the mastership, did not cover the cost, and the fellows had to make up the deficit. It was suggested that Whewell might have contributed more had not his wife dissuaded him, and a fellow wrote a parody of "The House that Jack Built" which culminated in this verse: This is the architect who is rather a muff, Who bamboozled those seniors that cut up so rough, When they saw the inscription, or rather the puff, Placed by the master so rude and so gruff, Who married the maid so Tory and tough, And lived in the house that Hope built. The Latin inscription, omitting any reference to the part the fellows took in building the oriel, may still be read on the window. In the centre of this side of the court is a doorway approached by a flight of steps, and, from the passage to which this leads, we enter the Hall. It was built in the first decade of the seventeenth century, and the screen over the entrance with the musicians' gallery behind belongs to that period. [Illustration: THE ENTRANCE GATEWAY OF TRINITY COLLEGE. Trinity was expanded by Henry III from the "great college" built by Edward III. The gateway dates from about 1535.] Unfortunately, the panelling along the sides has replaced the old woodwork in recent times. This beautiful refectory resembles in many ways the Middle Temple Hall in London. The measurements are similar, it has bay windows projecting at either end of the high table, a minstrels' gallery at the opposite end, and well into the last century was heated by a great charcoal brazier in the centre. The fumes found their way into every corner of the hall before reaching their outlet in the lantern. Among the numerous portraits on the walls there are several of famous men. Among them we find Dryden, Vaughan, Thompson (by Herkomer), the Duke of Gloucester (by Sir Joshua Reynolds), Coke (the great lawyer), Thackeray, Tennyson (by G.F. Watts), Cowley and Bentley. On the other side of the entrance passage are the kitchens with the combination rooms above, where more notable portraits hang. The remainder of the court is composed of living-rooms broken by the Queen's Gate, a fine tower built in 1597 facing King Edward's Gate. It has a statue of Elizabeth in a niche and the arms of Nevile and Archbishop Whitgift. Nevile's Court is approached by the passage giving entrance to the hall. The eastern half was built when Nevile was master between 1593 and 1615, and the library designed by Sir Christopher Wren occupies the river frontage. To the casual observer this building is a comparatively commonplace one, built in two stories, but although it allows space for the arcaded cloister to go beneath it, the library above consists of one floor and the interior does not in the least follow the external lines. On great occasions Nevile's Court is turned into a most attractive semi-open-air ball or reception room. One memorable occasion was when the late King Edward, shortly after his marriage, was entertained with his beautiful young bride at a ball given at his old college. Passing out of the court to the lovely riverside lawns, shaded by tall elms and chestnuts, we experience the ever-fresh thrill of the Cambridge "Backs," and, crossing Trinity Bridge, walk down the stately avenue leading away from the river with glimpses of the colleges seen through the trees so full of suggestive beauty as to belong almost to a city of dreams. There are other courts belonging to Trinity, including two gloomy ones of recent times on the opposite side of Trinity Street, but there is, alas! no space left to tell of their many associations. CHAPTER IV THE LESSER COLLEGES PETERHOUSE.--Taking the smaller colleges in the order of their founding, we come first of all to Peterhouse, already mentioned more than once in these pages on account of its antiquity, so that it is only necessary to recall the fact that Hugh de Balsham, Bishop of Ely, founded this the first regular college in 1284. Of the original buildings of the little hostel nothing remains, and the quadrangle was not commenced until 1424, but the tragedy which befell the college took place in the second half of the eighteenth century, when James Essex, who built the dreary west front of Emmanuel, was turned loose in the court. His hand was fortunately stayed before he had touched the garden side of the southern wing, and the picturesque range of fifteenth-century buildings, including the hall and combination room, remains one of the most pleasing survivals of mediaeval architecture in Cambridge. Dr. Andrew Perne, also known as "Old Andrew Turncoat," and other names revealing his willingness to fall in with the prevailing religious ideas of the hour, was made Master of Peterhouse in 1554, and subsequently he became Vice-Chancellor of the University. He added to the library the extension which now overlooks Trumpington Street, and to him the town is largely indebted for those little runnels of sparkling water to be seen flowing along by the curbstones of some of the streets. The chapel was added in 1632 by Bishop Matthew Wren in the Italian Gothic style then prevalent, and its dark panelled interior is chiefly noted for its Flemish east window. The glass was taken out and hidden in the Commonwealth period, and replaced when the wave of Puritanism had spent itself. All the other windows are later work by Professor Aimmuller of Munich. Before this chapel was built the little parish church of St. Peter, which stood on the site of the present St. Mary the Less, supplied the students with all they needed in this direction. CLARE.--Michael House, the second college, was, as we have seen, swept away to make room for Trinity, so that the second in order of antiquity is Clare College, whose classic facade of great regularity, with the graceful little stone bridge spanning the river, is one of the most familiar features of the "Backs." The actual date of the founding of the college by Elizabeth de Burgh, daughter of Gilbert de Clare, was 1342, and the court, then built in the prevalent Decorated style, continued in use until 1525, when it was so badly damaged by fire that a new building was decided upon, but the work was postponed until 1635, and was only finished in the second year of the Restoration. Although no shred of evidence exists as to the architect, tradition points to Inigo Jones, whose death took place, however, in 1652. The bridge is coeval with the earliest side of the court, having been finished in 1640. In the hall, marred by great sheets of plate-glass in the windows, there are portraits of Hugh Latimer, Thomas Cecil (Earl of Exeter), Elizabeth de Clare (foundress), and other notable men. PEMBROKE.--Like Clare, Pembroke College was founded by a woman. She was Marie de St. Paul, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, and on her mother's side was a great-granddaughter of Henry III. She was also the widow of Aymer de Valance, Earl of Pembroke, whose splendid tomb is a conspicuous feature of the Sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. Instead of the usual modest beginning with one or two existing hostels adapted for the purposes of a purely academic society, the foundress cleared away the hostels on the site nearly opposite historic Peterhouse, and began a regular quadrangle, the first of the non-religious type Cambridge had known. An existing hostel formed one side, but the others were all erected for the special purpose of the college. A hall and kitchen were built to the east, and on the street side opposite was a gateway placed between students' rooms. Marie de St. Paul also received permission from two successive Avignonese Popes to build a chapel with a bell tower at the north-west corner of the quadrangle, and to some extent these exist to-day, incorporated in the reference library and an adjoining lecture-room. Of the other buildings to be seen at the present time the oldest is the Ivy Court, dating from 1633 to 1659. Since then architect has succeeded architect, from Sir Christopher Wren, who built a new chapel in 1667, to Mr. G.G. Scott, the designer of the most easterly buildings in the style of the French Renaissance. Between these comes the street front by Waterhouse, for whose unpleasing façade no one seems to have a good word. There has indeed been such frequent rebuilding at Pembroke that the glamour of association has been to a great extent swept away. This is doubly sad in view of the long list of distinguished names associated with the foundation. Among them are found Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York, who was Master of Pembroke; Foxe, the great Bishop of Winchester and patron of learning; Ridley; Grindal, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury; Matthew Hutton and Whitgift. Beside these masters Edmund Spenser, the poet Gray, and William Pitt are names of which Pembroke will always be proud. CAIUS.--In the year following the founding of Pembroke Edmund de Gonville added another society to those already established. This was in 1348, but three years later the good man died and left the carrying on of his college to William Bateman, Bishop of Norwich, who had just founded Trinity Hall. He found it convenient to transfer Gonville's foundation to a site opposite his own college, and from this time until the famous Dr. Caius (Kayes or Keyes) reformed it in 1557, the college was known as Gonville Hall. [Illustration: THE GATE OF HONOUR CAIUS COLLEGE. On the left is the Senate House, in the centre the East End of King's College Chapel, and on the right the University Library.] The buildings now comprise three courts, the largest called Tree Court, being to the east, and the two smaller called Gonville and Caius respectively, to the west side, separated from Trinity Hall by a narrow lane. Tree Court had been partly built in Jacobean times by Dr. Perse, whose monument can be seen in the chapel; but in 1867 Mr. Waterhouse was given the task of rebuilding the greater part of the quadrangle. He decided on the style of the French Renaissance, and struck the most stridently discordant note in the whole of the architecture of the colleges. The tall-turreted frontage suggests nothing so much as the municipal offices of a flourishing borough. The present hall, built by Salvin in 1854, was decorated and repanelled by Edward Warren in 1909. Two of the three curiously named gateways built by Dr. Caius still survive, and one of them, the Gate of Honour, opening on to Senate House Passage, is one of the most delightful things in Cambridge. Dr. Caius had been a Fellow of Gonville Hall, and, having taken up medicine, continued his studies at the University of Padua; and after considerable European travel practised in England with such success that he was appointed Physician to the Court of Edward VI. Philip and Mary showed him great favour, and his reputation grew owing to his success in treating the sweating sickness. Having acquired much wealth, he decided to refound his old college, and the Italian Gothic of the two gateways is evidence of his delight in the style with which he had become familiar at Padua and elsewhere. He built the two wings of the Caius Court, leaving the Court open towards the south. The idea of his three gates, beginning with the simple Gate of Humility, leading to the Gate of Virtue, and so to that of Honour, is very fitting, for such sermons in stones could scarcely find a better place than in a university. Caius has many famous medical men, treasuring the memory of Harvey, who discovered the circulation of the blood, and of Dr. Butts, who was Henry VIII.'s physician. TRINITY HALL.--As already mentioned, Trinity Hall was founded two years after Gonville made his modest foundation. It is specialized in relation to law as its neighbour is to medicine. Although architecturally of less account, its modern work is free from anything obtrusively out of keeping with academic tradition. Salvin's uninspired eastern side of the court containing the entrance was built after a fire in 1852, and is typical of his harsh and unsympathetic work. Behind the Georgian front of the north side of this court, there is a good deal of the fabric of the Tudor buildings, and some of the lecture-rooms, with their oak panelling and big chimneys, are most picturesque. On the west side is the hall, dating from 1743, and the modern combination room, containing a curious old semi-circular table, with a counter-balance railway for passing the wine from one corner to the other. The chapel is on the south side, and is a few years earlier than the hall. CORPUS CHRISTI.--Within two years from the founding of Trinity Hall Corpus Christi came into being, the gild of St. Benedict's Church, in conjunction with that of St. Mary the Great, having obtained a charter for this purpose from Edward III. in 1352, Henry Duke of Lancaster, the King's cousin, being alderman at that time. This was the last of the colleges founded in the first period of college-building, and it has managed to preserve under the shadow of the Saxon tower of the parish church, which was for long the college chapel, one of the oldest and most attractive courts in Cambridge. Several of the windows and doors have been altered in later times, but otherwise three sides of the court are completely mediaeval. Having retained this fine relic, the college seems to have been content to let all the rest go, when, in 1823, Wilkins, whose bad Gothic we have seen at King's College, was allowed to rebuild the great court, including the chapel and hall. Sir Nicholas Bacon and Matthew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury, are two of the most famous names associated with Corpus Christi. Parker left his old college a splendid collection of manuscripts, which are preserved in the library. This college has a strong ecclesiastical flavour, and it is therefore fitting that it should possess such a remarkable document as the original draft of the Thirty-nine Articles, which is among the treasured manuscripts. QUEENS'.--After the founding of Corpus there came an interval of nearly a century before the eight colleges then existing were added to. Henry VI. founded King's in 1441, and seven years later his young Queen Margaret of Anjou, who was only eighteen, was induced by Andrew Docket to take over his very modest beginning in the way of a college. It was refounded under the name of Queen's College, having in the two previous years of its existence been dedicated to St. Bernard. As in the case of King's, the progress of Margaret's college was handicapped by the Wars of the Roses, but fortunately Edward IV.'s Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, espoused the cause of Margaret's college when Docket appealed to her for help. Above all other memories this college glories in its associations with Erasmus, who was probably advised to go there by Bishop Fisher. There are certain of his letters extant which he dates from Queens', and it is interesting to find that he wrote in a querulous fashion of the bad wine and beer he had to drink when his friend Ammonius failed to send him his usual cask of the best Greek wine. He also complained of being beset by thieves, and being shut up because of plague, but it need not be thought from this that Cambridge was much worse than other places. Of all the colleges in the University Queens' belongs most completely to other days. Its picturesque red brick entrance tower is the best of this type of gateway, which is such a distinctive feature of Cambridge, and the first court is similar to St. John's, with which Bishop Fisher was so closely connected as Lady Margaret Beaufort's executor. In the inner court, whose west front makes a charming picture from the river, is the President's Lodge occupying the north side. Its oriel windows and rough cast walls of quite jovial contours overhanging the dark cloisters beneath strike a different note to anything else in Cambridge. Restoration has altered the appearance of the hall since its early days, but it is an interesting building, with some notable portraits and good stained glass. The court, named after Erasmus, at the south-west angle of the college was, it is much to be regretted, rebuilt by Essex in the latter part of the eighteenth century; but for this the view of the river front from the curiously constructed footbridge would have been far finer than it is. Like the sundial in the first court, this bridge, leading to soft meadows beneath the shade of great trees, is attributed to Sir Isaac Newton. ST. CATHERINE'S.--This college was founded in 1473 by Robert Woodlark, Chancellor of the University, and dedicated to "the glorious Virgin Martyr, St. Catherine of Alexandria." Undergraduate slang, alas! reduces all this to "Cat's." It was originally called St. Catherine's Hall, and is one of the smallest of the colleges. Although not claiming the strong ecclesiastical flavour of Corpus, it has educated quite a formidable array of bishops. From Trumpington Street the buildings have the appearance of a pleasant manor-house of Queen Anne or early Georgian days, and, with the exception of the wing at the north-west, the whole of the three-sided court dates between 1680 and 1755. Both chapel and hall are included in this period. JESUS.--Standing so completely apart from the closely clustered nucleus, Jesus College might be regarded as a modern foundation ranking with Downing or Selwyn by the hurried visitor who had failed to consult his guide-book and had not previous information to aid him. It was actually founded as long ago as 1497, and the buildings include the church and other parts of the Benedictine nunnery of the Virgin and St. Rhadegund. Bishop Alcock, of Ely, was the founder of the college, and his badge, composed of three cocks' heads, is frequently displayed on the buildings. The entrance gate, dating from the end of the fifteenth century, with stepped parapets, is the work of the founder, and is one of the best features of the college. Passing through this Tudor arch, we enter the outer court, dating from the reign of Charles I., but finished in Georgian times. From this the inner court is entered, and here we are in the nuns' cloister, with their church, now the college chapel, to the south, and three beautiful Early English arches, which probably formed the entrance to the chapter-house, noticeable on the east. In this court are the hall, the lodge, and the library, but the most interesting of all the buildings is the chapel. It is mainly the Early English church of the nunnery curtailed and altered by Bishop Alcock, who put in Perpendicular windows and removed aides without a thought of the denunciations he has since incurred. In many of the windows the glass is by Morris and Burne-Jones, and the light that passes through them gives a rich and solemn dignity to the interior. CHRIST'S.--Perhaps the most impressive feature of Christ's College is the entrance gate facing the busy shopping street called Petty Cury. The imposing heraldic display reminds us at once of Lady Margaret Beaufort, who, in 1505, refounded God's House, the hostel which had previously stood here. Although restored, the chapel is practically of the same period as the gateway, and it and the hall have both interesting interiors. From the court beyond, overlooked on one side by the fine classic building of 1642 attributed to Inigo Jones, entrance is gained to the beautiful fellows' garden, where the mulberry-tree associated with the memory of Milton may still be seen. [Illustration: THE OLD COURT IN EMMANUEL COLLEGE. The Large stained glass window of the Hall is seen on the right, and beyond that the window of the Combination Room. The Dormer window of Harvard's room is seen on the extreme left.] MAGDALENE.--This college is the only old one on the outer side of the river. It stands on the more historic part of Cambridge; but although an abbey hostel was here in Henry VI.'s time, it was not until 1542, after the suppression of Crowland Abbey, to which the property belonged, that Magdalene was founded by Thomas, Baron Audley of Walden. In the first court of ivy-grown red brick is the rather uninteresting chapel, and on the side facing the entrance the hall stands between the two courts. It has some interesting portraits, including one of Samuel Pepys, and a good double staircase leading to the combination room, but more notable than anything else is the beautiful Renaissance building in the inner court, wherein is preserved the library of books Pepys presented to his old college. In the actual glass-covered bookcases in which he kept them, and in the very order, according to size, that Pepys himself adopted, we may see the very interesting collection of books he acquired. Here, too, is the famous Diary, in folio volumes, of neatly written shorthand, and other intensely interesting possessions of the immortal diarist. EMMANUEL.--The college stands on the site of a Dominican friary, but Sir Walter Mildmay, the founder, or his executors, being imbued with strong Puritanism, delighted in sweeping away the monastic buildings they found still standing. Ralph Symons was the first architect, but all his excellent Elizabethan work has vanished, the oldest portion of the college only dating back to 1633. From that time up to the end of the eighteenth century the rest of the structures were reconstructed in the successive styles of classic revival. Wren began the work, but unluckily it was left to Essex to complete it, and he is responsible for the dreary hall occupying the site of the old chapel. SIDNEY SUSSEX.--At the foot of the list of post-Reformation colleges comes Sidney Sussex, founded, in 1589, by Frances Lady Sussex, daughter of Sir William Sidney, and widow of the second Earl of Sussex. During the mania for rebuilding, all the Elizabethan work of Ralph Symons was replaced by Essex, and in the nineteenth century the notorious Wyatville, whose Georgian Gothic removed all the glamour from Windsor Castle, finished the work. DOWNING.--The remaining colleges belong to the period we may call recent. Downing, the first of these, was not a going concern until 1821, although Sir George Downing, the founder, made the will by which his property was eventually devoted to this purpose as early as the year 1717. RIDLEY HALL came into being in 1879, and is an adjunct to the other colleges for those who have already graduated and have decided to enter the Church. SELWYN COLLEGE, founded about the same time, is named after the great Bishop Selwyn, who died in 1877. The college aims at the provision, on a hostel basis, of a University education on a less expensive scale than the older colleges. Of the two women's colleges, Girton was founded first. This was in 1869, and the site chosen was as far away as Hitchen, but four years later, gaining confidence, the college was moved to Girton, a mile north-west of the town, on the Roman Via Devana. Newnham arrived on the scene soon afterwards, and, considering proximity to the University town no disadvantage, the second women's college was planted between Ridley and Selwyn, with Miss Clough as the first principal. CHAPTER V THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, THE SENATE HOUSE, THE PITT PRESS, AND THE MUSEUMS In the early days when the University of Cambridge was still in an embryonic state, the various newly formed communities of academic learning had no corporate centre whatever. "The chancellor and masters" are first mentioned in a rescript of Bishop Balsham dated 1276, eight years before he founded Peterhouse, the first college, and six years before this Henry III. had addressed a letter to "the masters and scholars of Cambridge University," so that between these two dates it would appear that the chancellor really became the prime academic functionary. But it was not until well into the fourteenth century that any University buildings made their appearance. The "schools quadrangle" was begun when Robert Thorpe, knight, was chancellor (1347-64), and during the following century various schools for lecturing and discussions on learned matters were built round the court, now entirely devoted to the library. Unfortunately, the medieval character of these buildings has been masked by a classic façade on the south, built in 1754, when it was thought necessary to make the library similar in style to the newly built Senate House. Thus without any further excuse the fine Perpendicular frontage by Thomas Rotherham, Bishop of Lincoln and fellow of King's, was demolished to make way for what can only be called a most unhappy substitute. George I. was really the cause of this change, for in 1715 he presented Cambridge with Dr. John Moore's extensive library, and not having the space to accommodate the little Hanoverian's gift, the authorities decided to add the old Senate House, which occupied the north side of the quadrangle, to the library, and to build a new Senate House; and the building then erected, designed by Mr., afterwards Sir James, Burrough, is still in use. It is a well-proportioned and reposeful piece of work, although the average undergraduate probably has mixed feelings when he gazes at the double line of big windows between composite pillasters supporting the rather severe cornice. For in this building, in addition to the "congregations," or meetings, of the Senate consisting of resident and certain non-resident masters of art, the examinations for degrees were formerly held. Here on the appointed days, early in the year, the much-crammed undergraduates passed six hours of feverish writing, and here, ten days later, in the midst of a scene of long-established disorder, their friends heard the results announced. Immediately the name of the Senior Wrangler was given out there was a pandemonium of cheering, shouting, yelling, and cap-throwing, and the same sort of thing was repeated until the list of wranglers was finished. Following this, proctors threw down from the oaken galleries printed lists of the other results, and a wild struggle at once took place in which caps and gowns were severely handled, and for a time the marble floor was covered with a fighting mob of students all clutching at the fluttering papers, while the marble features of the two first Georges, William Pitt, and the third Duke of Somerset remained placidly indifferent. Although there is no space here to describe the many early books the library contains, it is impossible to omit to mention that among the notable manuscripts exhibited in the galleries is the famous _Codex Bezae_ presented to the University by Theodore Beza, who rescued it, in 1562, when the monastery at Lyons, in which it was preserved, was being destroyed. This manuscript is in uncial letters on vellum in Greek and Latin, and includes the four Gospels and the Acts. It was a pardonable mistake for the old-time "freshman" to think the Pitt Press in Trumpington Street was a church, but no one does this now, because the gate tower, built about 1832, when the Gothic revival was sweeping the country, is now known as "the Freshman's Church." The Pitt Press was established with a part of the fund raised to commemorate William Pitt, who was educated at Pembroke College nearly opposite. The University Press publishes many books, and gives special attention to books the publication of which tends to the advancement of learning. The two Universities and the King's printer have still a monopoly in printing the Bible and Book of Common Prayer. The magnificent museum founded by Richard, Viscount Fitzwilliam, is a little farther down Trumpington Street. It was finished in 1847 by Cockerell, who added the unhappy north side to the University Library, but the original architect was Basevi, who was prevented from finishing the building he had begun by his untimely death through falling from one of the towers of Ely Cathedral. The magnificence of the great portico, with its ceiling of encrusted ornament, is vastly impressive, but the marble staircase in the entrance lobby, with its rich crimson reds, is rather overpowering in conjunction with the archaeological exhibits. Plainer, cooler and less aggressive marble such as that employed in the lobby of the Victoria and Albert Museum would have been more suitable. A very considerable proportion of the museum's space is devoted to the collection of pictures--some of them copies--which the University has gathered. The interesting Turner water-colours presented by John Ruskin are here, with a Murillo, reputed to be his earliest known work, and a good many other examples of the work of famous men of the Italian and Dutch Schools. Besides the Museum of Archaeology, between Peterhouse and the river, the vigorous growth of the scientific side of the University is shown in the vast buildings newly erected on both sides of Downing Street, which has now become a street of laboratories and museums. Now that the outworks of the hoary citadel of Classicism have been stormed, and the undermining of the great walls has already begun, the development of modern science at Cambridge will be accelerated, and in the face of the urgency of the demands of worldwide competition it would appear that the University on the Cam is more fitted to survive than her sister on the Isis. [Illustration: THE CIRCULAR NORMAN CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE. This splendid survival of the Norman age is one of the four churches in England planned to imitate the form of the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem.] CHAPTER VI THE CHURCHES IN THE TOWN Almost everyone who goes to Cambridge as a visitor bent on sightseeing naturally wishes to see the colleges before anything else, but it should not be forgotten that there are at least two churches, apart from the college chapels, whose importance is so great that to fail to see them would be a criminal omission. There are other churches of considerable interest, but for a description of them it is unfortunately impossible to find space. Foremost in point of antiquity comes St. Benedict's, or St Benet's, possessing a tower belonging to pre-Conquest times, and the only structural relic of the Saxon town now in existence. The church was for a considerable time the chapel of Corpus Christi, and the ancient tower still rises picturesquely over the roofs of the old court of that college. Without the tower, the church would be of small interest, for the nave and chancel are comparatively late, and have been rather drastically restored. The interior, nevertheless, is quite remarkable in possessing a massive Romanesque arch opening into the tower, with roughly carved capitals to its tall responds. Outside there are all the unmistakable features of Saxon work--the ponderously thick walls, becoming thinner in the upper parts, the "long and short" method of arranging the coigning, and the double windows divided with a heavy baluster as at Wharram-le-Street in Yorkshire, Earl's Barton in Northamptonshire, and elsewhere. Next in age and importance to St. Benedict's comes what is popularly called "the Round Church," one of the four churches of the Order of Knights Templar now standing in this country. The other three are the Temple Church in London, St. Sepulchre's at Northampton, and Little Maplestead Church in Essex, and they are given in chronological order, Cambridge possessing the oldest. It was consecrated the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and was built before the close of the eleventh century, and is therefore a work of quite early Norman times. The interior is wonderfully impressive, for it has nothing of the lightness and grace of the Transitional work in the Temple, and the heavy round arches opening into the circular aisle are supported by eight massive piers. Above there is another series of eight pillars, very squat, and of about the same girth as those below, and the spaces between are subdivided by a small pillar supporting two semi-circular arches. Part of the surrounding aisle collapsed in 1841, and the Cambridge Camden Society (now defunct) employed the architect Salvin to thoroughly restore the church. He took down a sort of battlemented superstructure erected long after the Norman period, and built the present conical roof. After these early churches, the next in interest is Great St. Mary's, the University Church, conspicuously placed in the market-place and in the very centre of the town. It has not, however, always stood forth in such distinguished isolation, for only as recently as the middle of last century did the demolition take place of the domestic houses that surrounded it. And inside, the alterations in recent times have been quite as drastic, robbing the church of all the curious and remarkable characteristics it boasted until well past the middle of the nineteenth century, and reducing the whole interior to the stereotyped features of an average parish church. If we enter the building to-day without any knowledge of its past, we merely note a spacious late Perpendicular nave, having galleries in the aisles with fine dark eighteenth-century panelled fronts, and more woodwork of this plain and solemn character in front of the organ, in the aisle chapels, and elsewhere. A soft greenish light from the clerestory windows (by Powell), with their rows of painted saints, falls upon the stonework of the arcades and the wealth of dark oak, but nothing strikes us as unusual until we discover that the pulpit is on rails, making it possible to draw it from the north side to a central position beneath the chancel arch. This concession to tradition is explained when we discover the state of the church before 1863, when Dr. Luard, who was then vicar, raised an agitation, before which the Georgian glories of the University Church passed away. Before the time of Laud, when so many departures from mediaeval custom had taken place, we learn, from information furnished during the revival brought about by the over-zealous archbishop, that the church was arranged much on the lines of a theatre, with a pulpit in the centre, which went by the name of the Cockpit, that the service was cut as short as "him that is sent thither to read it" thought fit, and that during sermon-time the chancel was filled with boys and townsmen "all in a rude heap between the doctors and the altar." But this concentration on the University sermon and disrespect for the altar went further, for, with the legacy of Mr. William Worts, the existing galleries were put up in 1735, the Cockpit was altered, and other changes made which Mr. A.H. Thompson has vividly described: ... the centre of the church was filled with an immense octagonal pulpit on the "three-decker" principle, the crowning glory and apex of which was approached, like a church-tower, by an internal staircase. About 1740 Burrough filled the chancel-arch and chancel with a permanent gallery, which commanded a thorough view of this object. The gallery, known as the "Throne," was an extraordinary and unique erection. The royal family of Versailles never worshipped more comfortably than did the Vice-Chancellor and heads of houses, in their beautiful armchairs, and the doctors sitting on the tiers of seats behind them. In this worship of the pulpit, the altar was quite disregarded.... The church thus became an oblong box, with the organ at the end, the Throne at the other, and the pulpit between them. Of all this nothing remains besides the organ and the side galleries, and of the splendid screen, built in 1640 to replace its still finer predecessor, swept away by Archbishop Parker nearly a century before, only that portion running across the north chapel remains. Until the Senate House was built, the commencements were held in the church, but thereafter it would appear that the sermon flourished almost to the exclusion of anything else. The diminutive little church of St. Peter near the Castle mound is of Transitional Norman date, and has Roman bricks built into its walls. O fairest of all fair places, Sweetest of all sweet towns! With the birds and the greyness and greenness, And the men in caps and gowns. All they that dwell within thee, To leave are ever loth, For one man gets friends, and another Gets honour, and one gets both. AMY LEVY: _A Farewell_. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER. [Illustration: PLAN OF CAMBRIDGE. By permission, from _A Concise Guide to the Town and University of Cambridge_ (J. Willis Clark), published by Bowes and Bowes, Cambridge.] INDEX Akeman Street, 8 Alcock, Bishop, 46, 47 Ashton, Hugh, Archdeacon of York, 18 Audley of Walden, Thomas Baron, 48 "Backs," The, 34 Bicon, Sir Nicholas, 43 Bolsham, Bishop, 13, 21, 51 Beaufort, Lady Margaret, 15, 18, 20, 45, 47 Bede, 6 Beza, Theodore, 54 Boleyn, Anne, 28 Burrough, Sir James, 52, 61 Cains College, 39-41 Caius, Dr., 40 Cambridge Camden Society, 59 Cambridge Castle, 7-10 Cambridge, Origin of Name, 6-9 Cavendish, Mary, Countess of Shrewsbury, 16 Caxton, William, 19 Christ's College, 20, 47-48 Clare College, 36-37 Corpus Christi College, 13, 42-43, 57 Curthose, Robert, 11 Docket, Andrew, 43 Downing College, 50 Downing, Sir George, 50 Edward III., 10, 30, 42 Edward VI., 41 Edward VII., 34 Elizabeth, Queen, 33 Elizabeth Woodville, Queen, 44 Ely, 6, 9, 12, 21 Emmanuel College, 48-49 Erasmus, 45 Essex, James, 35, 49 Fisher, Bishop, 15, 19, 44, 45 George I., 52, 53 Gibbs, James, 23 Girton, 50 Gonville, Edmund de, 39 Gonville Hall, 13, 40 Grantchester, 8 Great St. Mary's Church, 42, 59 Henry I., 11 Henry III., 51 Henry IV., 10 Henry VI., 11, 22, 23, 43 Henry VII., 23 Henry VIII., 20, 28, 29, 30 Hereward the Wake, 9 Jesus College, 46 Jones, Inigo, 37-38, 48 King's College, 10, 14, 22-28 King's Hall, 10, 13, 29 Magdalene College, 14, 48, 49 Margaret of Anjou, Queen, 43 Mary, Queen, 10, 31 Michael House, 13, 29 Mildmay, Sir Walter, 49 Moore, Dr. John, 52 Nevile, Thomas, 30 Newnham, 50 Newton, Sir Isaac, 31, 45 Parker, Archbishop, 62 Parker, Matthew, Archbishop of Canterbury, 43 Pembroke College, 13, 37-38 Pepys, Samuel, 3, 48 Perne, Dr. Andrew, 36 Perse, Dr., 40 Peterhouse, 13, 35-36, 51 Philip and Mary, 41 Pitt Press, 54 Pitt, William, 39, 53, 54 Queens' College, 43-45 Richard III., 23 Rickman, Thomas, 17 Ridley Hall, 50 Roman Cambridge, 6-9 Round Church, The, 58 St. Benedict's Church, 42, 57 St. Catherine's College, 45-46 St. John's College, 14, 15-21 St. John's Hospital, 13, 16, 21 St. Mary the Less, 36 St. Peter's Church, 36, 62 Salvin, Anthony, 59 Scott, Sir Gilbert, 15, 17 Selwyn College, 50 Senate House, 52, 53, 62 Sidney, Sir William, 49 Sidney Sussex College, 14, 49 Skeat, Professor, 7, 9 Stourbridge Fair, 10, 12 Sussex, Frances Lady, 49 Symons, Ralph, 49 Tennyson, Lord, 31 Thirty-nine Articles, 43 Trinity College, 29-31 Trinity Hall, 13, 41-42 Valance, Aymer de, 38 Via Devana, 8 Walpole, Sir Robert, 24 Whewell, William, 32 Wilberforce, William, 21 Wilkins, William, 24 William the Conqueror, 9, 10 Williams, Lord Keeper, 16 Wordsworth, William, 21, 26, 31 Wren, Bishop Matthew, 35 Wren, Sir Christopher, 34, 38 Wyatville, Sir J., 49 Wykeham, William of, 2 
54197	----	CAMBRIDGE A SKETCH-BOOK BY WALTER M. KEESEY A. & C. BLACK, LTD. SOHO SQUARE, LONDON. DRAWINGS: FRONTISPIECE: TRINITY FOUNTAIN. 1 CLARE GATES TO BACKS 2 CLARE GATES & KING'S CHAPEL. 3 CLARE BRIDGE OVER BACKS. 4 KING'S CHAPEL. 5 KING'S CHAPEL ENTRANCE. 6 JOHN'S COLLEGE GATEWAY. 7 JOHN'S COLLEGE INNER COURT. 8 JOHN'S GATEWAY TO BACKS. 9 JOHN'S COLLEGE: KITCHEN GATES. 10 TRINITY COLLEGE FOUNTAIN COURT. 11 TRINITY COLLEGE SCREEN'S ENTRANCE. 12 DOWNING COLLEGE: MASTER'S LODGE. 13 SIDNEY SUSSEX COLLEGE: NEW COURT. 14 ST. SEPULCHRE'S. INTERIOR OF THE "ROUND CHURCH." 15 QUEEN'S COLLEGE: CLOISTER COURT. 16 QUEEN'S COLLEGE: THE GALLERY. 17 QUEEN'S COLLEGE: MASTER'S GARDEN. 18 THE BACKS. 19 THE BACKS AND CLARE BRIDGE. 20 MARKET DAY. 21 THE FISHMARKET, SATURDAY EVENING. 22 TRUMPINGTON STREET. 23 BRIDGE STREET. [Illustration: 1 CLARE GATES TO BACKS] [Illustration: 2 CLARE GATES & KING'S CHAPEL.] [Illustration: 3 CLARE BRIDGE OVER BACKS.] [Illustration: 4 KING'S CHAPEL.] [Illustration: 5 KING'S CHAPEL ENTRANCE.] [Illustration: 6 JOHN'S COLLEGE GATEWAY.] [Illustration: 7 JOHN'S COLLEGE INNER COURT.] [Illustration: 8 JOHN'S GATEWAY TO BACKS.] [Illustration: 9 JOHN'S COLLEGE: KITCHEN GATES.] [Illustration: 10 TRINITY COLLEGE FOUNTAIN COURT.] [Illustration: 11 TRINITY COLLEGE SCREEN'S ENTRANCE.] [Illustration: 12 DOWNING COLLEGE: MASTER'S LODGE.] [Illustration: 13 SIDNEY SUSSEX COLLEGE: NEW COURT.] [Illustration: 14 ST. SEPULCHRE'S. INTERIOR OF THE "ROUND CHURCH."] [Illustration: 15 QUEEN'S COLLEGE: CLOISTER COURT.] [Illustration: 16 QUEEN'S COLLEGE: THE GALLERY.] [Illustration: 17 QUEEN'S COLLEGE: MASTER'S GARDEN.] [Illustration: 18 THE BACKS.] [Illustration: 19 THE BACKS AND CLARE BRIDGE.] [Illustration: 20 MARKET DAY.] [Illustration: 21 THE FISHMARKET, SATURDAY EVENING.] [Illustration: 22 TRUMPINGTON STREET.] [Illustration: 23 BRIDGE STREET.] 
58945	----	THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S BY ALAN St. AUBYN AUTHOR OF 'A FELLOW OF TRINITY,' 'THE JUNIOR DEAN,' 'THE OLD MAID'S SWEETHEART,' 'MODEST LITTLE SARA,' ETC. [Illustration] IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II. London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1893 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHAPTER PAGE XV. IN THE LANE 1 XVI. THE OLD, OLD STORY 18 XVII. IN THE PICTURE-GALLERY 29 XVIII. CAPABILITY STUBBS 43 XIX. A STRONG TOWER 59 XX. NO FOLLOWERS ALLOWED 75 XXI. A BLOW TO NEWNHAM 93 XXII. READING THE LISTS 108 XXIII. 'GOING DOWN' 123 XXIV. THE VICARAGE GATE 139 XXV. THE STALL IN THE BUTTER-MARKET 153 XXVI. COUSIN MARY 171 XXVII. OCTOBER TERM 186 XXVIII. A COLLEGE 'PERPENDICULAR' 206 THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S CHAPTER XV. IN THE LANE. 'The rain was raining cheerfully, As if it had been May.' Lucy was five minutes late the next morning in keeping her appointment--at least, her understood appointment--in the lane. There was a reasonable excuse for it. It was not a morning fit for a dog to go out in. It was a shivering, blowy, rainy morning. There are not many trees at Newnham, and what few there are tossed their arms wildly in the air, and sighed and moaned as the wind whistled through the leaves. They had not shed many tears as yet; they were fresh young leaves with the tender green of the year upon them, but they were shedding a great many to-day. After this night of weeping they would never be the same leaves again; they would have grown darker and sadder; they would have begun to shiver by night and whisper by day. They were whispering overhead as Lucy stood beneath them, with her umbrella turning inside out, looking up and down the lane. The man she was looking for was not there. His bed-maker, who was certainly a seer or a sibyl, had found him an hour before under the table of his room, with his lamp still burning, and the liqueur-case in his cellaret--at least, it was on the table--empty, quite empty. She had fetched Eric, who was up betimes reading for his 'special,' and between them they had put him to bed, and Eric had come out in the wind and the rain to keep his appointment. Lucy wasn't looking for Eric. She took no notice of the little fellow in a covert-coat who was sheltering behind the hedge. She was looking for a splendid manly form, clad in a big Inverness coat, perhaps, and indifferent to the wind and the rain. Eric joined her directly she got outside the gate. 'I have just come from the lodge,' he said. 'The Master has passed a better night. He has had several hours' sleep.' Lucy looked at him with a question in her eyes that had nothing to do with the Master. 'Why didn't Mr. Edgell come?' she said almost sharply. 'Why did he send you?' Eric couldn't look into her eyes and tell her a fib. They were such clear, straightforward eyes, they seemed to look quite through him. 'Edgell is working for his Tripos,' he said evasively. 'He has only a few days longer before him.' 'He isn't working at this time in the morning?' said Lucy, looking straight at him. He couldn't meet her eyes. He looked up admiringly at the red-brick front of Newnham as if he had never seen it before. 'No,' he said; 'he is not working now--he is----' 'I know what he is, without your trying to shield him,' Lucy interrupted with fine scorn. 'He is lying most likely drunk and incapable on the floor, or he is raving on his bed, and seeing hideous things. Oh, Mr. Gwatkin, what is the good of your friendship if you cannot keep him from this?' Eric hung his head. 'He is beyond my keeping,' he said sadly. 'He is beyond the reach of my poor prayers. God knows I pray for him night and day!' Lucy didn't say that she had been praying for him that very morning, that she had only just got off her knees, and come out in the rain to meet him. 'Will nothing save him?' she said, wringing her hands. 'Yes,' Eric said slowly, looking at her with troubled eyes; 'there is one thing that would save him.' She looked up at him, and their eyes met, and her heart gave a great bound, and something seemed to surge up in her ears, and swim before her eyes, and choke in her throat. She wasn't quite sure for a minute if anything had happened to her; and when her heart beat again, and the wave went back, and the trees and the college ceased to go round, Eric was looking down at her with his troubled eyes, and his weak lips quivering as he spoke. 'The one thing that would save him would entail sacrifice--the sacrifice of a life--and only a noble woman could make it----' 'You mean,' she said, speaking hoarsely--that lump in her throat hadn't gone yet--'you mean that a woman could save him?' 'Yes,' he said, almost with a groan; 'but it would be at her own cost.' 'Not if she loved him?' 'Yes; all the more if she loved him.' Lucy turned away, and the wind got under her umbrella and turned it inside out, and made a diversion. 'There is no other way?' she said, when Eric had brought it back into something like shape, and returned it to her. 'No,' he said, 'there is no other way.' Lucy put down her umbrella--she would battle no more with the storm--and the rain came down in a sheet and wetted her through and through as she walked slowly back to the college. There was a crowd of girls round the table in the hall when she came in. The postman had just been, and the letters were lying on the hall table, and the girls were crowding round. Among the girls standing by the table was Pamela Gwatkin. She looked up when Lucy came in wet and draggled, and a dull red flush crept up under her skin, and her lips tightened. 'Wherever has she been such a morning as this?' said one of the girls aloud as Lucy passed them. She didn't pause at the table and look for her letters like the rest. She didn't expect letters by every post like other girls; the coming of the postman never stirred her pulse the least. She had no one to write to her. Pamela didn't vouchsafe Lucy another look, but went back to her room with her head lifted high, and her letters--she had quite a sheaf of them, letters and papers--clutched to her bosom. She didn't attempt to open them when she got back to her room. She went straight to the window and looked out at the blinding rain. 'She has been to meet him again,' she murmured; 'and such a morning as this! She must be very far gone. Oh, it is outrageous! It is quite indecent!' Another girl who had seen her come in followed Lucy back to her room, and just as she had reached it Lucy shut the door in her face. Nothing daunted, Capability Stubbs tried the handle of the door, but Lucy had locked it on the inside; no doubt she was taking her wet things off. One doesn't take the occasion to hold a levee when one is wet to the skin. Lucy did not appear at breakfast. Nobody missed her but Maria Stubbs; everybody else was too much occupied with her own affairs. The very air of the place was full of examinations, and the loss, the total disappearance, of half a dozen girls, more or less--freshers--wouldn't have been noticed at this exciting moment. Before she went to her morning's work Miss Stubbs tried Lucy's door again. It was open this time; the housemaid had just come out, and there was that silly little Lucy sitting at her table with her wet things still on. There was a strained look on her white face, as if she had been working at a problem all night, and it hadn't come out right yet. 'Oh, good gracious!' Miss Stubbs exclaimed, when she came over to the girl and put her hand on her wet shoulder. 'Whatever _are_ you sitting here for?' Lucy looked up with a faint look of wonder in her eyes, and then, finding she had forgotten to take off her wet things, she began slowly to peel them off one by one. Maria Stubbs had no patience with her. She pulled and dragged at her clinging wet garments, and tore off her shoes, and wrapped her up in a warm dressing-gown of her own that she ran across the passage to fetch. When she had got her out of her wet rags, she fetched her a cup of hot tea from the hall, where the tea-urn was still steaming, and then she began to bully her. 'A fine cold you will catch,' she grumbled, 'and give no end of trouble. I dare say you'll expect us to stay up of nights to nurse you. I give you notice, it's no use to expect me to nurse you; I've got my own work to do.' Lucy feebly protested that she didn't expect Miss Stubbs to make a martyr of herself, and that she had no intention of being ill, but Maria was not so easily appeased. 'It isn't as if it were an examination,' she said in an aggrieved tone; 'then we could understand it. There'd be an excuse for a girl making an idiot of herself if she had been ploughed in an exam. I've known a girl refuse to eat anything for a week, because she failed twice in her additionals; and another girl--but this was a more serious case; her mind gave way quite on the last day of the exam., and she had to be sent to an asylum. I shouldn't be at all surprised if they were to send you to----' 'Not to the asylum!' said Lucy, in a sudden fright. She was so bewildered she felt very much like going there already. 'I didn't mean that, silly!' Miss Stubbs said scornfully. 'I was going to say the infirmary. If you will go and get influenza, you can't expect to stay among people who are going in for examinations. Suppose I were to catch it--or Assurance! I'm not sure that Assurance hasn't caught something already. She begins her Tripos on Monday, and she's about as amiable as a bear.' Maria Stubbs went back to her work--she was going to be shut up four hours in a laboratory among delightful smells--but before she went she made Lucy promise that she would ask the housekeeper to give her some breakfast. Later in the day Lucy went over to the lodge to see the Master. The wind had gone down, but a gray mist hung over everything, and the trees were no longer rustling their leaves overhead. The branches were drooping with their own weight, and the leaves were limp, and dropping slow tears upon her as she passed beneath. The Master was better to-day, decidedly better. He had slept several hours during the night, and he looked quite himself, Lucy thought, when she went into the room and saw him propped up in his chair. He was up and dressed; he had insisted on being dressed; they could not keep him in bed; and his chair was wheeled over to the window, where he sat looking out on to the river, and the path beneath the trees where an old, old philosopher used to walk long ago. He had always loved that path by the river-side. It had been his favourite walk once. Perhaps the old associations had something to do with it; they have with most of the things men value in Cambridge. A great past seems to meet one at every college gate. Every inch of ground has its own sacred memories, and the path beneath the trees had echoed to the tread of generations of poets, sages, and scholars since the old philosopher walked there. But it was not of the philosopher that the Master dreamed, as he sat looking out on the gray path and the blurred river. It was no longer the Cam he saw; it was the babbling trout-stream that ran by his father's farm--the gray shallow river that skirted the meadows, and swept beneath the arches of the old bridge, and roared in a torrent over the weirs. 'You are better to-day, uncle,' Lucy said, as she stood beside his chair and looked down at the worn old face, and the white hair on the pillow. 'Better? I am quite well, my dear. I have just come in from fishing, and I am tired. I have caught quite a large basket, and I have walked a long way beside the river. Dick wouldn't wait for me. He went home early. Perhaps it was as well.' Lucy looked anxiously at the nurse. 'He is better in himself,' Nurse Brannan said softly. 'He has had a good night, and has awoke much refreshed, but his memory is gone. I don't think it will ever be better.' Nurse Brannan had made a great change in the sick-room; it didn't look like a sick-room. It was as light and bright as it well could be on such a dull day, and there was a small fire burning in the grate, and a big bowl of lilac on the table--the Master was very fond of lilac. Lucy ran her fingers through the sweet pale-purple buds as she stood beside the table. She was not fond of picking things to pieces like the Science girls, who can never see a flower without tearing its heart out. She was content to bury her face in a posy and drink in its sweetness and beauty. She buried her face in the bunch of lilac as she stood beside the Master's chair, and the old man watched her with his dim eyes. They suddenly brightened as he watched her; they were dim no longer; they were bright and shining. Something in her attitude, or in the smell of the flowers, had brought back to him the old time: the old lane that skirted the farm with the blossoming hawthorn-trees on either side, and the orchard with the smell of the apple-blossom, and the lilac hanging over the garden-wall. 'Ah,' he said, 'you picked this from the old tree by the gate. I noticed it was coming into bloom this morning when I passed, and the pink thorn is in bud, and the orchard is a sight to see. The fragrance of the old days was about him, and its colours were unfaded. Lucy left him babbling to the nurse about the flowers that used to grow in the old garden of his childhood. His heart, like that of a little child, had gone back at the close of the journey to the place from which he had first set out. Cousin Mary was with Mrs. Rae; she had been up with her all night. There was as much need for nursing here as in the Master's room. Lucy was quite shocked at the change that a few hours had wrought in the Master's wife. She looked years older to-day, and her face had changed. All the cheerful brightness that had given an air of youthfulness to it into extreme old age was gone now. It was placid and resigned, but it was youthful and bright no longer. There was nothing the matter with her, Cousin Mary said, but the shock had been too much for her. A few days' rest and quiet, the doctor thought, might bring her round. 'You have seen the Master?' she asked Lucy eagerly when she came into the room. Lucy noticed that the voice, like the face, had changed, and grown feeble and old. 'Yes; I have seen the Master. He is so much better to-day. He is sitting up by the window. He is quite himself.' She didn't say anything about that fishing excursion of his, nor how tired he felt now the day's work was done. 'He is really better?' She asked this with a strange eagerness, and laid her thin hand on Lucy's. 'Yes, dear, really better. He will soon be quite well. It is you who are the invalid now. You must make haste and get well, too.' 'Thank God!' said the feeble voice, and the thin hand relaxed its hold, and she fell back on the pillow. 'Someone told me he was wandering,' she said--'that he did not know anyone. But perhaps I am mistaken. It may be in me. I may have dreamed it.' 'Yes, dear,' Lucy said reassuringly, 'it is in you. You have certainly dreamed it.' She left the old woman quite happy, but tears were dropping from her own eyes as she went slowly down the stairs of the lodge. She was not quite sure in this tender casuistry if she was not giving the Master's wife the sentence of death. CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD, OLD STORY. What on earth possessed Lucy to go out into the lane again the next morning at that ridiculously early hour, before seven o'clock, she could never tell. She was not anxious about the Master. She had left him in good hands, sitting beside the window babbling about the lilac-bushes in the old garden. Perhaps it was because it was such a lovely May morning that Lucy went out into the lane; it was a shame to stay indoors a minute longer. A change had come over the scene since yesterday. The clouds had all passed away like magic, and the sun was shining, and the sky was blue above, and the earth was green beneath, and, oh, how the birds were singing! There was no excuse for Lucy being in bed. Most of the girls had been up working hours ago, and some had not been in bed since daybreak. She didn't expect to meet anyone in the lane; she only went out, and looked round, quite by the way, and--and she saw Wyatt Edgell coming to her, up between the green hedgerows, where the hawthorn was in bloom, and beneath the blue sky, where a lark--where a dozen larks were singing, and she had never seen so delightful a picture before in her life. Like the storm of yesterday, all traces of that midnight debauch had passed away. His face ought to have been pale and soddened, and his eyes dull and heavy, with great bags beneath them, but they were not the least changed. The fine intellectual beauty of the face was finer than ever, and the mere physical beauty, which no girl could look upon untouched, was seen to its best advantage on this sweet May morning. Wyatt Edgell wore a straw hat with the ribbon of his college around it. He had just come from the river, fresh from his bath, and the sun had dried his hair as he had come along, and it curled all over his head in short crisp curls like a god. His face was glowing and his eyes were shining; he looked a picture of perfect health and manly beauty. We have had so many studies of Venus rising fresh from her bath, but the artists have not been so keen on Adonis. A sweet thing in oils, not 'The Bather,' but 'The Bathed,' would be a novelty on the walls of the Academy. There are no baths at Newnham, only six feet of zinc to splash about in, and that one has to take in turn at the end of a lane of girls waiting in the passage. Lucy wouldn't have had her turn for another hour this morning, so she had dressed without it, and had come out into the lane to take a bath of sunshine instead. She looked paler than if she had had her turn of splashing in eighteen inches of water, but her hair wasn't limp and wet and untidy. Her heart couldn't help beating a little faster as Wyatt Edgell came towards her, and her face burnt hotly. She could feel that she was blushing like a milkmaid. 'Oh, you here!' she said in quite a tone of surprise. 'I didn't expect you this morning.' He didn't believe her. He couldn't look down into her glowing face and believe she had put on all those blushes to meet the burning gaze of Apollo, unless, indeed, she expected Wattles. 'No?' he said with a smile, and he imprisoned her hand; 'but I couldn't keep away. I had something to tell you this morning.' 'About the Master?' she said, turning pale. 'No; it has nothing to do with the Master. I asked for him at the lodge as I came out, and they told me he had had a good night. Phyllis Brannan is with him, and she is a host in herself.' Lucy tossed her head. 'Oh, you know Nurse Brannan?' she said coldly. 'Yes,' he said gravely; 'I have reason to know Phyllis, best and kindest of nurses. If ever there was a woman true as steel, it is Phyllis Brannan.' Lucy sniffed impatiently. She hadn't come out without her bath at seven o'clock in the morning to hear the praises of Nurse Brannan. She was quite sure she would be quite as good a nurse after a reasonable probation, and she wouldn't keep her hair so untidy. 'What had you got to tell me?' she said shortly. It was not exactly encouraging; but Edgell smiled and drew her away from the gate and up the lane, and then she discovered that he still held her hand. She drew it away sharply and stopped. She really didn't care to walk any farther with him if he were only going to talk about Nurse Brannan. She had been fighting a dreadfully hard battle with herself all night, all the previous day--ever since that conversation with Eric--and she had worked herself up, like the martyrs of old, for a big sacrifice, for the stake, if need be; and now, after all that struggle, there wasn't going to be any stake at all. Nurse Brannan was going to the stake, perhaps. She was ready at any time to do all sorts of disagreeable things without making any fuss about them. 'Would you mind walking this way?' he said, and he led Lucy unresisting up the lane into that narrow part, past the posts, between the high hedges, that shut them out from all curious eyes. 'I have come to ask you a question,' he said, speaking low, with a little catch in his voice, 'and I want an answer before I go back to work. The Tripos begins on Monday. Will it be worth while to go in for it?' 'What do you mean?' she said; but she knew very well what he meant. 'I think you know what I mean, Miss Rae--Lucy. I think you know more about me than any other woman. If you will tell me I have anything to work for, I will go back and work, and--and some day I will come to you again; but if--if there is nothing to work for, I shall go down to-day.' 'You would not throw up your chance?' she said. She was quite pale, and she was trembling all over. 'I should certainly throw it up. What would be the use of a degree to me with _that_ before me? There is only one thing, Lucy, to stand between me and it. My sentence must come from your lips. Am I to go back and work?' No one looking at him standing there in the sunshine, with that smile on his face, would have dreamed the issue that hung on the girl's lips. She couldn't realize it herself; she could only gasp and tremble. He had quite taken her breath away. She would have given the world to run away without giving that fateful answer, but the lane was narrow, and he stood before her. 'Well,' he said, watching with his eager, questioning eyes the changes on her face, 'am I to go back to work?' What could she say? Her lips faltered, and the words would not come; again she tried, but his sentence lingered. There was a merle singing in the elm-tree above, and a thrush was calling for its mate, and the wood-pigeons were cooing softly in the orchard over the hedge; everything was so glad and happy and full of life and love on this May morning; every voice in nature was pleading for him. Her face was dreadfully pale, and her lips were quivering, and her heart was beating like a hammer. She looked up into his face with a strange white terror in her eyes, and she saw the scarf round his throat. It was the coloured striped scarf of his college, and he wore it twisted on that balmy morning round his throat. The sight of that scarf decided her. 'I think you must go back to work,' she said softly, with just a little wan smile. He caught her in his arms, to his heart, and kissed her on the forehead. 'God bless you, Lucy!' he said--'God bless you, darling!' The pressure of his arms, the strange, sweet pressure of his warm lips on her forehead, brought the blood back to her heart, to her cheeks, and she drew herself away, flushing scarlet. A Newnham girl came in at one end of the lane, and a Selwyn man came in at the other, and they went back to their respective colleges and told the tale. It was all over Newnham at breakfast-time that Lucy had been seen kissing a man in broad daylight just outside the walls of the college. The old, old story has been told a great many times, in a great many ways, but it had never been told at Newnham before or at Girton in such a barefaced way. It will be told in the public streets next, or perhaps in the Senate House. CHAPTER XVII. IN THE PICTURE-GALLERY. The term wore on, and there was nothing talked of in Cambridge but examinations. How could one talk about anything else when it was the subject uppermost in everybody's mind? There were the boat-races, and the college balls, and the concerts, but exciting as these were to the sisters and cousins of the men, they were of secondary importance to the exams. The nearer the day approaches for the dreaded trial the more dreadful seems the finality of the approaching result. Nobody questions the finality of the sentence at the time, and when it happens to be adverse men go away and hide their heads and think that all things are at an end for them. By-and-by the gates of Hope are opened afresh and things don't look quite so bad, and in nine cases out of ten nobody knows out of Cambridge whether a man has taken a high degree or not. Perhaps it is different with women, the cases being more exceptional; a girl who has done well usually goes through life with an affix to her name, spoken with awe by her admiring friends--'Fifth Wrangler,' 'First Class Moral Science,' 'Senior Op,' and so on. There would be a good many girls do well at Newnham this term. There would be several first-classes, and some good seconds, and a few, very few thirds. Women never take Poll degrees, so that all, every one, would go out in Honours. There was a great fuss made with the girls who were going up for the exams. They were fed and petted and looked after just as if they were in training. There were special dishes for them at the High, and they were taken out for exercise, or driven out for airings, and put to bed at given hours. It was not the fault of the authorities if they did not reflect honour on their college. The men were not the objects of such tender solicitude to their Tutors and Deans. They were left pretty much to themselves, and went to bed when they liked, and got up when they liked, and took their food or left it. Those who liked took exercise, and those who didn't sported their oak and worked until they were deaf and blind, and their brains were so addled that they could hardly find their way into the examination-room. Wyatt Edgell sported his oak from morning till night during those few days preceding the Tripos examination, but he didn't addle his brains. They were not brains easy to addle by work. The men remarked that this close application, which would have made most men seedy and stale, seemed to agree with him. His eyes were brighter, and his step was lighter, and more assured than heretofore, and he held his head like a man who was going to win, and he hummed snatches of songs--love-songs mostly--as he crossed the courts or climbed his staircase, taking two and three steps at a time, as a man of his youth and strength should do. A change had come over him since that morning when Lucy had told him to go back to work. He had not seen her in the lane since, though he had gone up to Newnham every morning, and stood staring at the gate until the bell rang for prayers, and then he had gone up the narrow little path between the hedges, and visited again the spot where he had taken her in his arms. If she had been there when he made these matutinal pilgrimages to the spot, he would surely have taken her in his arms again, and great would have been the scandal at Newnham. Lucy didn't go out in the lane again alone after that morning. She was quite frightened at what she had done. She couldn't very well have done otherwise. What woman would? She had saved him--at least, she told herself she had saved him. He would go back to his work now, and he would take his degree, probably a very good degree. She didn't dare to speculate any farther; she stopped at his degree. She never said a word about what she had done to Cousin Mary; she wouldn't have told her for the world. Mary had only pointed Wyatt Edgell out to her on the steps of the chapel a month ago. She didn't know him from Eric Gwatkin a month ago, and now she was engaged to marry him! No wonder Lucy was frightened, and wouldn't have run the risk of meeting him alone for the world. She developed suddenly a violent affection for Miss Stubbs, and used to implore her with tears in her eyes to accompany her in her visits to the lodge. She was such a dreadful little coward, she didn't dare to go alone. The Master was no worse; his memory had gone, and his physical powers were weakened, since his accident in the garden, but there was no immediate danger. He might go on babbling in his second childhood for weeks or months. Lucy met the Senior Tutor at the lodge sometimes when she paid her afternoon visits, but she never went to his rooms again. She wouldn't have risked meeting Wyatt Edgell on the stairs for all the coaching in the world. She would rather have been ploughed. The Tutor couldn't say any more to Lucy about Cousin Mary and the Master's wife making the lodge their home when he met her at these times, as Maria Stubbs was always with her. It seemed likely that the Master's wife would have a home elsewhere before long, and the arrangement would fall through. Maria had fallen in love with the long gallery of the lodge, as everybody does who goes to St. Benedict's, and she used to wait for Lucy there while she paid her visits to the invalids. Miss Stubbs never did things by halves, and she made herself acquainted during these visits with all the old portraits on the walls. She knew every one of them, from the pale foundress in her sober pre-Raphaelitish dress, to the old Master in his scarlet gown. She had established quite a nodding acquaintance with all of them, and she had got up most of the facts of their history. She knew more about them than Lucy, though she had lived among them for months. One day while she was poring over the old portraits in the gallery a man came in. He had come up the stairs two at a time, and he had looked eagerly round when he got into the gallery. There was nobody there but a red-haired girl in spectacles, and the old dead and gone Masters. Yes, there was the foundress, but he didn't care a button for the foundress. He was looking for a real flesh-and-blood woman; his pulses were leaping, and his heart was thumping against his side, and his eyes were shining--he had just finished the first part of the exam.--and just at this moment the fairest creation of the finest master on canvas wouldn't have satisfied him. He walked to the end of the gallery looking for Lucy--she might be hiding away in any of the little oriel windows--and Miss Stubbs watched him. She was so glad to see his countenance fall when he couldn't find her. A woman would not have shown her disappointment in that transparent way. She would have made the best of it, and talked to the man who was there, but Edgell glared at Maria savagely, and didn't seem inclined to talk. 'Lucy Rae is with the Master,' she said sweetly; she knew instinctively that he was looking for Lucy. 'She will be here presently.' Edgell tried to look as if it didn't matter, and he wasn't particular whether she came now or at midnight, but he didn't take Miss Stubbs in. He fidgeted up and down the gallery, stopping every now and then before a picture, but never looking at it, or staring out into the court below from the old latticed oriel window. He was standing in the recess of the window idly tattooing on the pane when Lucy came in. She didn't see him until she reached the window, and she came running down the gallery in that energetic way peculiar to the students of colleges for women. 'I'm afraid I've kept you a long time, M'ria; I hope you don't mind----' and then she paused, and Edgell came towards her with his hands outstretched. He would have taken her in his arms, but there was that hateful Maria at the end of the gallery. He came to Lucy as a lover should come to his mistress, with the love-light in his eyes, and his whole being quivering with passion. 'My darling!' he said, and he took her hands. Lucy had no idea of being kissed like a milkmaid with Miss Stubbs looking on, and she drew her hands quickly away. 'You here?' she said. 'Yes,' he answered, looking down upon her with that warm light in his eyes and his lips smiling; 'where else should I look for you? I have waited in the lane every morning in the week, and you have never come since--since that morning----' 'The Master is better,' she said, dropping her eyes; they were such sweet, shy eyes they could not meet the hot flame in his. 'And was it only to hear about the Master you came?' he said in a low voice that thrilled her and brought the colour into her cheeks. 'It was to tell me about him you came.' Her voice trembled in spite of herself, and her heart was beating tumultuously. 'It was because I loved you I came, Lucy--darling! I could not live without a sight of your dear face. I have lived a whole week without you, and it has seemed a year. You must not leave me alone again so long, darling!' There was more in the tone than in his words, and Lucy looked up anxiously into his face. He read the question in her eyes and he smiled gravely, almost sadly. 'No,' he said, 'thank God, not that!' and he stooped and kissed her forehead reverently between the bright brown ripples of her hair. Her face grew warm under his touch, and she trembled and drew back. Suppose that girl in the gallery had seen him? It would be all over Newnham. And the servants might come in at any time, or Cousin Mary; and Mr. Colville might walk into the gallery unannounced, as he was accustomed to do. Oh, it would be dreadful to be caught kissing like a housemaid! 'And you have been working hard all this time?' she said, when she had got the little oak table that stood in the window well between them. 'Yes, I have been working pretty well. I shouldn't have done a stroke if you hadn't given me something to work for. I should have thrown it all up, and gone down.' 'Oh, it would never have done for you to have gone down--you who are expected to bring so much credit to the college! It would have disappointed everybody, and your own people most. What would your people have said?' 'They would have been disappointed--and--and I think my mother would have been sorry. She is such a tender, indulgent mother; she has never refused me anything. She has always stood between me and my father, and covered up all my shortcomings, but she couldn't have covered up this, and--and there would have been a row. Yes, I think it would have disappointed her.' His eyes were tender and softened as he spoke of his mother, and Lucy thought as she stood there of that dreadful scene when she found Eric on his knees beside the couch, and she wondered how his mother would have covered up that. She looked up at the warm, tender face of the man bending over her--he had got round the table--and with a sudden terror she saw the mark on his throat--he had not covered it; he wore no scarf to-day, and his collar was open, and the purple mark was visible on the white skin. He saw her eyes travel to--not to his face; they stopped short at his throat, and a white look of terror came into them. 'Yes,' he said, reading her thoughts--her transparent thoughts--'she would have covered up this, but it would have broken her heart.' He drew his collar up round his throat as he spoke and Lucy's eyes filled with tears. 'It is all over and past,' she said bravely; 'there will be no need to "break her heart" now. You will fulfil all her expectations; you will make her happy and proud--oh, so proud! If men who are tempted to do silly, selfish things would only pause and think of the people who love them!' Edgell drew her nearer to him. Maria Stubbs was not looking that way; she really was a most sensible girl, she was entirely absorbed in the pictures. 'I will think of you, then,' he said in a low voice that vibrated with passion, 'when--when I am tempted; but I must be sure of your love, Lucy, or it will be no good; there must be no mistake about it. It must be the real thing; a make-believe, a sham, would never save a man! Tell me if--if at such a time, darling, I may think of you?' He put the question solemnly, though his lips were smiling, but his eyes were looking down into hers as if they would read her soul. Lucy's face grew pale and troubled; she knew exactly what his question meant; she felt limp and frightened, dreadfully frightened. Anyone might come into the gallery at any moment, and he was holding her in a grasp of iron and reading her little transparent soul through and through. She could not escape from him. She had no alternative. 'Yes,' she murmured almost inaudibly; 'you may think of me if--if it will help you.' He took her in his arms for one brief moment--he forgot all about Maria Stubbs--and kissed her lips and her eyes. 'My darling!' he murmured--'my darling!' Lovers have such a limited vocabulary, they are obliged to have recourse to unmeaning repetitions. Miss Stubbs had behaved beautifully till now--no Newnham girl could have behaved better; but there is a limit to all human endurance, and the limit of Maria's endurance had been reached. 'I hope you are nearly ready,' she said in a most unpleasant voice; 'because if not I must go.' 'I am quite ready, dear,' said Lucy, nearly crying. 'I have been ready a long time.' She could have blessed Miss Stubbs for taking her away. She was dreadfully frightened, but it was with a strange, delicious terror that stirred her pulses like a tumult of joy. CHAPTER XVIII. CAPABILITY STUBBS. It was clearly Lucy's duty not to go back to Newnham, whatever Maria Stubbs' hurry might be, until she had told her Cousin Mary what had passed between her and Wyatt Edgell in the gallery. It is not usual, even at Cambridge, where there have been so many social revolutions of late, for young women to receive the visits of gentlemen, and exchange the privileged amenities of engaged persons, without acquainting the elders of their household. There was no one to acquaint at the lodge but Cousin Mary. It was no use telling the Master, he would confuse it with Dick's courtship that had been over sixty years ago, and he would be telling Nurse Brannan that Lucy's mother first met her lover in a dancing-booth at a fair. The Master's wife was almost past telling; she had been growing weaker day by day ever since that accident; the world had been slipping away from her ever since. She had ceased to take any interest in anything that was going on around her. She seldom spoke now; sight and strength and speech were all failing. When she did speak, she had only one question to ask: 'How is the Master?' But Lucy would not admit that she had any engagement yet to tell anybody about. She had only told Wyatt Edgell that he might go back to work, and she had further told him that he might think of her at certain times. This was all; no promise, no real engagement. Of course he ought not to have taken her into his arms until he was properly engaged. He had been premature, but Lucy had no one but herself to blame for it. This is how Lucy reasoned as she walked back to Newnham with Miss Stubbs. She went straight back without seeing the Master's wife or Cousin Mary; she positively crept out of the lodge as if she had done some shameful thing, and was afraid of being found out. She was very nice to Maria on the way. She called her dear, which is quite an unheard-of thing among the Stoics of Newnham, but Miss Stubbs was not to be taken in. 'It's pretty far gone,' she observed with a sniff, when Lucy made a timid little allusion to Edgell's visit to the gallery. 'Oh dear no, not at all!' Lucy said sweetly. Miss Stubbs raised her red eyebrows. It was those dreadful red eyebrows and red eyelashes that made her so--so unlovely. 'Oh,' she remarked in her unpleasant way, 'I thought I heard--ahem!--some--some kissing. I may have been mistaken; perhaps it was the wind.' 'The wind was very rough this afternoon, dear; it was rattling the shaky old lattice dreadfully.' Miss Stubbs smiled scornfully. There hadn't been a breath of air all the day. 'I suppose it's a settled thing?' she said presently. 'Settled? Oh no; not at all!' 'Then it ought to be!' Maria said sharply. 'You've given him encouragement enough. He's been hanging about the lane every morning this week. It's known all over the place that he's waiting for you.' 'But I haven't met him!' Lucy said stoutly. She wasn't going to be sat upon by Maria. 'No; oh no! you haven't met him this week; we should all have known it if you had, because we've all been on the look-out since that day when you were caught kissing in the lane. I shouldn't have mentioned it--though it's not good form in a woman's college--if it hadn't occurred again to-day. It's all right, I suppose, if you are engaged.' 'But I am not engaged!' said Lucy impatiently. She was not going to be lectured by Maria. Nobody would ever think of kissing Maria in the lane. 'Then I don't understand it,' Miss Stubbs said stiffly. 'Oh, you poor creature!' Lucy said with a weak attempt at a laugh, and her cheeks scarlet. 'I am only encouraging him for his own good. I have only told him he may work; he is sure to take a high place, but he would not do anything if I did not encourage him. Think: all his life depends upon it. You would do the same if you were in my place.' Miss Stubbs did not say she wouldn't, but she blushed beneath her freckles, and her eyes softened beneath the red lashes. There were depths in her eyes that Lucy had never seen in them before, and she was looking at Maria sharply--unfathomed depths, for nobody had tested the depths and height of Maria's love. Perhaps a brave man, who does not look on the outward appearance, or who prefers red hair, may some day, and he will have no cause for regret. 'And what will happen when--when the work is done, and he has won the high place?' Maria asked softly. She was thinking how she would love above all things to fire a man who loved her with ambitions. She would fill him with the noblest ambitions, and when he had climbed the ladder, when he had realized all his dreams, she would not cheat him of his reward. 'And what then?' she repeated, when she found Lucy did not answer. 'Oh, I don't know. I have not made up my mind. Whatever happened, it would be a great thing for him to have done the work--to have taken his degree, that could never be recalled. I am sure I have done right--in--in encouraging him, as you term it.' 'I think it would be base--and mean--and unworthy--an unwomanly thing to throw him over in the end!' Maria said, with a little catch in her voice. She couldn't find adjectives strong enough, and she had to pause between each. Wyatt Edgell went back to his rooms across the court with great swinging strides, and he climbed the stairs three at a time. He met the Senior Tutor coming out of his rooms at the top of the stairs, and the little snatch of a love-song he was singing died on his lips. Still, his lips were smiling, and his eyes were shining, and his face was earnest and set. It was the face of a man who was going to do something--who was going to win. 'How have you done?' the Tutor asked, stopping him. He asked it with a smile; he hadn't any doubt about how he had done. 'Not so well as I could have wished, sir. I shall do better in the next part.' There are two 'parts' in the Mathematical Tripos. If a man gets through Part I. he is allowed to proceed farther; he is allowed to go in for Honours. There could be no doubt about Wyatt Edgell being 'through' in the 'first part.' He was quite safe in going back to work for Honours. There is a week between the end of one examination and the beginning of another. There is time to pick one's self up and prepare afresh for the fight--the real fight this time. Wyatt Edgell went back to his room and 'sported' his oak. It was open just for a minute after Hall, and Eric Gwatkin came in. Eric had been working at his Special--he took theology, about as stiff a Special as a man can take--all the week, and he had just come to the end of his exam. There would be Hebrew on the Monday, about which he knew very little; if he should make a stray shot it would count, but the real work of the exam. was over. He was looking limp, and used up, and dejected. His eyes were dull, and his cheeks were flabby, and his hair, which he wore long, hung down in a spiritless way. He was the greatest possible contrast to Edgell. 'Well, Wattles,' he said, looking up when Eric came into the room--'well, have you floored the examiners?' Eric didn't exactly turn green, but his flabby cheeks turned a shade paler. 'It's all over, dear fellow,' he said with a gulp--he hadn't got anything to swallow. He had just come in from Hall, but he gulped down something. 'The examiners have floored me. I'm ploughed, to a certainty.' He sat down as he spoke on the couch where Edgell had lain on that day, and tried to look cheerful. 'Nonsense, old man! it isn't so bad as that. You are through, for certain.' 'No; I don't think I am through.' 'Well, suppose the worst, if it gives you much pleasure to anticipate it; you can come up again in October.' 'No; I shall not come up again. I shall go down and try something else. Remember, I have already tried two professions. I shall take it, if I fail, that--that the Church is closed to me. I have an offer of something in the City, and I should have to go abroad for a time, and then settle down to work. Perhaps it's the right thing for me, after all.' 'Nonsense, Wattles! What would you do stuck on a high stool in the City? You'd be getting off it half a dozen times a day to go on your knees. It's no use your choosing a profession that isn't very near the ground, where you could be on your knees all day long. That's the only profession you've got any chance in, Wattles.' Eric smiled, and if Edgell hadn't been looking straight before him in that way he had of not seeing anything within a hundred miles he might have seen that his eyes were red, and that there was something very suspiciously like a tear in the corner of one of them. 'You are working in earnest,' he said presently, nodding towards the table where Edgell was seated, which was covered with books and papers. 'Ye--es,' said the other with a smile, still looking out of the window at the patch of sunset sky over the gray battlements of the college--'ye--es; I've got something to work for. I didn't do half well in the first part; I wasn't sure--quite sure--but it's all right now, and I shall go in and do my best. You have never seen me do my best, Wattles; you will see me do it now--for--for Lucy's sake.' His face was very noble and tender. It was an ideal man's face--strong, and self-reliant, and masterful, and inexpressibly tender. It moved Eric watching him from that couch, and knowing so much about him. 'It is settled, then?' he said presently, again swallowing something unsatisfactory that seemed to stick. 'Yes; it is settled. She has given me an antidote, a charm, against that accursed thing. She has told me to think of her.' He was thinking of her now as he lay back in his chair watching the sunlight steal along the roof, and up, up, up the spire of the college chapel. He was thinking of Lucy's sweet eyes, and her blushing cheeks, and the golden ripples of her hair, and he was telling himself that the thought of her would be a tower of strength to him in the future, that he would never, never fall again. When the old temptation came, let it take what form it would, he should be able to meet it. He would only have to think of Lucy. Eric watched him as he sat on the couch opposite. He guessed what was passing in his mind. His own mind travelled over the ground with him, and presently he paused and sighed. He had come to a _cul-de-sac_. 'Well,' Edgell said, looking round like one aroused from a day-dream, 'what are you croaking at, Wattles?' Eric made a feeble attempt to smile; it was a very poor attempt, and it only made his poor tired face look more ghastly. 'I only hope, dear fellow, it will answer,' he said huskily. 'Of course it will answer. It is the only thing in the world for me, and for such as me. There is nothing but the love of a woman that can hold a fellow back when--when he has gone so far as I have; there is nothing but a woman's love that could reach down, down--God only knows how deep--and pick a fellow up who has fallen into the pit, that can drag a man out, wounded and maimed, from under the very wheels of Juggernaut at the risk of her own life and reason. There is only one kind of love that can do this.' Eric looked at him with a strange pity in his eyes. 'You think it is right to put her to such a test?' he said. 'I do not think anything about it. If she loves me, she will not think any trial too hard. Tush, man! you know nothing about love if you do not know that love delights in sacrifice. It must have its altar--the rites could not be celebrated without an altar--and it must have its offering--its free-will offering--its victim. It withholds not its dearest--how should it? Love has no self.' Eric groaned. He knew nothing about a woman's love. He didn't believe that little Lucy could ever love a man like that. 'My dear fellow,' he said, 'you judge a woman's nature by your own. All women would not rise to such heights.' 'The woman that I loved would,' said the other confidently. 'You will have a chance of putting it to the test before long. If--if I am kept, it will be Lucy's love that will keep me; but if--if it happens again, it will be as you say--I shall have judged a woman's nature by my own.' The smile had faded from his face, and his eyes were cold and hard, and his lips were pressed tight together. It was not the same face that had smiled upon Eric when he came into the room. Eric was ashamed of himself, and hung his head. He ought not to have questioned Lucy's love. Nobody had ever loved him, nobody but Pamela, and she was always bullying him. He ought to have been silent until he had found out for himself what a woman will do for the man she loves. 'It must never happen again, dear old man,' he said, laying his hand affectionately on Edgell's shoulder. 'Remember, you have vowed----' 'I know all that,' Edgell interrupted impatiently. 'Do you think all the vows in the world would hold me back, when--when that accursed thing came upon me? You have never been tried yourself----' 'No, no, no, thank God!' 'You may well thank God. I tell you, if the breaking the oath I have sworn--the oaths I have sworn--I have sworn dozens--hundreds--would lose heaven itself, I should still break it--I should not be able to resist when the temptation came upon me.' 'You are right to mistrust yourself,' Eric said sadly. 'Oh, my dear fellow, if you would only trust Him who is the unfailing Strength of all them that put their trust in Him, and who would be a Strong Tower to you in the face of the enemy!' 'Dear old Wattles!' Edgell said good-humouredly. 'I knew you only wanted an excuse for going on your knees. I'm awfully busy now, old man. I'm going to work till daylight--and--and if the Enemy, as you are pleased to call him, should come--I'll think of Lucy!' He looked past Gwatkin to the blue sky over the roof of the chapel. The sun had all but set, and the vane at the top of the spire had caught the last remnant of fleeting sunshine and rent it in twain. CHAPTER XIX. A STRONG TOWER. 'Weakness to be wroth with weakness.' It was a dreadful time of heartburnings at Newnham through all the next week; not at Newnham only, but all over Cambridge. So many Triposes were on, and the week's interval between the first and second parts of the examination for the Mathematical Tripos was being made the most of by the coming Wranglers and Senior Ops. There were half a dozen girls at Newnham going in for Honours in mathematics, but there was only one that was expected to take a high place--a very high place--among the Wranglers of the year. There would be several Senior and Junior Optimes, but there would be only one Wrangler this year. The hopes of Newnham were set on Pamela Gwatkin, who was expected to do such great things, to win such honour for the women's college. A dark rumour had reached St. John's and Trinity--who like to divide the honours between them--that they were likely to be left behind in the race--far behind. They were uneasy and anxious, though they wouldn't have owned it for the world, for-- 'At times the high gods, who o'er papers preside, Send a lady from Newnham to chasten their pride.' The rumour caused a great deal of midnight oil to be burnt in Cambridge during the first week in June. Wyatt Edgell never went to bed till daylight; not that the rumour disturbed him, he only laughed gaily when he heard that 'the lady from Newnham' was Wattles' sister. Perhaps, being twins, he measured them by the same standard. He never saw Lucy all through that week, though he went every morning at the usual hour up the lane. He didn't linger at the gate now--he had no time for lingering at gates; but he looked up at her window. He had found out which was Lucy's window, and he paid his accustomed pilgrimage to that sacred spot in the narrowed lane between the hedgerows, that were all white with May now, and then he would hurry back to his work. He would take back with him from Newnham, as a memento of his visit, a bit of sweet-briar from the hedge, and he would lay it on his table before him, that something of the fragrance of his love might be about him while he worked. He wrote to her during the week a little letter that would have set any other woman's pulses on fire, but it only frightened Lucy. She couldn't understand the vehemence of a man's love. She didn't answer it--she couldn't without compromising herself completely; but she sent him a message by Eric. It was not often that Eric Gwatkin visited his sister at Newnham. She did not encourage his visits, and she was always too busy to talk to him. He came up one day in the middle of the week; his examination was over, and he had nothing particular to do, and he came up to see his sister. He had been slumming all the afternoon in that odorous district round Magdalen Bridge, and he had come up to Newnham to see if Pamela would give him some tea. Pamela was not in her room, and Eric had leisure to look round and see how his sister amused herself. One can tell so much from a room in daily use what people's occupations are. Pamela did not amuse herself much, unless she found recreation in the higher mathematics. Her table--it was an eight-legged affair in old oak--groaned beneath the weight of the books on mathematics that were piled upon it. It was as much as the eight legs could do to support it. Eric quite shivered when he saw those books and the problem papers that were scattered about; the ink was still wet on some of them. He couldn't have worked out one of those problems to have saved his life. Oh, Nature had made a great mistake! She ought to have made Pamela the man. What was the use of giving all that brain to a woman? Perhaps Eric thought so; not for the first time, indeed; he may have got used to the thought as he moved uneasily about Pamela's books. There were shelves and shelves of books in this girl's room, and there were not a dozen in Eric's: a Bible and a few theological books, and some Church histories, and nothing more; no poetry, or travels, or philosophy, or fiction--oh no, no fiction! There were books on Pamela's shelves that made his hair stand on end. He groaned as he read the titles, and he had cold shivers down his back. To think they should be twins! Oh, Nature had made a great mistake! He was still reading the titles on the backs of Pamela's naughty black books, and cold shivers were running down his spine, when the door opened and a girl came in. He looked up, with mild reproof in his eyes, expecting to see Pamela; but it was not his sister, it was Lucy. Lucy had not come into Pamela Gwatkin's room by choice. She had been sent with a message from one of the Dons, and she had come under protest. She forgot all about the message when she saw Eric. 'You here?' she said. There was no reason why he shouldn't be here, in his sister's room. She had just received that letter from Wyatt Edgell, and she was wondering how she should answer it, and the sight of Eric seemed to bring a feeling of relief to her mind. 'Oh, I have been wanting to see you so much!' she said eagerly; she was so afraid Pamela would come in and interrupt them. 'I want to know--how--how Mr. Edgell is going on--if--if anything has happened since----' Eric understood what she meant, though she spoke incoherently; and he understood her agitation and reluctance. 'No,' he said slowly, looking at her with a strange pity in his eyes, 'nothing has happened in that way, thank God! He is working hard; I am afraid too hard.' 'Oh, I don't think work will hurt him!' she said scornfully. She remembered how the girls worked here. What the men called 'work' was only play to them. She wasn't at all afraid that her lover would work as hard as Pamela, for instance. 'I don't mean that,' he said; 'I'm not afraid of his breaking down. I'm only afraid that when the strain is over--he--he will feel it--he----' He was a very awkward young man; he could only stand there stammering and stuttering, while the girl looked at him with dilating eyes. 'You mean,' she said with a shiver, 'that when the strain is over he will go back to his old way--that he will not be able to withstand----' She could not finish the sentence; there was a strange sinking at her heart--a dreadful unutterable loathing and sickness that she could not overcome--and she sank down white and trembling in a chair and covered her face with her hands. The sight of Eric had brought back that awful scene, and she was thinking of that gap in his throat; she could never get it out of her mind. 'No, no, by heaven! not that!' he said almost fiercely. 'He will never, never fall away again in that way, please God; but it is you alone that can keep him. His salvation--heaven forgive me for saying it!--is in your hands.' 'My hands?' Lucy repeated feebly. 'Yes,' he said gravely, almost sternly, 'in your hands. Your love can hold him when nothing else can; it is to him a strong tower against the face of this enemy. You must not fail him in his need.' 'A strong tower!' Lucy moaned. 'Oh, you don't know what you say! I am such a poor little thing--you don't know how weak I am. Oh, why did he choose me?' She sat with dilated eyes and white stricken face, moaning and wringing her hands. He was very sorry for the girl, but he couldn't spare her. He was thinking of that look on Edgell's face when he had said what a woman's love could do for him. 'Why do men choose women?' he said almost harshly; 'perhaps it is fate, who can say? He loved you, or he would not have chosen you. Oh, you don't know what it is to win the love of such a man!' 'No--o!' said Lucy meekly, with her little smile--her tiny white smile--'I'm afraid I don't. I'm such a little thing! I could not have a large soul like--like Pamela. Oh, why didn't he choose Pamela?' 'It is too late to ask that question now; he has chosen you. Are you going to be true, and loyal, and put yourself aside, as some women do, or are you going to fail him at the last moment?' It was a hard question to answer; Lucy could not have answered it if she would. How could she tell--she who had never been tried--to what great occasion she might rise? She might be a heroine yet, though she didn't look like one, sitting there weeping and wringing her hands. 'You will not fail him now; remember his future is in your hands. He will do great things with a woman by his side to encourage him to noble aims, to fire him with noble ambitions. Oh, you do not know what your love will do for him! He will have a great future with you by his side.' Still Lucy moaned and wrung her hands. 'I shall be always afraid,' she said; 'I shall never feel safe. I shall always be thinking day and night of--of what may happen.' 'It will be your own fault if it happens. It is only your love that will keep him; if that should fail, God help him!' 'I am such a poor little thing!' she moaned. While she was sitting weeping there, Pamela came in, and Lucy jumped up and brushed the tears from her eyes, and puckered her little level brows, and tried to look as if she hadn't been crying. She forgot all about the message she had to give Pamela, and when the sister and brother were talking she slipped out of the room. 'What's she crying about?' Pamela asked him as Lucy closed the door behind her. 'Has anything happened to that--that Mr. Edgell? or is the Master worse?' 'The Master is no worse; but Mrs. Rae is ill, very ill,' Eric answered. He was not at all disposed to talk of Wyatt Edgell's love for Lucy to his agnostic sister. 'And Mr. Edgell, has he been having another attack? Has he been attempting suicide again?' 'Hush, Pamela!' Eric Gwatkin exclaimed almost harshly. He could not bear to hear his sister speak of Edgell in that way. 'You don't know what you are saying. That was an accident, and he had been ill. If you only knew Edgell, you would not say such things. He is the best and noblest fellow in the world, and he is the dearest friend I have.' 'They say he is to head the list this year; that he is to be Senior Wrangler,' Pamela said in her cool, contemptuous way. 'Yes, he is sure to head the list. There is no one to touch him in the 'Varsity.' Pamela smiled. Eric had forgotten what rumour was saying about her--that it would be a neck-and-neck race. 'He is working hard, then?' she said indifferently. What could it matter to her if he were reading hard or raving on his couch with delirium tremens? 'Yes; he's working like a horse--like a giant, rather. He can do six days' work in one every day. No one can have any chance with him.' Pamela didn't ask Eric to have any tea, and he went away as he came. She didn't even go to the front door with him. She said good-bye, and sat down to the eight-legged table among her books, and left him to find his way out by himself. He knew his way pretty well. It was not the first time he had been there. When he was nearly at the end of the first passage a door opened and a girl came out and stopped him. It was Lucy. 'I have been thinking of what you said,' she whispered, with a little break in her voice, 'and I will do what I can. Tell him from me not to work too hard; to--to take care of himself--for my sake.' Her voice broke down entirely, and she went into the room and shut the door. He hadn't got to the end of the passage before another door opened, and another girl's head was put out--the head of a girl with red hair. It was Maria Stubbs. She watched him to the end of the passage, and then she sniffed in her unpleasant way and went into Lucy's room. She went in without knocking, and found Lucy on her knees. She had flung herself on her knees beside her couch, and was wildly imploring Heaven to make her love strong enough and tender enough to keep this man safe who trusted in her. She looked up when Maria came in, and stumbled up from her knees, pretending she had been looking for something under the couch, as she had been pretending just now she hadn't been crying; but she didn't take in Miss Stubbs. 'Who was that man you were talking to in the passage?' Maria said bluntly. 'It didn't look like Mr. Edgell.' 'No,' Lucy said meekly; 'it wasn't Mr. Edgell. It was Pamela's brother.' 'And he brought you a message from your lover? Of course he is your lover. I like to call things by their right names. I prefer to call a spade a spade.' 'No, he didn't bring me a message,' Lucy said, with some spirit. She wasn't always going to be trampled upon by Maria. 'But you sent a message by him. I heard you give him a message. Oh, it's no use trying to deceive me!' 'I couldn't help it--indeed I couldn't help it!' Lucy moaned; and then she sat down upon the couch beside which she had been kneeling, and began to cry. She was feeling so dreadfully in need of sympathy and advice that she was bound to tell somebody. She couldn't bear all the burden of this terrible secret on her little weak shoulders. The great terror that haunted her would not be so dreadful to face if she could share it with another. She told Maria Stubbs the whole story from the beginning; she kept nothing back. Maria listened in silence to the end. Once or twice she was surprised into an exclamation, and her face grew pale beneath the freckles, and if Lucy had been looking at her she would have seen the tears gather in her eyes and Maria furtively brush them aside with the back of her hand. She would not have let Lucy see that she was crying for the world. 'What would you do if it were you, dear?' Lucy said with a little sob, when she had finished her tale. 'Do?' said Maria, and then she paused, and recalled the face of the man who had been waiting for Lucy in the long gallery of the lodge. She had seen a good deal of him in those few minutes. She had seen quite enough of him to make up her mind what she should do if he were her lover instead of Lucy's. 'Do, dear?' she repeated, and her eyes beneath their pale lashes grew inexpressibly warm and tender, and her whole face softened and changed. It was plain and freckled no longer; at least, the freckles were there, but one did not notice them in that new wonderful beauty and exaltation that had come into her plain face that was plain no longer. 'I would be a strong tower to him against the face of his enemy!' And she meant it. CHAPTER XX. NO FOLLOWERS ALLOWED. Lucy neglected those dear old people at the lodge shamefully. She was afraid to go to St. Benedict's lest she should meet Wyatt Edgell in the courts, or in the cloisters, or even in the gallery of the lodge itself. They were well looked after in spite of her neglect. They would have been very badly off indeed if they had been dependent upon her. There was Cousin Mary, who was a tower of strength to everyone who trusted in her. Not a showy, pretentious tower with a flagstaff on the top, but a plain solid structure, against whose granite girth the storm of time and disaster would beat in vain. Cousin Mary was the presiding genius at the lodge through all this sad time. She ruled the household, received the visitors--and there are always a good many callers at a college lodge in May term--and went from one sick-room to the other all day long, and often all night. Nurse Brannan was still in attendance on the Master; it had been hard work to get the authorities of Addenbroke's to give her up so long, but the 'Heads' have a special claim upon the hospital staff. The Master was gradually growing weaker day by day--weaker and more childish. He had forgotten already, in this short time, all that store of learning that had taken him years to collect. He had disencumbered his mind of a useless load of lumber--dry, musty old languages, Hebrew and Sanscrit and Syriac--which would be of no use where he was going. It had taken him a lifetime, a longer lifetime than most men, to accumulate it, and now, in a moment, it had been shot out in a load like useless rubbish. It had answered its purpose--it had advanced him in the world, it had won him repute and distinction, and it had made some money; and now, when its end was served, when it was only an encumbrance, it had all been shot down. Perhaps other minds would pick it up, would select from the heap the things that were best worth preserving, and so the lamp of learning would be handed on to another generation. Lucy came upon the Master once in one of her rare visits to the lodge--it was during the hours set apart for the Tripos Examination, when Wyatt Edgell would be away--and found Nurse Brannan reading to him. She had opened the door softly and come in unobserved, and the curtains of the big, old-fashioned four-post bedstead concealed her from view. Nurse Brannan was reading the Bible to him. She was reading a parable; the words and the imagery took hold of him more than precept and promise; he had been expounding them all his life, and they had dropped from him with those other things. She was reading the parables of the Lost Piece of Silver and the Prodigal Son, and every now and then she would stop and explain. She had a good deal to say about them, and the old Master listened meekly. It quite took Lucy's breath away to hear that little bit of a nurse explaining the parables to the Master of St. Benedict's. He had preached hundreds of sermons in the college chapel from that very chapter; it had always been a favourite subject with him. It had always had a fitting application to those fresh young minds in the benches beneath him that were perennially engaged in wasting their substance in riotous living. He had read it in every ancient tongue in which it had ever been written. And now a little nurse-girl, who couldn't even keep her hair tidy, was explaining it to him. 'Yes,' he was saying in his slow, quavering voice; it was weaker now than when Lucy last heard it faltering over those closing words in the Litany in the college chapel--'yes, I mind it quite well. I heard it when I was a boy standing at my mother's knee. She was a poor woman; she would have searched for it all night if she had lost a piece of silver, she would not have rested till she had found it. I was the youngest of all her sons, and when she read that chapter to me as a boy standing there, I used to think that I was the Prodigal, and that by-and-by, when I had wasted all my substance in a far country, I should come back like the Prodigal to my father's house, and ask to be taken in. I've been wanting to go back a long time, my dear; I'm getting tired and old, and I should like to go back. Do you think he would take me in?' 'We will see what the Prodigal's father did when he went back,' said the nurse; and then she read in her soft, slow, earnest voice the concluding words of the old, sweet story. Nurse Brannan had a wonderful power in reading God's Word, giving by tone and accent a new bearing to the familiar words of Scripture. Lucy had heard the words hundreds of times before, and had hurried over them in her scrambling way of reading her morning portion; but to-day they seemed to convey a special message. She stood there, behind the curtain, while Nurse Brannan read and the old Master listened. 'It seems very clear,' he said, when she had finished. 'It seems just as my mother said. I will arise and go to my Father--I have nowhere else to go--I have changed a good deal in all these years, but--but He would not be likely to change----' 'No,' said Nurse Brannan; 'He has not changed!' Lucy's tears were dropping fast; she could not trust herself to go in. She crept softly out of the room and shut the door, and went across the landing to Mrs. Rae's room. The Master's wife was always glad to see Lucy; she gave her better accounts of the Master than anyone else in the household. She looked up when Lucy came in, and noted with her failing eyes, instinctively sharpened by love, that Lucy had been crying. 'Have you seen the Master?' she asked, with a little catch in her voice. 'Yes, oh yes! he is better to-day, and giving the nurse quite a discourse upon the parables. You remember what lovely sermons he used to preach upon the parables?' The Master's wife smiled; she remembered every word of them. They were her comfort and stay now, those old sermons of the Master's; they made the way quite clear before her; they removed all the difficulties. She would have been shocked if she had known that that nurse from Addenbroke's had been so presumptuous as to attempt to explain the parables he knew so much about to the Master. 'You must get me a volume of his sermons, my dear--his first sermons; I may have forgotten some of them; and Mary shall read them. It will not be like hearing his voice, but--it--it will bring back something of the old time.' Lucy stayed longer than she had intended at the lodge. She had only reckoned to look in and pay a short visit to each sick-room, and have a chat with Cousin Mary, and go away; but she had to go to the Master's library and fetch that volume of sermons before she went. The Senior Tutor was sitting down in the Master's place at the Master's writing-table, answering the Master's letters, when Lucy went into the library. It would be his own place soon. He usually came over to the lodge for an hour in the afternoon now, and attended to whatever college business there might be to attend to, and look through the Master's college correspondence. He used to go through it with Mary once, when she opened the Master's letters; now he went through it alone. He rose when Lucy came in, and made her sit down in her old seat by the window. He wanted her to talk about herself. He was sure she missed his help; she would never be able to pass the Little-go without some more lessons. They taught beautifully at Newnham. They teach conscientiously at women's colleges: they don't believe in tips and short-cuts, and mere getting up of likely passages; they plod industriously through the dull, dreary round. The Senior Tutor didn't believe in Lucy's plodding; he would have liked to give her a tip or two. Lucy declined to talk about herself; she was full of the dear old people upstairs, and the affecting scene she had witnessed in the Master's room. 'He is getting weaker every day, in body as well as mind,' the Tutor said thoughtfully. 'He has not had nearly such good nights lately.' Unconsciously he was keeping a barometric measure of the Master's increasing weakness. It is not an ennobling thing to wait for dead men's shoes. 'No-o,' said Lucy, 'but I hope she will go first;' and then she burst into tears. 'Oh, I don't know how we shall tell her that he is gone!' 'Do you think at her age she would feel it so keenly? The separation could not be long.' 'Oh, you don't know what her love is. It seems only to have grown with the years.' The Tutor sighed, and looked out of the window into the garden beneath, and his thoughts wandered away to a time long past, when such a love might have been his. Perhaps his fancy had gone back to a brown-haired girl, who had waited for him until her face had grown wan and her eyes sad with waiting, and who had not had Mrs. Rae's patience. Well, she would have been old and florid and stout now, and her sweet face--it was sweet once--would have been seamed and wrinkled with the cares of, oh, so many children! Well, it was just as well as it was. The Tutor recalled his wandering thoughts, and looked at Lucy. She was quite worth looking at as she sat in the window-seat. Her face was graver and sadder, and her eyes were steadier, and her lips were not so loose as they once were. It is astonishing how girls' lips tighten after six months in a women's college. Perhaps this is due to their difficulties with mathematics, and to the anxiety that ethics and Latin prose give them, to say nothing of modern languages and natural science. She had certainly grown more womanly since she had been at Newnham: that added seriousness supplied just the charm that was lacking. Perhaps it was quite as well that brown-haired girl had not waited. 'Do you think you could love anyone so long, Lucy?' he said presently. It was not the words, but the voice in which he said them, that made Lucy look up and her face grow warm beneath his eyes. She was dreadfully angry with herself for blushing. It was quite idiotic for a girl to turn as red as a poppy when a man old enough to be her father addressed her. She shook her head. 'Not a man you loved very much, Lucy? Mrs. Rae must have loved the Master dearly for her love to have lasted so long. I'm afraid to say how many years she waited for him.' And again the Tutor sighed: that brown-haired girl had soon grown sick of waiting. Again Lucy shook her head. 'I am not like the Master's wife,' she said. She was thinking of Wyatt Edgell. Why would men make such large demands upon a woman? All women were not made on such large lines. Why would they not be content with a little reasonable love--the calm, steady flame that would burn very well if nothing happened to put it out? What more could they want? 'I think you would make quite as good a Master's wife,' he said, bending over her with that warm light in his eyes that had brought the poppy-colour to her cheeks; and he had taken her hand. 'I think your love will be quite as well worth winning. I hope yours will be as happy a life, dear Lucy, as hers, and that it will be crowned with a fuller and more perfect joy----' There is no knowing what would have happened if Lucy had not at that moment suddenly remembered that Mrs. Rae was waiting for the book of sermons she had sent her to fetch. She snatched her hand away from the Senior Tutor's just in time, and made a hurried excuse that Mrs. Rae was waiting for her to read to her; and she took the first volume of the Master's sermons she found on the shelf, and ran out of the room. She could hardly trust herself to read to Mrs. Rae. She made a dreadful mess of her favourite sermon. Whatever other talents she had developed at Newnham, she had not developed a talent for reading sermons. It brought the tears into the dear woman's eyes to hear her; she thought of the kind voice that was so sweet to her ears, that she had last heard breathing those well-remembered words, and she turned her worn white face to the pillow to hide her tears. 'You are sure the Master is no worse to-day?' she said to Lucy as she came away. 'Oh yes, quite sure. He was preaching quite a sermon to nurse on the Prodigal's return.' Lucy was just in time as she hurried out of the college gate to meet the men coming in from the examination. They were looking worn and tired, and some were looking glum, and others had assumed an air of cheerfulness that sat ill on their anxious faces. One or two had the examination papers in their hands, and were adding up with their friends the questions they had scored off. The process did not seem to give them unmixed satisfaction. Lucy thought that her lover must already have passed through the court, as he was not among the crowd at the gate, and she was congratulating herself on having escaped him, when she saw him coming across the road. She couldn't run away; she was obliged to stop in the face of all those men at the college gate and shake hands with him. She wasn't at all sure he would not take her in his arms before them all. There was no saying what he would do. He never did anything like other men; he did not measure the world and its customs with the impulse of the moment. Was not the world made for him? Wyatt Edgell didn't take her in his arms, and he didn't kiss her in the face of all the men assembled at the college gate, but he walked back by her side to Newnham. 'Well,' she said eagerly, 'and how have you done?' He was glad to see she was flushed and eager; he didn't know it was the fear of what he was going to do that had moved her and heightened her colour. 'I have been thinking about you every day,' he said. 'If I have not done well it will be your fault, not mine.' She would much rather he had been thinking about his work, but she did not say so. 'It is nearly over,' she said, with a little catch in her voice; 'only one day more. What will you do when it is over, when you have nothing more to work for?' 'I shall come to you for my reward.' His eyes were blazing down upon her with a sudden heat of passion that made her tremble. 'I shall come to-morrow night, after the exam. is finished. I shall come to the old place in the lane.' He did not tell her that he had been there every morning of the week. 'It is so hard to get out of nights,' she said. 'We are not expected to go out after Hall.' He stopped in the middle of the path and laughed. 'Ah!' he said. 'No lovers allowed, and all that sort of thing; no whispering beneath the moon. Never mind, my dear; if they won't let you whisper beneath the moon, I've no objection to lamplight. If you must not meet me in the lane, Lucy, I shall come up to the front-door.' 'Oh, I'm sure that will never do!' she said, almost tearfully; she was dreadfully afraid he would keep his word. 'They wouldn't let you come in, I'm sure. You are not a brother--or--or a cousin----' 'No, my dear, thank God! I am neither of these undesirable things. I am a lover--my darling's own true lover!' 'Then I'm quite sure they won't admit you!' Lucy said very decidedly. 'Lovers are not even mentioned in the rules.' 'Well,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. They were such handsome, manly shoulders. They didn't stoop, or droop, they were not round or misshapen, or one an inch higher than the other, like so many scholars' shoulders. They were broad, and square, and manly, and they had the strength of a giant. He rowed five in his college boat, and was the best 'forward' in the 'Varsity football team. 'Well,' he said, looking down at the girl's dainty profile, and the curve of her soft cheek, and the dimple in her chin--he had looked at them afar off across the benches in the college chapel every Sunday since Lucy had first come up--'well, my dear, if they won't admit me at the front-door, I must find some other way. "Love laughs at locksmiths."' He was still looking down at her profile--it was not very far off now, it was very near his shoulder--and he had possessed himself of her hand, when three girls came slowly up to the gate where they were standing. Lucy saw Pamela's face a long way off, and her heart sank within her. She remembered suddenly that she was late for tea, and she snatched her hand away, and ran hurriedly down the path, and left him standing there to meet Pamela, and Maria Stubbs, and one of the younger Dons who had a deeply-rooted prejudice against lovers. CHAPTER XXI. A BLOW TO NEWNHAM. Lucy saw no more of Pamela until after Hall. She thought she had escaped--quite escaped. After all, Pamela had not seen much; she had only seen Wyatt Edgell talking to her at the gate. Other girls talked to men at the gate--brothers, cousins, even coaches sometimes--when they had anything particular to say that couldn't wait for the proper opportunity, but lovers never. It had gone so far that Lucy was obliged to admit that he was a lover. She admitted with a sigh what other girls--what Pamela Gwatkin, what Maria Stubbs--would have given anything--everything, even renounced the higher culture--to have been able to admit. Capability Stubbs was walking with Pamela when they came across the lovers at the gate of Newnham. Capability took in the whole scene in a moment: perhaps she took in rather more. She coloured it with her own vivid imagination; she surrounded it with an atmosphere entirely her own. There was not a detail in the picture that was not brought out distinctly by this mental process and stamped upon her memory. She was thinking about it all the time she was at Hall. She had no appetite for her dinner. She couldn't get the picture of the lovers parting at the gate out of her eyes. She sat staring across the soup, and the entrée, and the gooseberry-tart, at the white wall opposite. Perhaps it was all photographed there: the manly figure with the great square shoulders; they were stooping now, and the head was bent--it was almost touching Lucy's hair--and his eyes were looking into hers, and his lips were smiling----Pah! what is the use of describing the lips of another girl's lover? Miss Stubbs broke off abruptly, and began to press the gooseberry-tart upon her neighbour. She had quite forgotten until now that it was her duty to look after Pamela. All the girls who go in for a Tripos are under special surveillance during the time of their examination, and a keeper is deputed to watch over them and see that they take their food properly and go to bed at ten o'clock. It was Maria Stubbs' duty to look after Pamela. The soup had gone by and the meat, and she had never once thought about her charge. Perhaps she hadn't eaten a morsel. She was looking white and hollow-eyed, and had that starved appearance peculiar to scholars whose brains absorb all the material intended for the body. She did not look as if she had eaten a good dinner, as if she had gone conscientiously through the _menu_. In point of fact, Pamela had only trifled with her plate, and finding that her keeper was not watching, had not eaten a morsel, and now there was only the gooseberry-pie left. Maria Stubbs pressed the pie upon her with tears in her eyes. She entreated her, if she valued her place in the Tripos, if the honour of Newnham was dear to her, to partake of that pie; but Pamela was not to be persuaded. Conscience-stricken, Maria got up from the table and retired to her room. Half an hour later she emerged from it with a tray, and hurried down the corridor to Pamela's door. She didn't find her working as she expected--it was the very last night for work; to-morrow the examination would be over. She found her sitting at the window looking out at the sunset. Pamela was not generally fond of sunsets, and she never sat at the window like other girls. She had no time to spare for sunsets, and she preferred the Windsor chair at her writing-table to any other chair in the room. It was empty now, and her books were closed, and her papers were all put tidily away. She had quite done with them, and she was looking out of the window. Maria put down the cup of cocoa and the cake she had brought on a little table by Pamela's side, and watched her while she took it. She took it obediently. It was less trouble to take it than refuse it, but she didn't put any heart in it. 'It will all be over soon, dear,' Maria said by way of encouragement. 'Yes,' Pamela said wearily, and she looked out at the white gate which someone had left open. Perhaps she was thinking that she would soon pass through it, and her life here would be ended. Maria looked in the same direction; but the gate brought something else to her mind, and she forgot all about Pamela and the cocoa. 'Oh, the pity of it!' she murmured; and her eyes lingered on the spot where Wyatt Edgell had last stood. 'The pity of what?' Pamela said impatiently. She was nervous, irritable, over-strung, and everything jarred upon her. 'Nothing, dear, nothing,' Maria said soothingly. 'I was only thinking of the man that girl is fooling. Oh, what idiots men are! Fancy a man--a real man, not a fool--throwing himself away upon that pink-and-white baby!' Pamela was listening with an abstracted air, but the colour crept up under her skin, and her lip curled. 'You mean the St. Benedict's man?' she said, smiling with a sort of contempt. 'Yes; the man that was talking to her at the gate. Oh, Pamela, did you see his face?' 'Ye--e--s; I saw his face. I have often seen him before. He is Eric's friend. I have known him ever since he has been up.' 'He has known you--you, Pamela--for years, and yet he has chosen her?' 'There is no accounting for taste--at least, for men's taste,' Pamela said scornfully; but she did not look at the girl she was speaking to; she looked out at the sunset. 'I tell you what it is,' Miss Stubbs said with an air of conviction. 'He has been dreaming all his life about the ideal woman, and what his fancy has painted her; and with this myth, this creation of his own heated imagination in his mind, he has met this--this baby, and he has invested her with all the attributes of his ideal. It isn't Lucy Rae he's in love with; it's the ideal woman that he has been all his life imagining.' Pamela smiled in a dreary way, but she still watched the sunset. 'Perhaps the circumstances--the very unusual circumstances--under which he first met her had something to do with it,' Maria went on in a lower voice. She was thinking of that scene in St. Benedict's that Lucy had described to her. 'Oh, you don't know what a meeting it was, Pam!' 'Yes,' said Pamela, with a little break in her voice, 'I know what it must have been to her; but no one can tell what it was to him.' 'You have heard, then! How did you hear?' Maria asked breathlessly. 'She told me. She told me the first night; she could not sleep, and I found her wandering about the corridor in a panic of fear.' 'Did she tell you all--quite all?' 'She told me everything,' Pamela said; and again her lips quivered. 'Has she told you she has promised to marry him?' 'No, she has not told me that,' Pamela said with that rising tell-tale colour in her cheeks, and a hard steely light in her gray-blue eyes, which were no longer watching the sunset; 'but I don't think she will marry him.' 'I am sure she will not marry him,' said Maria hotly; 'she will fool him and ruin his life. She is too great a coward to marry him!' 'She would be a brave woman to marry him, knowing what she knows,' Pamela said with the hot blood in her face again; 'but I don't think she will spoil his life.' 'Oh, you don't know! How should you know, you who are made on such large lines? He has placed the keeping of his life--think of it: of his life, body and soul!--in her hands. He believes that nothing but the love of a woman can save him; and he has implored her--that poor thing--to be a tower of strength to him.' 'Her!' Pamela murmured with her scornful lips, and the rising colour in her face. 'Yes, dear, he has asked _her_. He has made the mistake that men always do make: he has asked the wrong woman. He ought to have asked you or me. I don't think we should have failed him, Pam. We should not stop at the tower; we should have gone down--down into the mud and the mire. There is no depth so deep where our love would not have followed him, and we should have lifted him up. I am quite sure we should have lifted him up; we should have dragged him out of the very jaws of death and hell itself, if we had perished in doing it. Oh, I am sure that our love would have saved him! We should not have stopped at the tower.' Maria stopped, not at the tower, but for want of breath. The red sunset light had quite faded out of the sky, and the gray night was closing in, and already the shadows were filling the silent room. Pamela drew back from the window into the shadow. 'No,' she said hoarsely, 'we should not have stopped at the tower.' The next day was the last, the very last, day of the examination for the Mathematical Tripos. It was the last, the very last, opportunity of making up for all the failures and mistakes of the past week. The front place of the year was to be won or lost on that last day. Its result would be final, quite final. No wonder Maria Stubbs' conscience smote her when she remembered how she had neglected Pamela at Hall the previous day. She tried to make up for it at breakfast. She plied her with eggs and ham and porridge, but Pamela had no appetite for these dainties; she implored her with tears in her eyes to consume at least a spoonful of porridge, but Pamela was not to be moved. She went fasting to the exam., and Maria went with her so far as the door. She went quite early--girls always do go earlier than the men; they are always in their places, calm and collected, five minutes before the time, when the men generally arrive breathless at the door just as the hour is striking. As Pamela walked up King's Parade in the sweet June sunshine, Wyatt Edgell passed her on the way from St. Benedict's to the Senate House. He was swinging along at a great pace, with the bearing of a man who was assured of an easy victory. His eyes were shining and his lips were smiling as they had smiled at Lucy. He had no eyes for any other woman; he passed the Newnham girls without seeing them. His mind was full of the ideal woman who had promised to meet him in the lane when the exam. was over. Maria Stubbs remembered the tower, and flushed scarlet; but Pamela shivered. She was looking dreadfully pale when Maria left her at the door. She would have liked to have gone in with her and sat by her side and held her pens, or picked up the blotting-paper, or collected her papers; but the examiners were inexorable, and Maria came sadly away. Pamela pulled off her gloves and glanced over her paper; it was about as nice a paper as the last day's paper of the Mathematical Tripos usually is. There were several questions that Pamela had got at her fingers' ends; they would have puzzled the men, doubtless, but to a Newnham girl, who had worked for her Tripos as conscientiously as Pamela had worked, they were a mere bagatelle. She pulled off her gloves and glanced over her paper, and began work in the quiet, methodical way in which the students of women's colleges take their examinations. There was no heat, no excitement, no hurry whatever, nothing to disturb or bewilder. She ought to have done uncommonly well with those nicely fitting questions; but instead of working she sat staring at her paper. The examiner, walking up and down the room, between the tables, noticed her abstraction. Once he paused and asked her if she was not feeling well; and then suddenly it dawned upon her that the time was going on, and that she had not yet begun. She had never felt it so hard to begin before; she had never felt that strange reluctance, like a clog upon her memory, that made the wheels of that fine bit of machinery drag heavily. The reluctance--it was nothing more--grew and grew upon her. The questions were quite easy; she could have answered them with the smallest effort, but her mind refused to grapple with them. It was like bringing a horse to the water; the water was cool and delightful, and it had only to stoop and drink; but it would not stoop. Pamela could do nothing as she sat there with the time slipping by but think of the man she had met in King's Parade, and wonder how he was getting on at the Senate House over the way with the paper that lay before her. She followed his progress question by question, and when she had come to the end of the paper she gave a sigh of relief--a big sigh, for the examiner who was at the other end of the room heard it, and the girls sitting opposite heard it and looked up. They saw a very common sight in an examination-room--a girl with a gray dead face slipping off a chair to the floor. Pamela had fainted. They brought her to, somehow, though everybody was begrudging the time she spent upon her; and then somebody took her back in a fly to Newnham. It was an awful blow to Newnham. Everybody reproached Maria Stubbs. She hadn't half looked after her. Nothing that anybody said hurt poor Maria like the prickings of her own conscience. She was guilty in the matter of that last Hall. She had forgotten all about her charge until the gooseberry-pie! She nursed Pamela tenderly all through that wretched day. She did what she could to atone for her past neglect. She brought her little messes of Liebig and arrowroot every hour; she watched beside her with the patient fidelity of a dog, while Pamela would have given worlds to be left alone in her darkened room. She locked the door against her officious nurse once, when she had gone out to fetch the everlasting beef-tea, and Maria made such a ridiculous noise outside, that threatened to bring all the Dons upon her, that she was obliged to get up and open it again. There was nothing to be done but to turn her face to the wall, and let the faithful creature potter about her to her heart's content. CHAPTER XXII. READING THE LISTS. It was the oddest state of things that can be imagined at Newnham all through that next week. The order of everything was reversed. It had been all work--real, desperate work--now it was all play. It was hard work enough to get through the days. The exams. were all over. There was nothing for the girls to do but to wait with what patience Heaven had given them for the lists to be out. Some of them were already quite indifferent to the lists, and when the strain was over had gone to bed, like Pamela, and turned their faces to the wall. Others had locked their doors and gone through their papers over and over again, and had made up their minds exactly where they should be placed when the lists came out. Some, more wise than the rest, had put their papers in the fire, and relieved their overburdened minds with large doses of fiction. There was not a book opened in Newnham through all that week but yellow-backs. Annabel Crewe declared that she had read eleven before the week was half out, and a Natural Science girl had discovered that an infallible method for distracting one's thoughts from 'ologies' was to keep three sensational novels going at once. One by one the Tripos lists came out, and the girls who had gone to bed for good thought better of it, and got up again, and came down to be congratulated, and admired, and made much of. The foolish virgins who had burnt their papers, and behaved with corresponding frivolity through all their University career, received the due reward of their folly, and were snubbed and condoled with in the most approved fashion. If one is down one must expect to be sat upon, or what would be the advantage of success? The women's colleges had nothing to complain of. They had more than one first-class in every Tripos. They had beaten the men on their own ground; they had not only kept their place, but they were coming more and more to the front every year. They will win their degrees soon. Already the opinion of the Senate is equally divided; very soon the balance will be in their favour, and then all things will be possible. The list of the Mathematical Tripos is read out last of all. It is not read until May Week has well begun, when the boat-races are half over, and the college concerts are in full swing, and picnics on the river and luncheons in college rooms are the order of the day. The list is read out inside the Senate House, as befits the dignity of the occasion; but this particular year it was rumoured that the lists would be read out from the steps. Some distinguished visitors were expected at noon, and the Senate, in their zeal for the encouragement of learning and other virtues, were about to confer upon them Degrees of Honour, and the Senate House was full of carpenters preparing for the auspicious occasion. Half an hour before the appointed time for reading the list the girls of Girton and Newnham and the men from every college in Cambridge assembled on the clean-shaven lawn before the south door of the Senate House. It was a glorious June morning, and the crowd could afford to wait. Having waited so long, they could wait a few minutes longer. To some those few minutes were a boon; the delay enabled them to pull themselves together, and bear with what courage and resignation they could call to their aid the fateful verdict they would presently hear read out. The girls were more impatient than the men. They had reached the spot a quarter of an hour earlier, and had secured all the front places. They crowded the steps of the Senate House to the very doors, and they filled the broad path beneath the windows. A cool, compact, delightful crowd--a bevy, one might almost say--a bit of bright refreshing colour amid the rusty gowns and limp, disreputable caps of the undergraduates. But the lists were not read out from the steps, and the girls crowded round the Senate House doors in vain. When it wanted a few minutes to the hour a window was opened just above the heads of the girls on the path, and a man looked out. He wore an M.A. hood, and there was a Proctor hiding away behind him in a white tie. The men sent up a shout and a howl--a shout for the examiner and a howl for the Proctor, who happened to be unpopular. The faces of the girls who had crowded up the steps and round the doors fell. They had expected to be in the very best place, and they were quite out of it. They could look on the eager faces of the men below them and the girls in the crowd, if this was any compensation. They could see how vainly the men strove to hide their anxiety beneath a veil of indifference or careless hilarity, and how the girls made no pretence at all of concealing their feelings, but looked as if they would like to tear that bland little examiner at the window limb from limb. Among the girls who thirsted for his blood was Maria Stubbs. She had come quite early--one of the first--and she had settled herself on the top step just outside the Senate House door, and she awaited with devouring anxiety the reading of the list. It was not her list; it was Pamela Gwatkin's list. She had left her at Newnham in bed, with the curtains drawn to keep out the daylight, and she had taken away her watch, that the dreaded hour should not disturb her, and she had gone in at the last moment, and found her broad awake, with her weary eyes watching the door. She need not have troubled herself to take away the watch. Pamela knew the time to a second. She had been counting the hours all the night, and now she was counting the minutes. 'You are going to the Senate House?' she said, looking up. 'You needn't hurry back. I know exactly where I am.' 'We all know where you ought to be,' Maria said, hanging her head. 'The men would have been nowhere if it hadn't been for my wicked neglect!' She was so angry with Lucy for being the innocent cause of her preoccupation that she wouldn't let her walk with her to the Senate House. She would hardly let her stand on the steps beside her, but Lucy wasn't to be pushed aside. She had as much interest in the list that was about to be read as Miss Stubbs. There were a great many mothers and fathers and sisters and cousins there of the men whose names would presently be read out, and there might have been some sweethearts present; but there was not a single girl in all that crowd of sweet young English womanhood that did not envy Lucy. 'Time, sir, time!' the men shouted, and the examiner smiled benignly down on the crowd beneath. 'Time! time!' How eager the men were! They couldn't all be Senior Wranglers! Perhaps there were not many expectant Senior Wranglers there. It is not often that a man whose name is on every lip has the courage to face the ordeal. There is always a chance of disappointment. Wyatt Edgell was not among the crowd. Lucy must have seen him from her elevated place on the steps as she looked down at the upturned faces of the men, had he been there. Eric Gwatkin was close beneath the window among a crowd of St. Benedict's men, but Edgell was not among them. 'Time! time!' the men shouted, but the examiner only smiled and looked at his watch. The minute-hand of the clock of great St. Mary's had travelled round to within a few seconds of the hour. A Proctor who was standing near the examiner, with the list in his hand, looked down at the crowd of undergraduates beneath with an eye to business, and took down the names of the men who were making a row. It was the unpopular Proctor, and at the sight of his unwelcome face at the window the crowd beneath set up a groan, and in the midst of the groan the clock of the University church struck nine. 'Time!' It was time indeed. The examiner opened the list, and held up his hand for silence. The men were still groaning as he read out the first name on the list: 'Senior Wrangler--Wyatt Edgell, St. Benedict's.' The St. Benedict's men set up a great shout, and Eric Gwatkin waved his cap in a ridiculous manner. Lucy would have liked to wave her hat, too, she was so absurdly elated. She hadn't thought what a great thing it was to be Senior Wrangler until she saw how the crowd applauded. She quite flushed with triumph; it was her victory--hers! If it had not been for her, her lover would not have thought the prize worth winning. He had won it for her sake! She was so proud and happy she did not hear another name in the list. What did the disappointment of others matter to her? Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were dancing with triumph. Oh, it was a proud thing to have a lover a Senior Wrangler! Pamela Gwatkin was only equal to fifth--fifth Wrangler--and when Maria Stubbs went down the steps of the Senate House Lucy saw she had tears in her eyes. Of course, she was crying for Pamela's defeat. As if Pamela could have had any chance against her lover! Lucy ran nearly all the way back to St. Benedict's. She wanted to be the first to congratulate her lover. Fast as she ran, Eric Gwatkin was there before her. There was a strange hush in the outer court as she entered the college gate. There was no shouting like she had heard in the street and in the Senate House yard. There was a strange, ominous silence. The men were standing about the court in knots, and the porter was talking to a little group of men at the gate. Lucy's heart sank within her. Had anything happened to the Master or Mrs. Rae? She thought the men looked at her with a strange kind of pity as she passed through the court, and they took off their caps as she passed. It was quite an ovation. Her lover was Senior Wrangler. She was quite in a flutter of pride and expectation; still, her heart sank within her. Eric Gwatkin met her in the cloister; he was hurrying across to the lodge. She thought he was coming to tell her. What else should he come to the lodge for? The Master was past telling. 'Oh!' she cried, running to meet him, 'how does he bear it? You have told him----' She paused, and her voice faltered with the question on her lips. Eric's face was white and anxious, and he was not smiling. He was not the least like the man who was waving his cap under the window of the Senate House. 'You have not heard----' he said. 'Heard what?' she cried impatiently. 'Is the Master----' 'No--no,' he interrupted; 'it is not that--it is not the Master.' 'It is Mrs. Rae?' she said, with a chill feeling at her heart. She was sure something had happened. 'No, it is not Mrs. Rae. Oh, Miss Lucy! how can I tell you?' 'It is _he_!' she said in a stricken voice, and with that dreadful feeling at her heart. 'Oh! what has he done?' She was standing wringing her hands in the middle of the cloisters, and the men were passing through, and everyone could see her. 'Hush!' Eric said almost harshly; 'he has not done anything--at least, he has only done what others do at this time. There was a bump supper last night, and--and Wyatt was there; and when Mr. Colville went in this morning to tell him of his great success, he was on the floor in one of his old attacks. It is all over the college, and everybody is dreadfully shocked--that is all!' 'All!' Lucy said bitterly. 'You speak as if the shame and exposure were nothing. Oh, I shall never be able to face it!' She only thought of herself. Eric Gwatkin was very sorry for her. He would have spared her if he could. It was better for her to hear it from his lips than from others. 'He has done great things,' he said. 'It was enough to turn anybody's head. He will go down in a day or two, and the temptation will not occur again. You do not know--how should you?--how great the temptation is--what a supreme moment this is in a man's life!' 'No,' Lucy said, with a shiver, 'I do not know.' They had reached the door of the lodge while they were talking together, and Eric had rung the bell. 'Why do you ring?' she said sharply. He hung his head. 'I came over to see if Nurse Brannan can be spared for a few minutes,' he said guiltily. 'Is he so bad as that?' Lucy asked; but she did not offer to go to him. 'Ye--es; he is very bad. Mr. Colville is with him, and he thought that the nurse ought to be with him until the doctor comes.' 'You have sent for a doctor?' 'Yes; the Tutor has sent for a doctor, and--and he has noticed that scar.' 'And you have told him?' 'Yes; I have told him. How could I help it?' Lucy went into the lodge covered with shame and humiliation. She was so proud and happy when she entered the college gate. She had made up her mind to tell Cousin Mary all about her engagement. She was going to her to be congratulated--to be envied and congratulated by everybody in Cambridge. Now she wouldn't have owned it for the world. How lucky she hadn't told Mary! CHAPTER XXIII. 'GOING DOWN.' It was rather hard to spare Nurse Brannan on this particular morning; harder than usual. The Master had passed a bad night; he had not slept at all, and he was decidedly weaker. He had been wandering all through the night, and he was still wandering feebly when Lucy came into his room in the morning. He had been going over the old scenes of his youth; he had been travelling back to the sweet green fields and the hills and valleys of his earliest recollections. When Lucy came into the room he was propped up in bed, babbling about the old scenes and the old places. The blind was drawn up, and the June sunshine poured into the room. Nurse Brannan never denied her patients sunshine. 'Let them have it while they may,' she used to say; 'they will have no need of it by-and-by.' The sun was shining into the room now, and on to the bed, and on to the face of the old Master. Lucy had not seen him for several days; she had been busy with her examinations, and she was struck with the change in him--an indefinable change that sharpened his rugged features as if a chisel had been passed over them. They were rugged still, but with an added nobleness, and there was a light upon them that Lucy had not seen there before. His dim blue eyes were looking up at the window, and he did not see her come in the room. They were looking with that shining light in them above the gray battlements of the old court to the bright bit of blue sky beyond. 'I think he can be safely left,' Lucy said; 'he is very quiet. I will stay with him till you come back. You must not be long; I have an examination at ten o'clock. You must not stay more than half an hour.' Nurse Brannan promised to come back within the half-hour, and Lucy took her place beside the bed. She had a dim idea that she ought to have gone herself to Wyatt Edgell in his humiliation, not have sent a hired nurse, but she put the thought away from her. It was not a real engagement, she told herself. She had only consented to it to give him a motive for work. He could not hold her to it now; no one could expect her to be bound by a promise given under such conditions. How lucky it was that no one at St. Benedict's knew of her engagement! The Master would not let her thoughts wander long. His hands were feebly groping about the coverlet of the bed, and Lucy saw that he was making an effort to get up. 'No, dear Master,' she said; 'no, I wouldn't get up yet. I would wait till nurse comes back; she will be here soon.' 'I was going to meet her, my dear,' he said; 'I have been travelling all night. I came by the coach to the cross-roads; it is a long journey from Cambridge, and I am very tired. I thought it would never end, and the morning was slow in breaking. It broke at last; I never saw a finer sunrise, a higher dawn. The coach put me down at the cross-roads; I had nothing to carry--I had left everything behind--and I have been walking over the hills since daybreak. It's wonderful how little they have changed: I knew every field and hedge on the way; and the old trees and the mile-stones in the road, I knew them every one; and the broken cross in the churchyard, and the old gray tower. The tower looks taller now than it used to, and the vane was shining in the sunlight as I came along; I could see it a long way off, gleaming like gold, and pointing the way.' The old Master paused for want of breath; he had worn himself quite out. He lay back on the pillow, with the sunshine streaming on his worn face. Lucy could not help noticing how shining it was--shining like the old vane. 'Strange,' he went on presently, talking to himself in a lower tone--'strange! the cross was there, and the church, and the tower, and the old elms in the yard, and the rooks cawing in the branches--I knew the cawing of those old rooks again--but I could not find the Vicarage gate.' Lucy was beginning to get impatient. Nurse Brannan ought to be back by this time. Her examination would begin in a quarter of an hour. She didn't care anything about that Vicarage gate; there was nobody waiting for her at the gate. The Senior Tutor came in while she was fuming and fretting about the time. 'I thought you would want to get away,' he said to Lucy, 'so I came over to sit with the Master. We can't spare Nurse Brannan just yet.' Cousin Mary came in, too, just after him; she generally came into the room a minute or two after the Senior Tutor. She had not been able to come in before, she was in such close attendance on the Master's wife. Mrs. Rae had had a restless night, but had just fallen asleep, so Mary had stolen away. 'This is a dreadful thing about Mr. Edgell,' she said. 'The college was so proud of him; it will be a terrible blow.' 'Yes,' said the Tutor; 'it will be a great blow. It is unfortunate it should have happened just now; it will get so talked about.' He was thinking of the credit of the college, not of Wyatt Edgell. 'What will he do?' 'Oh, he will go down with his friends. I have telegraphed for them; they will be here by noon; and when he can be moved they will take him away. It appears this is not the first time. He attempted suicide the other day; I saw the mark on his throat----' Lucy did not wait to hear any more. She ran away as fast as she could, and left Cousin Mary and the Tutor talking by the Master's bedside. They took no notice of her. They did not even look at her. Oh, if they had only known! Wyatt Edgell's people came at noon. Lucy saw them crossing the old court when she came back from her examination--an elderly man with a striking resemblance to her lover, and a tall stately woman with a pale beautiful patrician face. They ought to have been proud and happy people. This should have been a red-letter day in their lives--a day of thankfulness and congratulations and unutterable joy; a day when the tears come with the smiles, and the glad words falter on the lip, and there is a strange catch in the voice, and a dimness before the eyes, when the most eloquent speech begins and ends with a 'God bless you, my boy!' uttered in a very shaky voice. There were no congratulations to-day and no smiles. If there were tears no one saw them--only a hard break in the voice when Wyatt Edgell's mother thanked the Tutor for his interest in her son. She didn't even look at Lucy as she passed. Something in the rustle of her rich trailing skirts as they swept over the stones of the court brought to the mind of the Master's niece those old stories the Master was so fond of telling--of the stall in the butter-market, and the meeting of her grandfather with her high-spirited ancestress in the dancing-booth at the fair. It was quite as well that nobody knew about that engagement. Lucy had another examination in the afternoon--her last. She hastily swallowed some cold luncheon that was laid for her at the end of the long dining-table at the lodge. There was no one present but herself. Mrs. Rae was not so well, and Cousin Mary had a tray carried up into her room, and Nurse Brannan could not leave the Master. Lucy had no appetite for the solitary meal. Something was choking in her throat all the time she sat at the table, and she could not swallow anything. She looked in at the Master's room before she went off to her exam. He was still searching for the Vicarage gate. Mrs. Rae was asleep or dozing; she did not appear to notice her when Lucy opened the door of her room. Cousin Mary was still with her--she seldom left her now--and she was looking tired and worn out for want of rest. It did not occur to Lucy to offer to take her place; besides, she had to go to her exam. 'I can "go down" to-night, dear, if you like,' she said to Mary, before she went away, 'if I can be of any use here. A lot of the girls have "gone down" to-day. Term is quite over. I can either come home to-day or Monday, which you think best.' 'Nurse Brannan has not been to bed for a week,' Cousin Mary said wearily, 'and--and I'm afraid I am getting worn out; but you must do as you like.' Lucy went off to her exam.; but for all the good she did she might just as well have stayed away. She was very sorry for those old people at the lodge, but what else could be expected at their age? She was more distressed about her lover. Nurse Brannan had stayed with him until the paroxysm had abated, and he had sunk into a deep sleep. He would probably awake from it, the doctor who had been called in said, not very much the worse for the carouse, and unconscious--quite unconscious--of what had happened. What would he do when he awoke? Lucy was pondering this question in her mind all the time she was in for her exam., when she ought to have been occupied with the questions on the paper before her. She hadn't answered it when she got back to Newnham. She had only gone back to pick up some things she needed and to get her _exeat_, or go through the ceremony that takes the place of an _exeat_ at a college for women. She had to say good-bye to two or three of the girls who were going down; some were going down altogether, and their paths were never likely to cross again. Among these last was Pamela Gwatkin. She was going down, broken in health and spirit, and she had no present intention of coming up to Newnham again. She was up and dressed when Lucy went into her room to say good-bye. She was sitting at her old place at the table, tearing up some papers. She had torn up a lot already, and they were lying in a heap by her side, and Maria Stubbs was on the floor packing her books. Pamela looked up when Lucy came into the room. 'Well?' she said, with a large look of scorn in her eyes that made Lucy's cowardly little heart sink into her shoes. 'Well?' It wasn't very much to say, but a great deal can be got into a word of such varied meaning. Lucy saw in a moment that Pamela knew all. 'I don't know what you mean,' Lucy said with some spirit. 'No,' said Pamela scornfully; 'I suppose not. You have not seen him then?' 'Seen him?' Lucy exclaimed, flushing scarlet, and her eyes smarting with tears of anger and humiliation. 'I never intend to see him again! His own people are here.' 'What has that got to do with it?' said Maria, sitting down on the floor in the middle of a heap of books. 'Everything. He doesn't want me if he has got his people.' Lucy was thinking of Wyatt Edgell's mother. She had been haunted by her pale patrician face all through the exam. 'I don't see that,' Maria said hotly. 'He will want you more. You ought to stand between him and them, and see they are not too hard upon him. I think you ought to have gone to his mother at once, and told her everything.' 'I?' Lucy gasped--'I?' 'Yes, you. Who else should take his part at a time like this? Oh, you are a poor coward! You are not half good enough for him!' The tears were in her eyes as she spoke; she had to put up her hand and dash them off her hideous pale lashes. She looked as if she would have liked to have taken Lucy in her strong arms and shaken her. 'I'm afraid I am a coward,' Lucy said humbly; and then she began to cry. She wasn't content with crying, she began to sob hysterically. She had gone through a great deal that day, and her nerves were shaken. Maria got up from the floor and came over to her. She put her on the couch, and took off her hat, and stroked her hair back, and soothed her, but Pamela took no notice of her; she only sat tearing up her papers. 'You would do the same if you were in my place,' Lucy sobbed; 'you would be afraid to venture. What girl in her senses wouldn't?' Miss Stubbs smiled. 'I know some girls who wouldn't,' she said. She was very angry with Lucy--angry and impatient; but that did not account for the hard break in her voice. 'Hush!' Pamela exclaimed harshly; 'it is not her fault she has so small a soul.' 'I am sure you would not do otherwise,' Lucy sobbed, not heeding the interruption. 'You would be afraid to--to marry him. Oh! who _could_ marry him?' Maria's eyes were shining, and the hand that was stroking Lucy's hair trembled; but Pamela's face was hard and stony as she sat tearing up her papers, and her thin lips were pressed tight together. 'You would never be safe,' Lucy went on, defending herself. 'You would never know what he would do. He might break out at any time--he might kill himself, he might kill you!' The picture was too appalling, and Lucy subsided into a fresh passion of tears. 'Oh, I could never run the risk!' she said with a shiver; 'I should never be safe!' 'Not if you loved him?' Pamela asked the question in a low voice--low and vibrating with passion. She had not intended to give a voice to her thoughts. She would have given the world to have recalled the words after she had spoken. 'No,' Lucy exclaimed passionately; 'not even if I loved him!' 'Oh, you poor thing!' said Maria Stubbs, with her eyes flashing, and her freckled face all aglow with a strange fire. 'Let her alone,' Pamela said wearily--'let her alone. How should she do otherwise? It is not her fault that she has not a large soul. Let the poor little thing alone. She can only act according to her lights. Let her alone.' They let her alone--at least, they said good-bye to her in a strained, unemotional way. They didn't shed a single tear in that parting. Maria Stubbs kissed her on both cheeks, and told her to write to her and say how the Master of St. Benedict's was. She didn't say a word about her lover. Pamela kissed her on one cheek--at least, she made a peck at her, and said some cold, formal words of farewell, and went wearily back to tearing up her papers. When the good-byes were said, the poor thing with a small soul crept humbly down the stairs. Everybody cannot be made on such large lines as Pamela Gwatkin. CHAPTER XXIV. THE VICARAGE GATE. The old Master of St. Benedict's had not found the Vicarage gate when Lucy got back to the lodge. He had been searching for it all through the long June day, and he had not found it yet. He was lying back propped up with pillows when Lucy went into his room, and the sunset light was falling on his face. All the hard lines had been smoothed out of it; the furrows that years of work and thought had stamped upon it were all smoothed out, and it was like the face of a little child. His eyes were open, and Lucy thought he was watching the sunset. It had already slipped off the grass in the court below, and it had climbed the chapel wall and reached the gray battlements at the top, where the bits of blue sky could be seen between. She went to the window and drew up the blind that he could follow it still higher, and he watched it with a strange wistfulness as it slid off the chapel roof, and lingered for a few moments on the spire. Everything had slipped out of his life like the sunset light, and now that, too, was fast slipping away. He watched it until it had faded quite away, and then he closed his eyes with a sigh. Lucy watched beside him through the early part of the night; she was to call Nurse Brannan at daylight. He lay very quiet, wanting no watching, until past midnight, and Lucy thought he was sleeping. She was conscious of no overwhelming sorrow. Perhaps she could not feel things deeply like some people. He had lived his life--his useful, honourable life--and now he would pass away full of days and honour. She wondered vaguely as she sat beside the bed in the silent room--so silent that she could hear the ticking of the Master's watch on the dressing-table--what would become of her. Things might have been different--so different; but she did not dare to think of that now. It was unreasonable of Pamela Gwatkin and Maria to blame her. No one in their senses would blame her. Lucy could not help repeating to herself, as she sat there thinking over the events of the miserable day, Pamela's question, 'Not if you had loved him?' 'No,' she told herself impatiently, 'she would not be justified in making such a sacrifice, however much she loved him. Nothing could justify it. Girls were not expected to make such sacrifices for their lovers. No girl in her senses would think of it.' Lucy's meditation was disturbed by the Master's rambling monologue. He had been dozing through all the early part of the night, and about midnight he awoke and began talking to himself in low, disconnected sentences, his mind wandering off in strange fancies and old recollections, which escaped from his lips in broken sentences. He had forgotten the Vicarage gate now, where Rachel used to wait for him in those far-off days when he came back term after term from college. He had gone back in memory to an earlier time. He was a boy again in his father's fields; the old faces of his infancy and childhood were about him. He was a boy again in the old humble home, among the old humble folk. He babbled in his rambling, disconnected way about things and people that Lucy had never heard of, only now and then she caught a familiar name that his memory had gone far back to seek. She didn't shrink now from the mention of her humble progenitors: the dear old rustic with a hayband round his legs, the dairywoman who kept the stall in the butter-market. At this solemn time these distinctions seemed but a small matter. The years had rolled back, and the rustic in his furrow and the Master of St. Benedict's were again boys together in their father's field. There were no distinctions now to separate them; there would be no distinctions ever again. They had all slipped away with the labour and the learning of the intervening years; with the well-earned honours--the scarlet gown and the doctor's hood; they were all among the things that had been. There was nothing left but love and tender trust--the heart of a little child. The hours dragged wearily on; it seemed to Lucy as if the sweet June night would never end. There was not a light in a single window in the college court, and there were no stars in the sky, only the clouds hurrying on their noiseless way. The silence of the darkened room seemed to the frightened watcher to grow more oppressive as the night wore on. She could hear the rapid tick, tick of the Master's watch on the dressing-table; it could not beat the moments out fast enough. Oh, it was dreadful to hear it hurrying on, and to know that it was ticking off at every beat the few remaining moments of a human life! Lucy listened to it until she could bear it no longer. Should she call Cousin Mary, who was with the Master's wife in the room across the passage? She had got as far as the door to call her, and then she recollected that Mrs. Rae was always listening for any sound from the Master's room, and that she would be disturbed. The thought of the watchfulness of the Master's wife, and the love--the faithful love that had stood the shocks of more than sixty years, and had only grown truer, and deeper, and tenderer with the years--smote upon Lucy like a blow. Oh, she had never known what love was, if this was a woman's love! She asked herself, as she sat beside the Master's bed watching the feeble, groping hand straying over the coverlet, as if it were searching for something, what the Master's wife would have done if she had been in her place. Would her love have stood the test? It had been all fair sailing with her--a long, long sequence of success, distinction, and honour. There had never been a cloud upon the horizon of her love; there had been no harder test than the test of years of patient waiting, and the happy fulfilment of all her dearest hopes. There had not been a single disappointment. Her love had never been tried like Lucy's. Oh, it was too cruel that this blow should have fallen upon her! Lucy was quite sure that if her lines had fallen in such fair, still places as Mrs. Rae's, she would have made quite as devoted a wife. She would have been the tenderest and most loving wife to a successful man--to a man without any moral or mental taint, to a man of stainless reputation; but to a poor, miserable wretch, who had no control over himself, who wanted to be watched, and guarded, and restrained, who might at any moment do some dreadful thing----Oh, no, no, no! Lucy couldn't finish the picture, it was too terrible. She could only throw herself sobbing on the floor beside the Master's bed and grovel on the ground with her face in her hands in a paroxysm of humiliation and despair too deep for words. Oh, why had she such a small soul? 'I am made on such small lines,' she moaned in her self-abasement. 'I am such a mean, pitiful creature. I want to be happy, and safe, and prosperous, and everything to go smooth. I cannot rise to great occasions like other women. I cannot make sacrifices that other women would love to make. I am not Pamela--I am not even Maria Stubbs!' Nurse Brannan came in while Lucy was on the floor beside the bed. She pretended that she was kneeling--Lucy was always pretending things. There was quite sufficient reason to account for her tears and for her kneeling beside the Master's bed. All who loved him in life should have been there, where Lucy was, kneeling and weeping. There was no one else left to kneel and weep but Cousin Mary, and Nurse Brannan fetched her presently, when she saw how near the end was. They watched beside him until the dawn, and then the nurse drew the curtain up and let in the faint gray light of the new day. Lucy sat sobbing miserably beside the bed, and Cousin Mary held the feeble hand in hers--it was too feeble to grope any more; and the rapid beat of the Master's watch on the table beat out like a swift shuttle the solemn closing moments of the Master's life. The sky above the chapel roof turned from gray to rose, and rose to gold. The vane on the spire caught the first gleam of the rising sun, and at the same moment the Master opened his eyes. He looked round on the group by the bedside with a glad, dazed expectation in them that had caught the brightness of another morning. He was looking round for someone; perhaps if she who he was looking for had been there he would not have seen her. His lips were moving, and Lucy bent down to hear what he was saying. 'I shall meet her at the gate,' he said. 'She is sure to be waiting at the gate.' The sweet June morning broke, and the sun rose over the gray battlements of the old court and the roof of the college chapel; but to the old Master there was a newer day and another morning. When Lucy came in to see the Master's wife later in the day she found her still dozing. She had not taken notice of anything or anyone all through the night. She had not missed Mary from her side; but when she heard Lucy's voice in the room--she was only speaking in a whisper--she opened her eyes, and Lucy thought she knew her. 'It is I, dear,' she said in a shaky voice. She could not keep her voice steady or the tears out of her eyes. 'It is Dick's little daughter.' The patient face on the pillow smiled, and she moved her hand towards her--a little thin, shadowy hand, that was feebly groping about the coverlet, oh, so like the Master! Lucy took it in hers, and smoothed it between her own soft, warm palms. Her lips were moving, and the girl bent over her to catch the words. It was the old question; she had never anything else to ask. 'How is the Master?' Lucy ought to have been prepared for it; but she wasn't. She was so broken down and unstrung and worn out with that night of watching that she was not prepared for anything. 'Oh, you poor dear!' she said. 'Don't you know that the Master is well? He is quite--quite well!' 'Quite well?' 'Yes, quite well.' Then Lucy began to cry. She could not keep her tears back any longer, and Cousin Mary turned her out of the sick-room. Nurse Brannan found her sobbing in the window-seat, and ordered her to bed, where she soon cried herself to sleep. With the unimpaired appetite of youth for sleep, Lucy slept through all the long June day. She slept until the sunset light again touched the roof of the college chapel. It would be slipping off it presently, like it had slipped off the day before, when the Master was here to watch it. Perhaps he was watching it now. Lucy would not have awakened even then, if Nurse Brannan had not aroused her. 'Come,' she said, shaking her; 'get up at once. Mrs. Rae is asking for you. Come at once, or you will be too late!' Lucy did not stay to dress. She hurried across the passage with her hair falling over her shoulders and her dressing-gown, which she did not stay to put on properly, trailing on the ground behind her. Her nerves were so over-strung that it seemed to her that its rustle on the floor sent a whisper after her the whole length of the passage. It was like the Master's voice. The face on the pillow had changed since she had seen it last. It was sharper and grayer, and the breath came shorter and at longer intervals. The shadows were already closing around her when Lucy came into the room. She no longer opened her eyes when the girl spoke to her--she would never open them again here--but her lips were moving. Lucy bent over her with her ear to the failing lips, but she could not catch the faint, broken words. 'I cannot hear you, dear,' she said, while her tears fell on the meekly folded hands that were groping no longer. 'I cannot catch what you say. Is it about the Master?' She had touched the right chord--the only chord that stretched across the gulf--and the feeble lips moved. They only framed a single word: '_Where?_' 'Where is the Master?' Lucy said eagerly. 'Oh, he is waiting for you at the gate. His last--last message was: "I shall see her at the gate!"' The face on the pillow changed. It changed as Lucy bent over it. The great, solemn change! Over all the weakness and the weariness came, not a shadow, but a light--the wondrous light of the full fruition of her changeless love. CHAPTER XXV. THE STALL IN THE BUTTER-MARKET. The Senior Tutor took all the trouble of the funeral--or the funerals, rather--off the Master's nieces. He came over directly he heard that the Master was dead, and arranged everything. He knew his last wishes, expressed long ago when he was in health and the end seemed a long way off. His wishes had been so clearly expressed that there could be no doubt about them. He had provided for every contingency. He was to lie beside his wife. If she preceded him, he was to be laid by her side wherever she was laid. If he should happen to die before her, he was to be carried back to the old place, to the old churchyard where all his humble forefathers lay, to go back to where he had started, and find his last resting-place where his life had begun. In no case was he to be buried in the college chapel. They might put up a brass for him on the old walls, among the carven tombs and tablets of the old Masters and Fellows, but the dust of his bones should not mix with theirs. The Senior Tutor carried out his wishes faithfully. He arranged everything. There was nothing for the Master's nieces to do but to see to their own humble mourning. He came over directly he heard of the Master's death, and he was coming backwards and forwards to the lodge all the day. He wanted to get a sight of Lucy; he only wanted to see her for a few minutes; he would have preferred to see her alone. He had arranged exactly what he should say, and the time had come for saying it. Whatever it was he had to say he had to put it off, for Lucy did not make her appearance all through that sad day. She was so nervous and overwrought when all was over that Nurse Brannan had to put her to bed; and when she came in in the night, finding that the girl was awake and weeping, she came into her bed and lay down beside her. Lucy could not go to sleep until she had poured out all her trouble into her sympathetic ear. She wouldn't have told Cousin Mary for the world. Perhaps Nurse Brannan knew all about it without being told. She knew more about Lucy's lover than Lucy herself knew. 'Do you think I could do otherwise?' Lucy asked, weeping, when she had told her all her sad little story. 'Not unless you loved him very much,' Nurse Brannan said promptly. She could understand a girl doing a great deal for a man she loved. 'No--o--o,' Lucy said hesitatingly. 'I don't think I ought to marry him even then. One never knows what he may do. I should never feel safe.' If the room had not been quite dark, Lucy would have seen that Nurse Brannan was smiling with a contemptuous sort of pity; but, whatever she felt, she only soothed and petted the weeping girl as if she had been a little child. 'You are quite right, dear,' she said; 'one never knows what such a man will do when there is no influence strong enough to restrain him. I don't think you would be strong enough to hold him back. He ought to marry a woman with a large nature, who loved him devotedly--and I think he would tax her devotion to the uttermost.' Lucy turned to her pillow with a sigh. 'Ah!' she murmured, 'it is the old story. I am a poor thing with a small soul!' Still, she was helped and comforted. Eric Gwatkin came over to the lodge the next morning and asked for Lucy. He was charged with a message of condolence from her lover. She saw him in the long gallery among the pictures of the old Masters. It was such a grave and stately place, there was no room for sentiment here. She knew the trial had come, but Nurse Brannan had helped her to meet it. She looked such a white, weeping little Lucy as she came down the long gallery to meet him. She seemed to have grown so small, to have shrunk into herself with this sorrow that had fallen upon her, that Eric Gwatkin hesitated to deliver the message that had been committed to him. She had been so sorely tried within the last two days, how could he add to her pain? He would much rather have taken her in his arms and comforted her, and offered her their safe, sure shelter from all the storms of life. He would have given the world to have the right to take her in his arms, but he had to deliver his message. Perhaps Lucy would have preferred it if he had. She wanted to be loved and comforted, and, above all things, to be safe. But Eric Gwatkin had not come courting on his own account. He was only the bearer of a message of sympathy from her lover. It sounded cold and formal as it fell from Eric's faltering lips. If he had come himself and taken her in his arms, if she had felt the warmth of their strong pressure and his breath upon her cheek, it might have been different--it might have been quite different. After all, it is the occasion that makes the heroine. Eric delivered his message of sympathy, and Lucy stood white and downcast, with wet eyelashes and trembling lips, waiting for that other message that she knew was coming. He looked at her standing there--he was only a man--and he hadn't the heart to deliver it. He was so sorry for her. He was conscious of another feeling besides which he would not have owned for the world, but he couldn't keep it out of his eyes. His eyes were full of tenderness, but his lips were faltering in a most absurd way while Lucy waited. 'You have another message for me,' she said presently, seeing he faltered and hesitated to speak. 'Yes,' he said, 'I have another message.' But he didn't attempt to deliver it. If he had had no tenderness for the girl he would still have hesitated. How could he, looking at the white, shrinking little figure, lay this heavy load upon her? 'What has Mr. Edgell asked you to say to me?' she said in a thin, reedy little voice that she couldn't keep from shaking. 'You have heard,' he said huskily, and with a voice low and ashamed in his throat; 'everybody has heard what has happened. Knowing this, he has sent me to ask you if you will give him another trial. It is never likely to happen again--God helping him, it _will_ never happen again--but, knowing this, and what has gone before, he has bid me to ask you if you will give him another chance.' He paused and looked above Lucy's head; he could not look her in the face. 'His fate is in your hands,' he went on, without looking at her. 'It depends upon you whether a happy and useful life is before him. If you are true to him he will have the strongest motive to lead an honourable and honoured life that a man can have; but if you refuse to give him a chance, he will abandon all hope--he will have no inducement to make a stand.' He said nothing about risking her happiness. It might not have occurred to him that he was asking her to risk the ruin of her young life on the chance of saving his friend. Still, he did not look her in the face. 'How can I answer him?' Lucy said, wringing her hands. 'You can only answer him as your heart dictates,' he said huskily. 'Remember, in refusing him this last chance, you are snatching away a rope from the grasp of a drowning man.' Oh, what a coward he was: he could not look the girl in the face! 'Oh, this is horrible!' Lucy said, with a moan, and then she sat down on one of the high-backed chairs against the wall and began to cry. Her nerves were so shaken that tears came readily now. If there was one thing more than another that Eric Gwatkin hated, it was to see a woman cry. Pamela never cried. Perhaps these foolish tears showed him more than anything else the girl's weakness. He was dreadfully sorry for her; he was sorry and ashamed of his errand. How could he press this sacrifice upon such a little weak creature? 'I am such a poor thing!' Lucy moaned, wringing her hands. 'I should never be able to influence him. Oh, you don't know how weak I am!' Eric smiled sadly, and sighed. He knew exactly how weak she was; he would not have had a woman stronger. 'I am not like Pamela,' Lucy went on, with her little feeble moan. 'No,' he interrupted her hastily, 'thank God! You are not like Pamela.' Lucy looked at him with wonder, through her tears, not unmixed with reproof. 'If I were Pamela,' she said, with some dignity--'if I had a great soul, and were made on larger lines, like Pamela, I should give you a different answer.' 'I must tell you,' he said hastily, interrupting her--'I must tell you, before you give your answer--your final answer--that Edgell releases you from your engagement; that he reproaches himself for having ever asked you to risk your happiness in his keeping. He begs me to say that if you have any fears or misgivings, if you have no confidence in his resolution--if you doubt him or yourself--it would be better for you to give him up.' Lucy sighed. 'But if you can be so generous as to give him another chance, he will never, never, God helping him, betray your trust!' Lucy looked at him with a break in the dull misery in her face. Why hadn't he delivered this part of his message first? Why had he talked about snatching away a rope from a drowning man? 'I am very grateful to him,' Lucy said, in a small shaky voice; 'tell him I am very grateful to him. I do not deserve so much love. Ask him to forgive me if he can; I am such a poor thing. I have no courage--I cannot even be generous!' She broke quite down. She could not trust herself to say any more. She took her lover at his word. Eric Gwatkin gave her one more chance before he went away. 'Remember,' he said, 'it is his last hope of reform.' But Lucy only moaned, 'I am such a poor thing--I have no courage!' He went away, and left her weeping in the gallery, under the picture of the Old Master. Surely he would have approved her decision. * * * * * It was a dreadful time at St. Benedict's all through that sad week. The boat that was going to do such great things--that was going to make a bump every night of the races--did not row during the three succeeding nights. Perhaps it was quite as well that it did not; the bumps might not have come off, and, at any rate, it had the credit of them. Most of the crew had gone down; there was nothing to stay up for. All the men, indeed, who were not staying for their degrees, or who had not people up, went down at once. There was nothing to keep them here: the college concert had been put off, and the boat ball, and the supper that was to celebrate the bumps. There was not a single festivity to celebrate; there was nothing but a funeral to stay up for. A few men stayed up for it, and all the Tutors and Fellows. There was quite a large muster in the college chapel at the early service, when the coffins of the old Master and his wife were brought in and placed in the clear space in the body of the chapel, between the long rows of benches. There were no flowers to hide the dreary outline of the coffins--nothing to cover up their nakedness; there were no flowers heaped up in the Master's empty stall beneath the organ-loft, but someone had laid on the seat of the adjoining stall, which was draped with black, like the Master's, a wreath of immortelles. Someone--no one seemed to know who--placed the little solitary wreath on the coffin of the Master's wife, and it travelled with her down to its last resting-place. Not a few of the Fellows of other colleges, and all the 'Heads,' followed the little sad procession to the railway-station. There were but two mourners to follow: Cousin Mary and Dick's little daughter. There were no other relatives left. The Old Master had outlived all his kin. The Senior Tutor went down with the women to Northwold. He had made all the preparations. And as the sun was sinking at the close of the sweet June day he stood bareheaded beside the open grave, where the Master of St. Benedict's and his wife lay side by side. They buried him in the old churchyard where his humble forefathers slept. Their stones, aslant now, and overgrown with moss and lichens, were all around him. Lucy could not help reading their rudely-carven names and homely epitaphs, as she stood listening to the solemn words that were being read over the Master's grave. There was a Richard Rae among them who had 'died in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection.' What could he have done more if he had been Master of a college? She lingered among the graves with the Tutor, and read the simple records of her humble race. She could trace her family back to the seventh generation; it was quite a long line of descent: Davids and Nathaniels and Marthas and Marys, but there was only one Lucy, the high-spirited ancestress who had kept the stall in the butter-market, and met her lover at a dancing-booth at the fair. They left the old Master sleeping among his kinsfolk, in the old churchyard that his memory had gone back to, close to the Vicarage gate. The setting sun was shining on the church tower and on the old vane that had lingered so long in his memory, and the rooks were cawing in the old elm-trees overhead, as they turned away and left him to his rest. He would sleep more peacefully here under the daisies and beneath the dewy heavens than amid the scenes of his learned labours, under the stones of his college chapel. The mourners returned to Cambridge the next day; there was nothing to keep them here. Before they went Lucy asked the Tutor to take her to the butter-market. Everything had changed, but the old market still stood where it had stood for centuries, with the quaint stalls and the old brown awnings, and the rude boards spread on trestles where the country folk displayed their homely wares. There was an old woman sitting behind that corner stall now, lean and brown and wrinkled as an autumn pear. Lucy bought some flowers of her before she went away; it might have been her namesake. It was among these homely surroundings, in this morning walk, that the Senior Tutor asked Lucy to be his wife. He knew all about her birth, and those old stories of the Master's--he had heard them dozens of times--and he had just taken her to the stall which that other Lucy Rae had once kept. He couldn't have chosen a happier moment to press his suit. Lucy's heart had quite failed her. It had been failing her ever since that morning when she met Eric Gwatkin in the cloisters, and at the sight of that stall in the butter-market it was at its lowest ebb. She had no spirit left in her; she had no one to cling to. She wanted to be loved and comforted and petted, and Cousin Mary was not good at petting. The Senior Tutor's offer came at the right moment; he couldn't have chosen a more auspicious time. Lucy didn't exactly jump at him. She was too bewildered and broken down and upset generally to jump, but she asked him to give her time--to give her a week to think about it. When a girl asks a man to give her time, he generally knows beforehand what her answer will be. CHAPTER XXVI. COUSIN MARY. Lucy couldn't do things like other girls. She couldn't go straight to Cousin Mary and tell her that the Senior Tutor, the new Master of St. Benedict's, had asked her to be his wife. There was no reason why she shouldn't have told Cousin Mary. She had no one else to tell. She wouldn't have dared to have told Pamela Gwatkin or Maria Stubbs. They had gone down now; everybody had gone down. Wyatt Edgell had gone down the day that Lucy sent back that answer to his message. He had gone without taking his degree. Everybody was crying out at his folly, and a great many people--wise people--thought they knew the reason why, but no one guessed the real cause of his hasty departure from Cambridge. Lucy was not sorry that he was gone. She could not have met him again in the court in the cloisters. She would not have been sure that he would not have taken her in his arms, and that all her fine resolutions would not have melted away. But he was gone down. She had nothing more to fear from him. She had an ugly dream about him the night he left Cambridge, a dream that haunted her still. She dreamt that Wyatt Edgell was falling over the edge of a precipice, and that he held out his arms to her, but she would not reach out a hand to save him. There was a great deal to be done in these lonely days of the Long Vacation. There was a good deal to be done, and now it could be done quietly, with no lynx-eyed undergraduates looking on. Of course, they would have to turn out of the lodge--at least, so Cousin Mary said, when they were talking things over a few days after the Master's funeral. The Master had behaved very generously to his niece; he had left her all the furniture of the lodge and what little money he died possessed of. He had made no mention whatever in his will of his nephew Dick's little daughter. The will had been made years ago, when Lucy's father was living, and she was not dependent on his bounty. It was really very lucky for Lucy that the Senior Tutor had made her an offer at such a time. 'We shall continue to live together, of course, dear, if you have no other plans,' Mary said, and she paused to see if Lucy had any plans about her future, but Lucy was silent. 'I suppose you will give up Newnham now?' she continued presently, and Lucy thought there was just a shade of derision in her voice; but this was only fancy. She might be excused for fancying it, for she had been plucked in both her examinations. She had failed in both parts of the Little-go. There was quite reason enough to account for her failing at such a time that she need not have fancied that Cousin Mary underrated her powers. 'No, I shall certainly not give up Newnham,' Lucy said with some spirit. 'I shall go in for the examination again in October. I shall continue at Newnham until--until----' She couldn't finish the sentence, but stopped short in the middle, and blushed delightfully. 'Until what?' Cousin Mary said bluntly. She hated to see girls blushing; she never blushed herself. 'Until I am married,' Lucy said softly, and her eyes fell and her colour rose. It was a great pity that the new Master of St. Benedict's was not there to see her. 'Married?' Mary repeated, with a little break in her voice. 'Whoever are you going to marry, child?' She had a vision of Eric Gwatkin; she had often seen him looking at Lucy in the college chapel, and she remembered that he had called to see her several times lately. Why hadn't Lucy told her of it before? 'Mr. Colville has asked me to marry him,' Lucy said humbly. The room didn't turn exactly upside down; if it had, all the books would have tumbled out of the shelves, and the old Worcester vases on the mantelpiece would have been broken to pieces, which would have been a thousand pities, and the furniture of the room would have been generally disarranged. Something happened--Mary Rae never exactly knew what; she was only conscious of a band tightening round her heart, and that when she tried to speak her voice sounded a long way off. 'Mr. Colville?' she repeated in her distant, faint voice. 'Yes,' Lucy said bashfully, as if it were the first time any man had asked her to marry him; 'but I have not given him an answer yet. What answer do you think I ought to give him?' Cousin Mary was not going to advise Lucy on this point. She knew what answer she had been prepared to give him the last twenty years. The Master of St. Benedict's came over to the lodge for his answer the next day. He hadn't been formally elected Master yet, but the matter was practically settled. He and Mary had been doing the Master's work together for years past. But it was not to see Mary he came to the lodge now; he asked to see Lucy, and she came to him in the gallery. Lucy knew exactly what he had come for, and she had his answer ready for him--quite ready. It had cost her something to make up her mind. She couldn't marry a man with gray hair--only iron-gray as yet--and with a bald spot on the crown, and with a big red throat, and bushy eyebrows, and a crop of wrinkles round his eyes, without a pang. She was only twenty--sweet and twenty--and her life was before her. Yes, it cost her a pang to accept the Senior Tutor. Perhaps it would have cost her more to reject him. He had a good deal to offer. Lucy did not lose sight of that in making up her mind. If she refused him she would have to toil through life as a governess--possibly a nursery governess. One cannot teach what one doesn't know, and a term's residence at Newnham had taught Lucy one thing: that she knew very little, and that that little was not worth much. Perhaps if she had passed her examinations with honour--had come out in the first class--she might have given the Senior Tutor a different answer. Immense possibilities would have opened before her. She might be Senior Wrangler, Senior Classic, Senior Theologian--oh no, women are never theologians; she might have been a first class in any Tripos, and by-and-by, when the way was made clear, she might take a high degree, and wear a scarlet hood, and--there will be such things--she might be a female Vice-Chancellor! Now all these dreams were over. That Little-go examination had nipped her hopes in the bud. There was no other way of enjoying the highest dignity the University has to bestow than by marrying the Master of St. Benedict's. He would be Vice-Chancellor some day, and she would rule by proxy. Lucy lay awake all one night thinking over these things. She would have preferred to marry Wyatt Edgell, all things being equal, and she shed a few small tears at giving him up. In fact, her pillow was quite wet in the morning. She accepted the Senior Tutor the next day. She told herself that she had no more love to give away to any man: that her heart was dead within her, and that the tender dream of her youth was over, and that henceforth her life would be a dreary round of duties--perhaps dignities--but there would be no pleasure in it. Nevertheless, when she had accepted Mr. Colville, and he had kissed her in a paternal way, and she had gone through the gallery with him, and the big drawing-room--that had been so little used during the life of the late Master--and had discussed the alterations and improvements he was going to make, she felt quite interested in life--interested, if not animated. There is nothing like furnishing for giving one an interest in life. Mary came upon the lovers while they were discussing these details. Lucy's eyes were shining, and there were two pink spots on her cheeks which Mary had not seen there for many days, when she came across them in the big drawing-room. Mary quite understood the girl being moved, she would have been moved herself; but she did not know that the burning question that had moved Lucy so deeply was the upholstery of the drawing-room. The new Master of the lodge had set his heart on yellow--yellow satin and dark oak. He had seen a yellow room somewhere. Lucy loved pinks and blues, and delicate creamy tints that would match her complexion; she would not have had a yellow drawing-room for the world. Mary came upon them when they were discussing this burning question. And then Mary had to be told. The new Master told her in as few words as he could, and about as awkwardly as a man dealing with a new subject and addressing an unsympathetic audience. He got over it as quickly as he could. He was sure Mary would have no sympathy with him. He was sure that she despised him for his ridiculous infatuation for this little bit of a girl. He was rather ashamed of himself. 'I hope you will continue to make the lodge your home,' he said to Mary, with an awkwardness that was quite new to him; 'there is no reason why you should leave it. There is plenty of room in it for all. You will keep your old room'--'and your old place,' he was going to say; but he checked himself in time, and said: 'I am sure your advice will be everything to Lucy.' Mary Rae smiled; not scornfully, not even proudly, but with a sort of pity in her eyes, and her face was grave, and her voice was steady. 'No,' she said coldly; 'I could not continue to make my home here. My plans are all settled--quite settled. Lucy will stay with me--until--until she marries'--she could not help a little break in her voice--'and then I am leaving Cambridge altogether. I am going back to my old place, to my own people.' The Senior Tutor had heard nothing about Mary Rae's people until that day; he never knew she had any people; he had forgotten all about her mother's relatives. Cousin Mary began to make her preparations for leaving the lodge at once. She was only taking with her to the little house she had engaged at Newnham a few necessary things. She was leaving a great deal of the old furniture behind. It had been at the lodge for over a century. It was heavy and clumsy, and some of it was worm-eaten; it was ill suited for a modern residence. It had been taken off by one Master after another, and now, unless the new Master turned it out into the court, or threw it out of the windows into the Cam, it would remain where it had so long stood. Lucy consented to its staying almost unwillingly. She had no idea how valuable those precious old relics of carved oak, and Chippendale, and old Sheraton furniture would have been in the eyes of a connoisseur. She didn't mind the old blue Worcester vases remaining on the mantelpiece, where they had stood so many years; but she would have preferred some modern gimcrackery for the drawing-room. Her heart yearned for little satiny chairs with gilt backs, and plush five o'clock tea-tables, and all the latest abominations of the modern upholsterer. It was very sad work turning out all the old Master's papers, going through all his drawers and turning out all the private records of his life. Mary never knew until she went through his papers how generous he had been to all those poor relations she had left sleeping beside him in the churchyard at Northwold. Some of these old letters she turned out from their hiding-places, yellow with age, written by hands long folded, touched her deeply. Some were from her own kin, and some, most of all, from Lucy's father, grandfather, great-grandfather, three generations, all telling the same story of benefits received, of the unfailing liberality of that generous hand. Mary did not know what to do with the papers. The Master had left little else--an old scholar's wardrobe, a rusty gown and hood, an old-fashioned silver watch; no rings or jewellery or knick-knacks; nothing but books and papers, everlasting papers. Lucy would have burnt them all unread--nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to have put all the musty old lumber in the flames; but Mary would not destroy a single line. She gathered the old family letters together and took them away with her to the little house at Newnham; but she left all the old scholar's papers, his Semitic manuscripts and pamphlets in crabbed characters that she could not understand a line of, behind her. The labours of his long useful life she left behind to the college that had enabled him to pursue these studies. Perhaps a younger scholar coming by some day may look over the heap, and pick out from it what is worth preserving. Mary was in a great hurry to get out of the lodge. She need not have got out until the end of the Long Vacation, but she chose to clear out at once. Lucy was a little angry at all this haste. She would much rather have stayed at the lodge than have gone into a small, uncomfortable little house at Newnham. She wrote bewailing her lot to Maria Stubbs, but she didn't say a word about her engagement to the Senior Tutor. Maria answered her letter by the next post. She was staying up in town in a small lodging in Bloomsbury, in order to be near the reading-room of the British Museum, and she wrote and begged Lucy to come up and share her poor rooms. Her letter touched Lucy, and brought the tears to her eyes. She remembered how she used to hate Maria, and wouldn't notice her in the street. Her letter contained some information that interested Lucy, and may have had something to do with her tears. Pamela's brother had gone abroad with Wyatt Edgell; he had been engaged by his family to travel with him and look after him. Pamela had only heard from Eric once since he had been away, and he had not written hopefully of his charge; but Maria did not give any particulars. Lucy would have given the world to have seen that letter of Pamela's. She remembered what Eric had said about taking away a rope from a drowning man, and she recollected that dreadful dream. Oh, if she could only have seen that letter! Perhaps even now it might not be too late. The Master--he was really Master now--came in while her eyes were yet wet with tears. He had brought with him some patterns that had just arrived for the hangings of the new rooms. It was really a serious question. The effect of everything would depend upon the colour of the hangings. In deciding this important point Lucy forgot all about Pamela's letter. CHAPTER XXVII. OCTOBER TERM. October had come, and term had begun again, and Cambridge was full of new faces--fresh young faces that would soon lose their smoothness and roundness, and that delightful ingenuousness that distinguishes successive generations of Cambridge freshmen. There were a great many girl freshers at Newnham this term, and several of the old familiar faces were no longer seen. Pamela Gwatkin had come up for another year. A scholarship, the Grace-Hardy Scholarship, which is only given to girls in their fourth year, who have done well in a Tripos, had been awarded her to enable her to proceed to the second part of the Mathematical Tripos. When women year after year stand first on the list of the Smith's prizemen, it will be necessary to create a third part, when probably the majority of the candidates will be women. Pamela Gwatkin had been working hard all through the Long Vacation, and she had come back pale and hollow-eyed, and oh! so lean. She will be like a deal board by the end of the year, and her beautiful, serious eyes will have nothing but mathematics in them. Lucy had come back to work, too, but there were no mathematics in her eyes. She had just been plucked again in that horrid Part II. of the 'Previous,' which takes in Mathematics and Paley; but she had passed the classical part. She had only come up for one term. She was to be married in the spring, and she was quite, quite determined to get through the Little-go before she took her place as the wife of a Master of a college. She wouldn't be pointed at by everybody in Cambridge as a Failure! She had got her old room next to Maria Stubbs, and she told Maria all about her engagement the first night after Hall. Maria didn't bully her as she expected she would, perhaps she would have done the same thing herself had she been in her place. She thought Lucy a very lucky girl; nobody had ever fallen in love with her, and asked her to preside over a college lodge, though she was twice--a dozen times, at least--as clever as Lucy. She couldn't, for her part, think what men saw in Lucy. Cousin Mary often--indeed, she had always--wondered what the Master of St. Benedict's saw in Lucy. Mary had quite given up the lodge long ago. The shabby, old-fashioned bits of furniture that she had taken away with her had all been carried over the college bridge to the little house at Newnham. She had only taken the oldest and the shabbiest things away; she had left everything that was worth leaving at the lodge. People who had known her well remarked when they came up in October how much she had aged during the Long Vacation. She was not only looking, but she was feeling old and changed. Something had gone out of her life. The Master of St. Benedict's noticed the change with a little twinge of conscience, but his hands were too full just now to think very much about any other woman than the woman he was going to marry. The lodge was full of workpeople; the old place was being turned upside down. The plaster and the paint and the whitewash had been scraped off the old oak, and, oh, what a lot of beeswaxing it took to make it brown and mellow with that delightful old dull polish upon it that antiquaries love! There were all sorts of discoveries made during this pulling down and building up of old panelling. Rooms were unearthed, and musty old cupboards and passages laid open, and no end of old windows that had been blocked up for centuries brought to light. Lucy had to come over to see all these discoveries, but Mary never came to the lodge again after the day she left it. That chapter of her life was closed. Not many people congratulated Lucy on her engagement. Very few people in Cambridge knew of it. Everyone had been expecting the Senior Tutor for years to marry the Master's niece; and when, after the Long Vacation, the engagement was spoken of, nobody ever dreamed it was Lucy. Mary had very properly gone away from the lodge until she could return as its mistress; and Lucy--well, Lucy had gone back to Newnham to fit herself for her work as a governess. Under these circumstances she got very few congratulations. Everybody would congratulate her fast enough when the time came. She was not doing a thing that there was no precedent for. Nearly all the heads of the Colleges in Cambridge had married young wives. It was quite the fashion. It was not so long ago that Fellows of colleges could not marry at all, but now the order had been reversed, and the first use the dear old things made of their new liberty was to marry wives out of the nursery. As the Poet of the University touchingly put it: 'It hath been decreede, that ye Fellowes may wed, And settle in College walls; And wake ye echoes of cloistered life, With their lyttel chyldren's squalls.' There had been no children's 'squalls' heard in the lodge of St. Benedict's within the memory of the oldest Fellow in the college; no pattering footsteps on the stairs, no children's voices in the long dim galleries, had disturbed its monastic quietness. The Fellows who in their turn had been Masters of St. Benedict's had been old, old Fellows when their turn came, and one only of all their number that anyone living could remember had taken to him a wife. Perhaps other women were not so patient and faithful as the old Master's wife. Lucy would not have been so patient; she was getting impatient already, now the novelty had worn off. She was not sure that she was doing the best, the very best thing she could with her life; that she was making the most of it, that she was 'arranging' it aright, as they put it at Newnham. Her heart misgave her as she pictured her future, her prosperous future, as the wife of the Master of St. Benedict's. The quiet, stately life of a college lodge oppressed her. She was sure she should soon weary of its stateliness and its loneliness. She pictured herself sometimes standing at the old oriel window and looking down at the lusty young life in the court below and longing to be in the midst of it. She was longing already. The sight of young lovers in the college Backs filled her heart with a strange tumult, and the sound of a fiddle coming from the open window of a man's room as she passed through the court set her feet twinkling. There is a great deal in heredity. The Master met her at the lodge one day when she was in this mood. She had been working at mathematics all the morning, and she was nervous and overwrought; she had been feeling a strange depression for several days, and had come over to see the alterations at the lodge in order to shake it off. The Master took her out into the Fellows' garden to see the new greenhouse. It had been rebuilt, and, late as it was in the season, it was ablaze with Lucy's favourite geraniums. He had considered her taste entirely, and filled it with the flowers of her choice. She ought to have been grateful, at the least, and expressed her gratitude in any of the little pleasant ways that engaged people are wont to express their feelings. She ought to have gone round sniffing the flowers, and picked the choicest red geranium and stuck it in the Master's coat; but she did nothing of the kind. She sat down on a bench and began to cry. She couldn't keep the tears back. Perhaps the sight of the new greenhouse had brought to her mind that scene when the old Master had fallen in the garden, and Wyatt Edgell had carried him back to the house. Lucy couldn't account for her tears. She said it was the air of the greenhouse had made her faint, and her lover walked back with her to Newnham. 'You are sure there is nothing the matter?' the Master said before he left her; he didn't leave her at the gate, he went straight up to the door of Newe Hall with her. 'You are sure that the faintness is quite gone?' 'Yes,' she said, 'it is quite gone. It was only the heat and the smell of those horrid geraniums.' This was rather hard on the Master, as he had gathered them together for her benefit. There were still traces of tears on her cheeks when she got back to Newnham, and her eyes were red, and everybody could see she had been crying. Maria Stubbs saw her coming up the path with the Master, and she saw in a moment, directly she came into the hall, that there was something amiss. Nothing escaped Maria. She followed Lucy into her room and shut the door behind her. 'You have heard, then?' she said. Lucy noticed that she spoke in a more subdued tone than was usual to her, and there was a catch in her voice that jarred upon her ear. 'Heard what?' she said wearily. 'I have only just come back from the lodge. I have heard nothing.' She was not very anxious to hear Maria's news. She thought it was one of the old things that was always happening: someone had passed an exam., or someone had been plucked, or someone had broken down. She was so used to these things that she did not care a straw which it was, and she began drawing off her gloves, and threw her hat down on a chair. When she had done this she became aware that Maria was looking at her with a strange pity in her eyes. 'And you have not heard?' she said with a little hard break in her voice. 'I have heard nothing,' Lucy said impatiently. 'Oh, you poor dear! How can I tell you?' Lucy looked at her startled and amazed, with a sudden terror in her eyes. 'It is about--about----' Her lips grew suddenly white, and refused to pronounce the name of the man who for so short a time had been her lover. 'Yes,' Maria said softly, 'it is about Wyatt Edgell.' 'He--he--oh, don't say he is dead!' Lucy fell on her knees beside the couch and clutched Maria's gown. She was white as a sheet, and her lips were quivering. Maria Stubbs threw her arms around her, she thought she would have fallen, but Lucy pushed her aside. 'Oh, don't tell me he is dead!' she moaned. 'Don't tell me I have killed him!' 'Hush!' Maria said almost fiercely, but her own eyes were full of tears, and her voice faltered as she spoke. 'It isn't your fault that he is dead. He would have died just the same whether you had given him up or not.' She spoke to unheeding ears, for Lucy had fallen with a little cry to the floor. She tried in vain to rouse her. Her face was perfectly colourless, and her lips were white, and she lay like a log where she had fallen. Maria undid her dress and loosened the things about her throat, and threw some water over her face and hands, and then, finding she didn't revive at all, she got frightened and ran to get assistance. Pamela Gwatkin was the only girl who was in her room at that hour, and Maria implored her to come at once. Pamela was sitting with her hands clasped before her and an open letter in her lap. She looked up when Maria came in with a bewildered look in her eyes, which were heavy with weeping. 'You must not ask me,' she said harshly; 'I would not put my hand out to save her. You must ask someone else. I can never, never forgive her!' If Pamela could not find it in her heart to forgive the girl who had ruined Wyatt Edgell's life, it was harder for Lucy to forgive herself. As she lay tossing with fever in her little darkened room for weeks after that miserable day, she reproached herself a thousand times for having murdered her lover. The shock of Wyatt Edgell's death had told on her already overwrought nervous system, and it had given way, and she had been struck down with brain-fever. It was not an unusual thing in a women's college. No one but Pamela Gwatkin and Maria knew the real cause; everyone else, doctors and all, put it down to overwork--to the mathematics she was getting up for the Little-go. Nobody attached any meaning to her wandering, not even when in her delirium she called herself a murderess; she didn't mince matters, she shocked Cousin Mary by declaring that she was a murderess. She was for ever raving about that dreadful scene, when she had found Eric Gwatkin on his knees beside the couch, and in her dreams she was ever helping him to sew up that awful wound. She couldn't get that gaping wound out of her eyes. Nurse Brannan came over from Addenbroke's to Newnham to nurse Lucy. Perhaps she could have thrown some light on the girl's wanderings, but she was silent. She nursed her back to life, and soothed her and comforted her in the first wild abandonment of her grief and remorse, as she had comforted the old Master. She had only one kind of medicine for all the diseases of the mind. She had only one set of old-fashioned remedies. She read Lucy in those first weak days of convalescence the same, the self-same, words from the same old Book that she had come upon her reading to the Master at the lodge. She had only one story to tell to all her patients--an old, old story. It seemed quite new to Lucy as she sat listening to it in those weak tired days; it seemed to her that she had never heard it before. When she was well enough to talk about anything, Lucy insisted upon talking about the subject that was uppermost in her mind. Nurse Brannan let her have her way; she could not have stopped her if she would. 'You have nothing to reproach yourself with, my dear,' she said to her when she found there was nothing to be gained by silence; 'it would have happened in any case. With that tendency and that awful heritage, you could not have prevented it.' Then Lucy learned, what she had only surmised before, that Wyatt Edgell had died by his own hand. 'You must tell me how it happened,' she said, 'and who was with him; you must not conceal anything.' 'There is very little to tell, dear. Eric Gwatkin was with him. He could not have had a truer or more devoted friend.' 'No,' said Lucy with a sigh; 'he loved him more than I loved him; he would have laid down his life for him.' 'Yes, I think he would. They were away alone together in Scotland, on some shootings that Mr. Edgell had taken, when it happened. He had been moody and out of sorts for several days, and had stayed indoors wrestling with his disease. Eric did not leave him day or night during this dreadful time, and on the fourth day the temptation seemed to have passed, and he went out on the moors. Eric was with him alone when it happened; there was no keeper near. It was all over, and--and he was quite dead when the keeper came up. There was only Eric to witness that it was not an accident. Oh, he behaved splendidly! He did everything. He brought the dear fellow back to his people; he covered up all the dreadful part of the story; and no one--no one belonging to him--will ever know that it was not an accident. It would have broken his mother's heart; it would have killed his old father, who was so proud of him; it would have been a crushing blow. Oh, Eric was quite justified--it must have cost him a great deal to cover it up, but he was quite justified; he behaved splendidly!' When Lucy got well enough to see anyone, the first person she saw was the Master of St. Benedict's. He had inquired for her every day during her illness, and he had sent daily messages by Mary. He reproached himself for letting her walk back on that last day he had seen her. He ought to have known that she had broken down when she fainted in the greenhouse. He was not at all prepared for the change in her. She had not only grown thin and white, but her eyes had changed; they were graver and steadier, and something that used to be there, he didn't know what, had gone out of them. 'The lodge is quite finished,' the Master said cheerfully, as he took his seat by her side; 'your home is quite ready for you, my dear.' Then Lucy had to say to him what she had sent for him to say. It was rather difficult to say, and she said it in her little weak, faltering voice. 'I have found out,' she said, 'while I have been lying here, that I have made a mistake. It is not the first mistake I have made--and--and thank God I have found it out in time!' Her voice broke, and her lips quivered, and a faint flush of colour came into her cheeks. 'We have all made mistakes, my darling,' the Master said, stroking her little thin hand that lay on the coverlet. 'Don't let this little mistake you have made, or fancy you have made, trouble you; you have all your life to set it right. You have only to get well as fast as you can; your new home is ready, quite ready, for you.' Lucy shivered. 'That is it,' she said eagerly; 'I want you to help me to set it right. I have ruined one man's life; I will not ruin another. I--I want you to give me up.' She did not tell him she was not worthy, she knew that would be of no avail; she only asked him to give her up. 'You do not love me, Lucy?' he said reproachfully, when he found that all other arguments failed to move her. 'No,' she said sadly, 'I do not love you enough. I never, never could love you enough to marry you for yourself. I should have married you for--for the sake of your position--it is a great thing to be mistress of a college lodge--and, and I wanted a home, and to be taken care of--and loved--and I had nothing to give in return.' It took a long time to convince the Master of St. Benedict's that Lucy hadn't accepted him for himself. He hadn't looked in the glass lately, or his eyes had grown dim--he hadn't seen that the brown locks of his youth were turning gray, and that he was getting bald, and fat, and florid. There were plenty of women in the world who would have loved him for himself still; there was a dear woman in the adjoining room who had loved him for twenty years, and who would go on loving him in spite of his baldness--who rather preferred it, indeed. The Master couldn't conceal from himself that the girl really desired to be free. Her words, her eyes, her manner, all showed him that she desired to break off her engagement. He had no alternative but to give her the release she sought. CHAPTER XXVIII. A COLLEGE 'PERPENDICULAR.' A whole year had passed. There was quite time enough in a year for things to straighten themselves--for things that had gone wrong to get right again. One thing that had once threatened to go wrong--very wrong--had righted itself. The new mistress of the lodge of St. Benedict's was in her right place. The lodge had taken months to restore and refurnish, and the work had been carried out quite regardless of expense. It only wanted one thing when it was finished--a mistress to preside over its stately hospitality. The Master had not far to go to find one. He did not go so far as Newnham College; he found what he sought at an unpretentious little house in the village, furnished with very shabby old furniture. He ought to have been ashamed of himself to have gone back to Mary. No doubt he was ashamed, dreadfully ashamed; but he went back, nevertheless. He did what is always the wisest and the noblest thing to do; he went back and confessed his folly, and asked to be forgiven. He did not ask in vain. Mary is now the most popular mistress of a college lodge in Cambridge, and the handsomest. She has grown quite young again; the ordeal she has passed through has only added a tender, pathetic nobleness to her beautiful grave face. The hope of her youth, of her mature womanhood, is fulfilled. She cannot help looking prosperous and handsome. And Lucy? Well, Lucy went back to Newnham when she was well enough--when she had quite recovered--and passed the Little-go with distinction. She worked at her Tripos all through the next year, and Pamela Gwatkin was her coach. She was about as unhappy as a girl with a 'small soul,' as she still described herself, would be, after what she had gone through; but her mathematics diverted her thoughts, and the prospect of her coming Tripos sustained her. At the end of the year an event happened which affected Lucy's views on the subject of her Tripos; that cut short, in a not wholly unprecedented way, her University career. At the close of the October term, the Master of St. Benedict's gave what is known in undergraduate parlance as a 'Perpendicular.' At this particular 'Perpendicular' all the Dons and Donesses in Cambridge were present to do honour to the new mistress of the lodge, and the whole suite of reception-rooms, that had been the subject of such heartburnings to Lucy, were thrown open. It was the first time that she had ever seen them lit up and filled with such a goodly company. She was there with Maria Stubbs and Pamela Gwatkin, as her cousin's guests. She had not altered much during the year; only her eyes were steadier, and she did not blush so readily. She ought to have been blushing now, for she had just met an old friend who had taken her hand when they met and had forgotten to give it up again. It was Pamela Gwatkin's brother. He was in Orders now; he had been ordained nearly a year, and held a curacy in a village in the West-country, with the magnificent stipend of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. He had gone through all the familiar rooms of the old lodge with Lucy, but he had hardly recognised them again. Only in the long gallery the faces of the old Masters looked down on him as of old, with a stately welcome in their grave eyes. He had no idea that the dark, musty old place could have been so changed. He passed through room after room, with Lucy's arm in his; and presently, when she was tired, he sat down in the deep-recessed window of the oak-panelled saloon, where the Masters hold their annual feasts and eat their state dinners. Full-length portraits of old Masters and Fellows hung on the walls, and above their massive gilded frames--they had been regilt lately--a rich carved frieze of oak went round the room; and above the great open fireplace was a quaint carven mantelpiece that was a sight to see. It was a room to delight the soul of an antiquary. Lucy watched Pamela's brother as his eyes travelled round the room and took in all these things. He was such a simple, transparent fellow that she could not help reading his thoughts. 'What are you thinking of, Eric?' she asked him presently. She called him Eric. 'I--I?' he said, with a blush. 'I was wondering why you gave up this--how you _could_ give up this!' 'Did you wonder?' she said softly, and her eyes, he saw, were very sweet and tender. He thought she lingered on the 'you,' and he looked at her with a strange trouble in his eyes. 'Yes,' he said with a sigh, 'I don't think many women would have--have given this up lightly. You must have had a reason?' 'Yes,' she said in her low voice, with a quiver in it, and that droop of her pretty mouth that he remembered so well; 'I had a reason.' Something in her manner more than in her voice struck him, and the trouble in his eyes deepened. 'May I know--will you tell me the reason, Lucy?' he said hoarsely. 'I could tell anyone but you,' she said passionately, and then she turned away her face from him, but not before he had seen that her eyes were full of tears. Then a strange light came suddenly into his eyes as he looked at her as she sat there in her soft white clinging gown, with her bosom heaving, and the rich colour sweeping over her neck and face. 'You do not mean----Oh, Lucy!' he said, and his voice shook, and the trouble in his eyes gave place to the light of a sudden wild hope. Whatever she meant, it was whispered so low that it reached no other ear than his. Before Lucy went back to Newnham that night with her friends she had a little interview with her beautiful hostess. Cousin Mary looked like a queen with her gleaming jewels and her rich dress. It was not a dress intended to be crushed; it was intended to be put away carefully, and to be worn at no end of grand University receptions and dinner-parties; but Lucy threw herself upon it in the most unfeeling way, and let her foolish tears--they always flowed very copiously--stream down the beautiful satin bosom and over the lovely real lace. 'Oh Mary, congratulate me,' she murmured; 'I am going to marry Eric Gwatkin!' She was going to marry a curate with one hundred and fifty pounds a year. She had thrown over the Master of a college, and she was asking Cousin Mary to congratulate her! * * * * * What can be expected of the children of such a union? They will neither be beautiful nor clever. Probably in a generation or two they will go back to the low estate from which they sprang, and another Lucy may keep the old family stall in the butter-market. Heredity has so many vagaries it is not safe to predict. The success of the old Master may repeat itself in the male line, and another Anthony--Lucy's boy is called Anthony--may occupy with equal distinction as a Church dignitary another stall elsewhere. Who can tell? Meanwhile Lucy is famous for her poultry, and, like her distant progenitor, prides herself on the excellence of her dairy. THE END. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. NEW LIBRARY NOVELS. THE IVORY GATE. By Walter Besant, Author of 'All Sorts and Conditions of Men,' etc. 3 vols. THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS. By Aaron Watson and Lillias Wassermann. 3 vols. TRUST-MONEY. By William Westall. 3 vols. A FAMILY LIKENESS. By Mrs. B.M. Croker. 3 vols. THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S. By Alan St. Aubyn. 2 vols. MRS. JULIET. By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. 3 vols. BARBARA DERING. By Amélie Rives. 2 vols. GEOFFORY HAMILTON. By Edward H. Cooper. 2 vols. TREASON-FELONY. By John Hill. 2 vols. London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, Piccadilly, W. 
58897	----	THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S BY ALAN St. AUBYN AUTHOR OF 'A FELLOW OF TRINITY,' 'THE JUNIOR DEAN,' 'THE OLD MAID'S SWEETHEART,' 'MODEST LITTLE SARA,' ETC. [Illustration] IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I. London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1893 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER PAGE I. FULL OF DAYS, RICHES, AND HONOUR 1 II. DICK'S LITTLE DAUGHTER 17 III. ONLY A FRESHER 34 IV. PAMELA GWATKIN 53 V. AFTER CHAPEL 72 VI. BEHIND THE SCREEN 88 VII. LUCY'S SECRET 102 VIII. WATTLES 113 IX. A WOMAN'S PARLIAMENT 136 X. 'THAT CONFOUNDED CUCUMBER!' 148 XI. IN THE FELLOWS' GARDEN 163 XII. AN UGLY FALL 180 XIII. SLIPPING AWAY 192 XIV. WYATT EDGELL 207 THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S CHAPTER I. FULL OF DAYS, RICHES, AND HONOUR. The Master of St. Benedict's had got as much out of life as most men. His had been a longer life than is allotted to many men--it had exceeded four score. There had been room in these eight decades for all the things that men desire: for ambition, for wealth, for the world's favour, for success--well-earned success--and for love. There had also been distinction, and the soft, delightful voice of praise had not been silent. The success and the distinction had come early in life, and the love had come late. In the nature of things it could not have come earlier. It came in time to crown the rest of the good gifts that Providence had poured into the lap of the Master of St. Benedict's. It had been his already for twenty years, and it was his still. Surely we are right in saying that he had got as much out of life as most men? He had begun life on a bleak Yorkshire moor, following the plough over his father's fields. A kindly North Riding vicar, noting the boy's taste for reading, and his inaptitude for the drudgery of the farm, had placed him at his own cost at the grammar school of the adjoining town. With a small scholarship the Yorkshire ploughboy came up to Cambridge. He came up with a very few loose coins in the pocket of his homely-cut clothes, and with a broad North-country dialect as barbarous as the cut of his coat. He was the butt of all the witty men of St. Benedict's during his freshman's year. He was the subject of all the rough practical jokes which undergraduates in old days were wont to play upon impecunious youths who had the audacity to elbow them out of the highest places in the examinations. He had survived the practical jokes, and he had stayed 'up' when the witty men had gone 'down.' He had won the highest honours of his year, and in due course he had been promoted to a college Fellowship. Everything had come in delightful sequence: honour, riches, distinction, love. It had all fallen out exactly as he would have had it to fall out. He might have liked the love to have come earlier--he had waited for it forty years: it came at sixty, and he had enjoyed it for over twenty years! When Anthony Rae had come up to Cambridge, a poor scholar from a country grammar school, he had set before himself two things that seemed at the time equally impossible. He had set before himself the winning of a high place, perhaps the highest, among the great scholars of his great University, and he had also set before himself--in his secret heart--the hope of winning, to share this distinction with him, the daughter of the kind friend who had paved the way to distinction and honour. He had achieved both these things--the dearest wishes of his heart--but he had to serve a longer apprenticeship than most men. He had to wait forty years. Rachel Thorne was worth waiting for. She was a child when he went away to college; she had run down to the Vicarage gate after him on that memorable morning to wish him 'good luck,' and she had stood watching him until a turn of the road hid him from her eyes. She had watched for him turning that corner many times since. She had met him at the gate of the dear old Yorkshire Vicarage when he came back, term after term, a modest undergraduate blushing beneath his well-earned honours, with the eager question on her lips: 'What great things, have you done this term, Anthony?' She always expected him to do great things, and he justified her faith in him. Perhaps her girlish faith had more to do with his success than he dreamed of. It was his beacon through all his lonely hours, and it had led him onward to distinction and honour. She was brown-haired and fresh-cheeked when he went away; she was a middle-aged woman, with silver streaks in her brown hair, when he came back and asked her to share with him the honours he had won. She waited for him through all the long years of his Fellowship--sad years when fortune had left her and sorrow had baptized her--sad friendless years, growing older, and grayer, and sick with waiting. But the reward had come at last, and her tranquil face had regained its cheerfulness, and was 'no longer wan and dree.' It was a fitting crown to a scholarly life, this mellow, mature love--this gracious presence pervading the closing decades of his brilliant career. Rachel Rae had been mistress of St. Benedict's over twenty years when our story opens. She had presided over the graceful hospitalities of the Master's lodge in her kindly, gracious way for twenty years. She had no daughter to share this delightful duty with her--she had married too late in life--but a niece of the Master's had been an inmate of the lodge for fifteen years or more, and filled a daughter's place. Mary Rae was a daughter of a younger brother of Dr. Rae's, and had been educated above the station in which she had been born by her uncle's liberality. Anthony Rae in his prosperity had not neglected his humble kinsfolk. He had done as much for them as lay in his power. He had educated the younger branches, and provided for the declining years of the elders. He had kept his two maiden sisters, one an invalid, in comfort and affluence. He had paid the mortgage off the farm and passed it over unembarrassed by debt to his elder brother. He had taken that brother's grandson and given him an education at his own University, and in due time had arranged for him to be presented with a college living. It was not a rich living: it was the only one that fell vacant when Richard Rae most wanted it, and he had accepted it gladly. He had married upon it, and brought up a family, six children, of whom one only was now living, a girl child, with whom this story has to do. The old Master of St. Benedict's had aged perceptibly within the last few years. He was already in his second childhood. His strength had become enfeebled and his memory impaired. He could not walk down the long gallery of the lodge now or across the grass in the Fellows' garden without assistance; he could not remember the things of yesterday or of last week, but the crabbed characters of his old Semitic manuscripts were still as familiar to him as ever. He had lost a great deal since that stroke of paralysis five years ago, but he had not lost all. He remembered his old friends, and he could pore over his old books, but he was dependent upon his womankind for many things--for most things. Mary Rae opened his letters and conducted his correspondence. She had conducted it so long that she knew more about the college than the Master. She transacted all the college business that had to be transacted in the lodge, and when any public function required the Master's presence in the Senate House Mary Rae took him up to the door on her arm and brought him back. It was also rumoured that she instructed him how to vote. She was assisted in her responsible duties by the Senior Tutor of St. Benedict's, who would in the natural course of things succeed to the office of Master when it should fall vacant. Mary Rae was a handsome woman well on in the thirties. She was a woman who could not help looking handsome at any age, and the few gray hairs that had put in an appearance in the smooth brown bands drawn back from her broad forehead only added a new dignity to her mature beauty. Perhaps the Senior Tutor thought that they supplied the only touch lacking to make Mary Rae a perfect and ideal mistress of a college lodge. It was whispered in the combination room, where the old Fellows met after their Hall dinner, and discussed the affairs of the college over their walnuts and their wine, that when the Master received his last preferment she would not have to pack up her small belongings and leave the lodge. It was one morning early in the Lent term that Mary Rae sat at breakfast in the cheerful bow-windowed room of the lodge. The Doctor's wife still presided over the breakfast table. She was younger than the Doctor, and had worn better. She was still active and cheerful--a bright, gentle, patient old soul, ever watchful and considerate for his comfort, and anticipating his every want. While Mrs. Rae poured out the Master's tea, Mary Rae buttered the Master's toast and read his letters. There were not many letters this morning, but there was one with a black seal that lay uppermost. The writing was unfamiliar, and before opening it Mary glanced at the postmark. 'A letter from Dick, uncle,' she said across the table. She had to speak in rather a high key, as the Doctor was a little deaf, and some days he was deafer than usual. 'What does Dick say, my dear?' he said, smiling at her across the toast she had buttered for him. His voice was not very strong, but there was no North-country burr in it now--a kind, mellow old voice, courteous and gentle in tone, with a quaver in it now and then. 'I have not heard from your uncle Dick for a long time. I am very glad he has written now. I cannot remember when I last heard from him.' 'It is not from Uncle Dick,' said Mary, opening the letter; 'it is from his son--at least, his grandson--Cousin Dick, of Thorpe Regis. Don't you remember, uncle?' 'Ye--es, my dear; and what does Dick say?' Mary read the letter in silence, and looked across the table with a shade of anxiety on her face. 'It is not Cousin Dick who writes; the letter is from his daughter; he had only one daughter--Lucy, little Lucy. You remember her, uncle?' Mary Rae was evidently speaking to gain time, and the shade of anxiety deepened on her face as she spoke. 'Ye--es, I remember, my dear. Lucy was her mother's name; she was called after her mother. What has Lucy got to say about Dick?' 'She has not much to say, uncle; she is writing in great distress. Her father has died, almost suddenly. He was preaching a week ago, and now he is dead. The poor child is writing in great trouble.' 'Dick dead!' the old man repeated with a bewildered air, and putting down his cup with a shaking hand. 'Dick dead, did you say? He was not so many years older than I, and always hale and strong. I ought to have gone first. There were only three of us, and Dick was the eldest.' 'It isn't your brother, Anthony, that is dead; he died long ago, dear. It is his grandson, little Dick--Dickie you used to call him. You had him up here, and he took his degree, and you gave him a college living. You remember little Dickie, Anthony?' His wife's voice recalled his wandering thoughts. 'Yes, yes, my dear; certainly, I remember little Dick very well. He took a second class; he ought to have done better. He disappointed me. I had no son of my own to come after me, and I should have liked my brother Dick's son--grandson, to be sure--to have done well. He did his best, no doubt; but he disappointed me. If he had done better, he might have got a Fellowship. So Dickie is dead, you say, my dear?' 'Yes, uncle; and he has left poor little Lucy unprovided for. She has written to ask you what she ought to do. She wants to go out as a governess--a nursery governess.' 'A nursery governess? Dick's little girl a nursery governess! No, my dear, that will never do. Tell her to come here; there's plenty of room in the lodge for Dick's little girl. Write to her at once, Mary, and tell her as soon--as soon as the funeral is over--her father's funeral--poor little girl!--to come to the lodge. What do you say, Rachel?' 'I wish we could spare Mary to go to her,' the Master's wife said, wiping her eyes. 'Someone ought to fetch her away at once, as soon--as soon as it is all over. I think Mary ought to go to her.' The Senior Tutor met the Master's niece in the court as he was coming away from a lecture during the morning, and she told him all about the letter her uncle had received and the death of his nephew, or, rather, his grand-nephew. 'You remember my cousin Dick?' she said; 'he was my second cousin. I am a generation older than he,' and she smiled at the admission. She was not the least ashamed of her age. The Senior Tutor smiled too; he was thinking how well she wore her years, how her age, or the signs of it, her gray hairs and the lines on her face, became her. She would grow handsomer with the years, he told himself as he stood talking to her in the spring sunshine, and her face would grow finer as time went by: it was a fine face already; it could never by any chance grow plain. He had watched a great many faces grow old in his time--old, and lined, and soured--but he had never seen any face grow finer with the years like this woman's face had grown. 'Yes,' he said, 'I remember your cousin, Richard Rae, very well; he was one of my pupils. He disappointed me, and he disappointed your uncle; he ought to have taken a first class. He went into the Church, and we gave him a college living, I remember--a very small living--and he married, I believe, directly after.' 'He married, and he had a large family and a sickly wife, and very small means. It must have been a hard struggle for him, poor Dick! He lost his wife, and his children died one after the other; there is only one left. And now he is dead, and the girl is left quite alone.' 'Oh, it is a girl,' said the Tutor in a tone of disappointment; 'if it had been a boy we could have done something with him here.' 'Yes,' said Mary, with a sigh; 'pity it's a girl; it would have been so much easier if it had been a boy. She must come here, of course; there is nowhere else for her to go.' 'What will you do with her when she comes?' The Senior Tutor looked grave; the question had come into his head as he stood speaking to Mary, what should he do with this girl of Cousin Dick's when he occupied the Master's place? Of course Mary would stay, and Mrs. Rae--he could not separate the old woman from her niece during her few declining years; she would certainly remain an inmate of the lodge; but this girl? he could not make the college lodge an asylum for all the female members of the Rae family. It was an idiotic question to arise; he was ashamed of it the next moment. 'I think you ought to go to Thorpe Regis,' he said, 'and be with your poor young cousin at this trying time. I will look after the Master while you are away, if that will make the going easier.' 'Ye--es,' said Mary slowly, 'it will make it easier. You really think I ought to go?' There was a hesitation in her tone he could not but note; he put it down at once to her reluctance to leave the old Master. 'Most certainly you ought to go,' he said promptly. 'I will come over to the lodge every day. I will fill your place as far as I can. You are not afraid to leave the Master with me?' 'Oh, no, no! I am sure you will do all, more than all, that I do for him. I was not thinking about him. You are quite sure it is right to bring this girl back here? She is very young, not twenty, and--and she may be----' 'She may be attractive,' said the Senior Tutor with a laugh, 'and turn all our heads. I think, in spite of her attractions, her place is here with you and under her uncle's roof. We must protect ourselves against the wiles of this siren. We must not wear our hearts on our sleeves for Cousin Dick's little daughter to peck at.' CHAPTER II. DICK'S LITTLE DAUGHTER. The Senior Tutor need have been under no apprehension for the men of St. Benedict's. They had no occasion to cover up their sleeves with their academical gowns. Cousin Dick's little daughter showed no inclination to peck at their too susceptible hearts, whether they wore them skewered on to their sleeves or out of sight in their accustomed places. Lucy Rae was too full of her recent loss, the great sorrow that had fallen upon her and swept away all her household gods, to have a thought to spare for the undergraduates of St. Benedict's. It had almost swept away all her moorings, too, but not quite; she still clung tenaciously to one idea--it was all she had left of the old life to cling to: she still desired to be a governess. It was not a very ambitious idea. She wanted to be independent, and earn her own living in the only way that was open to her. She accepted the shelter of the Master's lodge thankfully, but she had no idea of settling down in the dependent position of a poor relation. When she had recovered from this shock, and the horizon cleared, she would find something to do, she told herself, and go away. She was a soft, shy little thing to be so independent. She only looked like a girl to be kissed and petted and comforted; she didn't look at all fit to stand in the front of the battle. She talked over her prospects--her little, humble prospects--with her cousin Mary a few days after her arrival at the lodge. Mary was sitting at the Master's writing-table in the library of the lodge--she was writing some letters on college business--and Lucy was sewing in the window. It was a big gloomy room, and it was not at all a cheerful place for girls to sit in on a chilly spring afternoon. There was a fire burning in the old-fashioned grate behind the brass fire-guard--there were wire guards to all the fires at the lodge since that last seizure of the Master's--but it had burnt low; Mary, who was sitting near it, had been too occupied to notice it, and Lucy's mind was full of her prospects. There had been no sound in the room for some time but the scratching of Mary's pen as it travelled over the paper, and Lucy sewed on in silence. She didn't like sewing, and she put down her work two or three times and yawned or looked out of the window. The window looked out into the Fellows' garden. The sun was shining on the lawn beneath, which was already green with the new green of the year, and the crocuses were aflame in the borders, and the primroses were in bloom. An old Fellow was hobbling slowly and painfully round the garden--a bent, drooping figure in a particularly shabby coat and a tall silk hat of a bygone date. He was lame, Lucy remarked, and dragged one leg behind him. He had a long, lean, sallow face with deep eye-sockets, and his hair was long and gray--it didn't look as if it had been cut for years. Lucy wondered vaguely at seeing this shabby old cripple in the grounds of the lodge; if she had seen him anywhere else she would have taken him for a tramp. He had been a Senior Wrangler in his day, and had taken a double-first; perhaps he was paying the penalty. 'I am very dull company, child,' Mary said, as she blotted her last letter and pushed the writing materials aside. 'I have left you to your thoughts for a whole hour, and we have sat the fire out. What have you been thinking about, Lucy, all this time?' 'Oh, the old thing,' said Lucy, looking up from her work. 'I have been thinking what I can do.' 'Well, and what conclusion have you come to?' 'There is but one conclusion--that--that I can do nothing!' The work dropped from the girl's fingers, and her eyes overflowed. She had wanted an excuse for weeping for the last hour, and now she had got it. 'Oh yes, you can,' Mary said cheerfully; 'the case is not quite so bad as that. You can sew, for one thing. See how nicely you are sewing that frill!' 'I hate sewing! And I shall never wear that frill when I have hemmed it! I can only do useless trumpery things!' Lucy let the poor little bit of white frilling she had been hemming fall to the ground, and she got up and began to walk up and down the room. Mary watched her in silence. It was not the first time her young cousin had shown impatience, but it was the first time she had shown temper--just a little bit of temper. Mary had praised her in the wrong place: she was hurt and angry at this learned, superior cousin implying, with her misplaced praise, that she was only fit to do work--mere woman's work! It was an unusual sound, that rapid pacing to and fro of impatient feet, in that scholarly room. The Master tottered feebly across the floor; the Master's wife moved with slow dignity; Mary walked quietly, with soft, firm footsteps that awoke no echoes. The floor creaked audibly beneath Lucy's rapid, impatient steps; the old boards that had echoed to the slow tread of scholars for so many, many years, shook and trembled--actually trembled--beneath the light impatient footsteps of Cousin Dick's little daughter. The colour that that useless sewing had taken out of Lucy's cheek had come back, and her gray eyes were eager and shining beneath her tears. Mary watched her pacing the room with a smile half of pity, half amused, as she sat at the Master's table. Perhaps she understood the mood. She may have been impatient herself years ago; she had nothing to be impatient for now. Everything was happening as it should do; and when a change came--well, her position would not be materially altered. 'I am sure you can do a great many useful things, dear,' she said presently, when Lucy's little bit of temper had had time to cool. 'You could not have kept your father's house so long, and done the work of the parish, without being able to do more useful things than most girls.' 'I don't mean that kind of usefulness; anyone can do housekeeping and potter about a parish. I hated parish work! I never took the least interest in it; no one could have done it worse than I did. I hated--oh, no one knows how I hated--those Bands of Hope, and Sunday-schools, and mothers' meetings, and visiting dreadful old men and women who would insist upon telling me all about their unpleasant complaints!' Mary looked grave. She was accustomed to hear a great deal about old people's complaints, though she did not do any district visiting. 'Really,' she said gravely, 'most girls like these things! They are over now, and done with, and you will begin afresh. Tell me what you would like to do.' 'Like!' Lucy held her breath as she spoke, and her cheeks grew crimson. 'Oh, I should like to be a scholar, Cousin Mary!' Mary looked at the girl with a kind of pity in her eyes. She had seen a good many scholars in her time, men and women; some of them were as eager once as this girl--eager and impatient with feverish haste to climb the hill of learning; they were hollow-eyed now, and narrow-chested, and their cheeks were sunken and sallow, and some limped like the old scholar in the Fellows' garden--that is, those who had lasted to the end; but some had turned back in time and regained their youth: most likely this girl would turn back. 'You would like to go to a woman's college?' 'I should love to go! I shouldn't mind whether it were Newnham or Girton, whichever uncle thought best. If I could only have three years at a woman's college, I should be provided for for life. I should want nothing further. I should be able to make my own way. Oh, Mary, do you think he will let me go?' She was very much in earnest. She had stopped running up and down the room in that ridiculous manner. She was standing beside the table with both her hands pressed down upon it and her little lithe figure bending eagerly forward. Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks glowing, and her lips parted. She looked exactly as if she were making a speech. The door opened as she was standing there, and the Senior Tutor came in. He shook hands with Mary, and he nodded across the table to Lucy. He thought he had interrupted a scene. 'I saw the Master as I came up,' he said, speaking to Mary; 'he had just finished his nap. He asked me to tell you that he was quite ready to take a turn in the garden, if you would put on your hat. I think you should go at once to catch the sunshine. You'll get it on the broad walk if you go now.' Mary rose at once. 'It is lucky I have finished my work,' she said, glancing down at the little pile of letters, sealed and stamped ready for the post, that lay on the table. 'Poor little Lucy here was telling me about her plans. If you can spare time, Mr. Colville, sit down and talk them over with her, and advise her what she ought to do, while I am in the garden.' The Senior Tutor could spare time; and after he had opened the door for Mary, he came back to the window that overlooked the garden and sat down. He did not belong to the old school of Cambridge Dons. He belonged to that newer school that came in a quarter of a century ago with athletics. He was not lean and hollow-eyed, and wrinkled and yellow, like a musty old parchment, and he hadn't a stoop in his shoulders, and he didn't drag one of his legs behind him. He had rowed 'five' in his college boat, and his shoulders were as square now as ever. His shoulders were square, and his forehead was square, and his iron-gray hair was closely cut--it was only iron-gray still--and he had tremendous bushy eyebrows that, Lucy thought, made him look like an ogre, and that frightened the undergraduates dreadfully, and close-cut iron-gray whiskers, and a big red throat like a bull. His throat had not always been red; he had been mild-looking enough in his youth; but he was now a portly, pompous Don of middle age, with a florid countenance and fierce aspect. 'Well,' he said in his easy, patronizing way, as if he were speaking to a freshman who had just come up, 'and what do you propose to do, Miss Lucy?' The colour went out of the girl's cheeks, and the long eyelashes drooped over her eager eyes, and her pretty little slender figure grew limp, and she didn't look the least like making a speech now. 'I am sure I don't know,' she said meekly, and she went back and sat on her old seat in the window on the opposite side to the Senior Tutor. It was a big bay-window, and there was a table between them littered with pamphlets and manuscripts in Semitic languages. The girl tossed them over as she sat there with a gesture of impatience. They were sealed books to her. 'What were you discussing with your cousin Ma--ry when I came in?' He lingered over the name, and prolonged the last syllable. He seemed loath to let it go. 'I was telling her that I should like to go to a woman's college--to Newnham or Girton.' 'Exactly.' The Tutor nodded his head. He was listening to the girl, but he was looking out of the window. 'No one is educated now--no woman--who does not go to Newnham, or Girton, or Oxford. No one has any chance of success in teaching who has not taken a place in a Tripos or done something in a University examination.' The Senior Tutor was smiling, but he was only giving her half his attention. 'And what Tripos do you propose to take?' he asked in his bland, superior, lecture-room manner. 'I? Oh, I don't think I shall ever be clever enough to take a Tripos; but I might learn something--a little. I might learn enough to pass the--the--Little----' 'The Little-go?' suggested the Tutor; 'or, more properly speaking, the "Previous."' 'Yes; papa used to talk about the Little-go. He had dreadful difficulty in passing it. I should be quite satisfied if I could pass the Little-go.' 'I don't think you will find any difficulty in passing it,' he said. 'I do not remember that your father had any special difficulty; I was his tutor. He disappointed me in the Tripos. With his great gifts he ought to have done better.' It was Lucy's turn to smile now, and to sigh. 'Poor papa!' she said; 'there was a reason for his failure. Perhaps you did not know.' 'No; I knew of no reason.' 'He had just met my mother, and--and he was in love. She got between him and his mathematics; he could think of nothing but my mother. Oh, if you had known her, you would not have wondered.' The Senior Tutor looked across the table with a new interest in his eyes at the sweet downcast face. If her mother had been like her, he didn't wonder at poor Richard Rae getting only a second class in his Tripos. 'Are you quite sure that you will not fail from the same cause? are you sure that at the momentous time you will not do like your father--that you will not fall in love?' 'No--o,' said Lucy gravely; 'I don't think I shall fall in love. I don't think Girton girls do very often.' 'They do sometimes. They generally end by marrying their coaches.' Lucy looked shocked. 'They can't _all_ marry their coaches.' 'No, not all--only the weak ones. The superior minds never sink to the low level of matrimony.' Lucy was quite sure he was laughing at her. 'I am not likely to need a coach,' she said stiffly; 'I shall never be clever enough to take a Tripos. I shall be content to pass the--the--the "Previous."' She was going to say 'Little-go,' but she remembered he had called it the 'Previous,' and she checked herself in time. 'We shall see. You will have to begin with the "Previous" in any case. You need not take it all at once: there are three parts; you can take them at different times.' 'I should prefer to take them all at once.' 'But if you are going no farther, if you are going to stop at the "Previous," why should you be in such a hurry to get it over?' 'I don't know. It might be as well to get it over; but I have to get into Girton or Newnham first; I don't know that they will have me; and I have to get my uncle's consent.' She hadn't fallen naturally into the custom of the lodge of calling Dr. Rae 'the Master' yet. It came easier to say 'uncle.' 'There will be an entrance examination,' the Tutor said, looking out of window and watching the Master walking in the garden below leaning on Mary's arm. 'I believe it is nearly as stiff as the "Previous" and takes in the same subjects. You will have to pass an examination before you can become a student at either college.' 'Do you know what the subjects are?' she asked eagerly; 'could you--could you get me the papers?' He hardly heard her; his heart was out in that wet garden with Mary. How very indiscreet of the Master at his age to walk over the damp grass! He was actually sitting down on the bench under the walnut-tree. Lucy followed the direction of the Tutor's eyes, but she only saw the Master sitting in the sunshine. A tall, lean figure bent with age, with white, silvery hair falling over the velvet collar of his coat, and his rugged, worn old face turned up to the sun. The figure of the old scholar sitting on the old bench in the sunshine beneath the branches of the old, old tree, where he had sat in sunshine and in shade, oh, so many, many years, had no poetry for her. She only wondered, as she saw him sitting there, lifting his dim eyes to the sinking sun, whether he would let her go to Newnham. The Senior Tutor didn't see any poetry in the situation, either. He was sure the old Master was catching a dreadful cold; and he was wondering whether Mary had changed her slippers. 'Could you get me a copy of the papers set at the last examination?' Lucy asked meekly. 'Yes, oh yes,' he said absently; 'I'll try to remember; but I think I must go down now and bring the Master in: I am sure he is taking cold.' CHAPTER III. ONLY A FRESHER. It was rather hard work to persuade the old Master of St. Benedict's that Lucy ought to go to Newnham. He belonged to the old school--he was almost the last left of that school--that did not believe very much in women. He believed in a girl learning to sew, and to spell, and play a little air on the piano--he was very fond of 'Annie Laurie,' he could listen to it by the hour; he went so far, indeed, as the three R's in a woman's education--and he stopped there. He had no sympathy whatever in the movement for the higher education of Women--spelt with a big W. He had voted consistently all his life against women being admitted to any of the privileges of the University, against their being allowed to take degrees; he had even voted against their being 'placed.' He regarded every concession made to the weaker sex as a step towards that dreadful time when a female Vice-Chancellor will confer degrees in the Senate House, and a lady D.D. will occupy the University pulpit. With these views, and with his prejudices growing stronger rather than weaker with the years, it was no wonder that Mary Rae had great difficulty in reconciling the Master to the idea of Lucy becoming a student of Newnham. He had to look at the question all round, from every point of view, and he had to talk it over a great many times. Sometimes he talked it over with himself after dinner, when he woke up from his nap, or didn't quite wake up; and sometimes he talked it over with his nieces. 'I don't think your father would approve of it, my dear,' he said one day when he was talking 'it' over with Lucy. 'He was a plain man, he hadn't the advantages of education that I had; but he had what served him just as well, he had common-sense. He knew what was wanted in a woman. A woman, he used to say, ought to be able to milk, and make butter, and bring up a family. Dick's wife could do all these, and her poultry was noted in all the country round.' Lucy sighed. She had no ambition to make butter and bring up a family, and she had a distinct aversion to poultry. She hated cocks and hens and broods of yellow downy chickens. She remembered how they used always to be getting into the Vicarage garden and digging up her flower-seeds. 'I am afraid I couldn't get my living by making butter, uncle,' she said meekly, 'or milking cows.' She never could remember to say 'Master,' like everybody else. 'No, my dear, no; I suppose not. Some girls have the knack of it, and some women, I've heard my mother say, may churn for hours and the butter will refuse to come. Dick's wife, your mother, my dear----' 'Great-grandmother,' murmured Lucy almost inaudibly. The Master hated to be contradicted, and he was always telling her that these far-off ancestors were her father and mother, this humble ploughman and his homely wife. There had been two generations of culture between, and Lucy had quite forgotten, until her uncle reminded her, that her great-grandmother used to carry her eggs and her butter to market. The worst of it was he used to tell everybody it was her mother. 'Yes, yes,' the Master repeated testily; 'my memory is not what it was. But it does not much matter which. She was a good woman; she did her duty here; she brought up a long family--nine children--and she has gone to her reward. She did not know a word of Greek or Latin, and she only knew enough mathematics to reckon up the price of eggs; but if she had gone to Girton or Newnham she could not have done more. She did her duty here; after all, that is the great thing, my dear. There is nothing else that will bring comfort at the last.' It was a delightful reflection. It comforted the old scholar who had done his duty in this place for over sixty years, who had done it so well that by common consent men called him Master; but it didn't comfort Lucy at all. She was quite prepared to do her duty, only she wanted to do it in her own way. There were other difficulties in the way of Lucy going to Newnham beside the Master's prejudices. There was a dreadful ordeal to be gone through before those sacred portals would be opened to admit her. There was the entrance examination. The Senior Tutor was as good as his word; he brought Lucy over the very next day, not only the papers set at the last 'Previous' examination, but a copy of the last Newnham entrance papers. The next examination was to take place in March, and it was now the middle of February, and there were only a few weeks to prepare for it. Lucy looked hurriedly through the papers while the Tutor stood by, and he saw her face fall and the pretty April colour, which was Lucy's especial charm, go out of her cheeks. 'They are stiffer than you thought,' he said. He couldn't help putting a little feeling into his voice; he couldn't help being sorry for the girl. He could see she was dreadfully disappointed. 'I did not think they would be so hard,' she said, with something like a sob, and striving to keep back the tears; 'I had no idea that so much was required.' Her voice was scarcely steady, and she finished up with a little wail--she couldn't keep it out of her voice--and she laid the papers down. 'You don't think you can do them?' 'No, I am sure I can't.' 'Not if you work hard--very hard?--you have three weeks before you--not if I help you?' 'You! Oh, Mr. Colville!' The colour leaped back into her face, and her eyes brightened. She was quite trembling with eagerness. 'If you think with three weeks' hard work you can get through, I will help you,' he said. It was something new to the Senior Tutor to have a pupil so eager and willing. The eyes of the undergraduates of St. Benedict's were not accustomed to brighten or their cheeks to flush when he proposed to give them a few hours' extra coaching. 'I am sure I can!' she said eagerly; 'and--and you are sure, Mr. Colville, you will not mind the trouble? I am a very slow learner, but I will do my best, my very best.' 'I am sure you will,' he said; and then he noticed that little helpless quivering about her lips that touched him with quite a new sensation. He had never seen Mary's lips quiver. 'It will be no trouble,' the Tutor said softly in quite a different voice; he even noticed the difference himself, with a strange sense of wonder. 'I shall be very glad to be of use to you.' He had often been of use to Mary. She always consulted him about the college business; she made use of him every day; but his voice had never faltered nor his cheek grown warm when he had offered to help her with the Master's correspondence. Lucy began her work the next day. She turned out from the little shabby box she had brought with her to the lodge some well-thumbed old school-books. Small as the box was, it contained all her personal belongings, and the books were at the bottom of the box. Like Jacob, she had come into a strange land with very little personal impedimenta. It could all, everything, be stuffed into one small box, and the books were at the bottom. The books were shabby, like the box. They had belonged to her father, and she had read them with him. There were his old Virgil and Xenophon, and a dilapidated Euclid with all the riders missing, and an old-fashioned Algebra. There had been newer editions since Richard Rae had used these in his college days more than twenty years ago. There had been delightful editions full of notes, and directing-posts along the royal road to a classical education; but Lucy had been plodding along the old, rough, dusty way. The Senior Tutor smiled as he turned over these old books. They brought back to him the old days twenty years ago, the hopes and dreams of those early days, and the familiar faces. The dreams had been realized--at least, some of them--but the familiar faces had faded with the years, and the hopes--what could a man hope for beyond being Master of his college? Nevertheless, the Senior Tutor sighed. The sight of these old books had carried him a long way back. 'I think we can find some newer editions than these,' he said, smiling. He not only found some newer, but he found the very newest. He found delightful books that smoothed away all the difficulties and made stony places plain. There will be a royal road to learning by-and-by. The road is getting smoother every day, and the way is getting shorter--a short, straight, macadamized road that one can travel over without any jolting or sudden pulls-up. Old scholars who remember the dear old rough road, and the stony ways, and the hills of difficulty they had to climb, sigh when they look back. There is no time now, in these hurrying days, to toil over stones and climb unnecessary heights. The new ways are so much better than the old; but the old men, if they were to begin again, would go the old way, the dear old way, with all its difficulties. They will still tell you the old ways are best. Lucy Rae was not a scholar yet, though the desire of her heart was to be one--a perfect Hypatia--and the new royal road was exactly what she wanted. She made such rapid progress by means of these short-cuts and easy paths the Senior Tutor led her through that she was quite ready for that dreaded entrance examination when it came. She did as well in it as the girls who had been working for it for years. There was nothing now to prevent her becoming a student of Newnham. Cousin Mary had talked the old Master over and smoothed away all the difficulties. She had wrung from him an unwilling consent. The Senior Tutor had done his part, too, in overcoming the Master's prejudices. He had backed Mary up in the most loyal manner; no girl could have had better advocates. When the Doctor had urged that there had been no precedent in his family of girls construing Latin and Greek when they ought to be making butter and carrying their eggs to market, the Tutor had reminded him that neither had there been a precedent in all the generations of the Raes of one of their number being the Master of a college. He, on his part, had set up a precedent, and Dick's little daughter was going to set up another--perhaps a more astonishing precedent. Lucy Rae went up to Newnham the next term. She ought to have waited until October, when the academical year commences, but she was much too anxious to begin at once. She couldn't wait till October. She had taken a little draught of the divine nectar, and she was thirsting to drink deeply, ever so deeply--deeper than any woman had ever drunk yet. She was going to do very big things, and she couldn't afford to lose a minute. She would gain a whole term's work if she went up now, she would get in ten terms' work instead of nine, like the men, for her Tripos. She would get a whole term's start of them. With this thirst upon her, and this emulation stirring in her heart, Lucy packed her little box and carried it up to Newnham. She did not exactly carry it in her arms like a housemaid going to a new place. It was not far to carry it, and for the weight of it she might have carried it easily, but girls do not generally go to Newnham carrying a bandbox, or a bundle tied up in a coloured pocket-handkerchief, and with two out-at-elbow little brothers lagging behind carrying a shabby box between them. Lucy, alas! had not two out-at-elbow little brothers, and she had respect for the feelings of Newnham, so she drove up to the door of Newe Hall in a hansom, with her modest little box on the roof. She thought it was the happiest, the proudest day of her life, this first day at Newnham. She had been looking forward to it for weeks. She had lain awake all the night before picturing what it would be like, and it was not the least like anything she had pictured. She had pictured sunshine and a blue sky, and the lilacs in the hedge budding, and the daffodils blowing beneath the windows. It was the middle of April, and she had a right to expect these things; it was very little to expect. It had been raining cheerfully all the morning, and it was raining still when the hansom drew up at the gate of St. Benedict's; it couldn't draw up at the door of the lodge, because college lodges are cut off from the outside world by cloistered courts, and even royalty, when it visits the master of a college, has to leave its carriage at the gate and perform the rest of the journey on foot. Lucy met Mr. Colville in the cloisters as she was hurrying through, and he put her into the hansom, and he told the man where to drive, and quite a crowd of undergraduates, who had come up early in the term, stood round the gate watching her drive away. It was quite a new thing, a girl going from St. Benedict's to Newnham. It was the newest thing under the sun. No daughter, niece or granddaughter of any Master of St. Benedict's had ever driven from those gates before to Newnham. Perhaps when there is a mixed University, and a female president at the lodge, they will not have to go so far; they may find rooms beneath the same roof. Who shall say? Lucy couldn't have driven away with more depressing surroundings. The sky couldn't have been grayer, and the trees were shivering overhead, and the hedges were dripping, and there was a nasty mist settling down over everything. She forgot all about the lilacs and the daffodils she had been picturing as she stood, a forlorn little black figure, in the big, cheerless vestibule of Newe Hall, paying the driver of the hansom. There was no one at Newnham to receive her, no one to show her to her room, only a housemaid, who went away directly she reached the door. She didn't even open the door of the room; she only pointed to it and went away in another direction. It was a little bare room, it couldn't have been barer. There was a couch that served for a bed, a bureau with some drawers beneath, a table, a couple of chairs, and a thinly disguised washstand with imperfect crockery; and that was all. Unless, indeed, a chintz curtain drawn across a corner of the room for hanging gowns behind could be called a wardrobe. There was no fire, and the barred windows were steaming and blurred with the mist outside, and the raw spring afternoon was closing in. Lucy shivered and looked round the desolate room. She didn't know what she was expected to do next, or how she was to begin this new life. She was a member of the University now, she told herself with bated breath; she was really a female undergraduate, and she had got to begin as undergraduates began. Should she begin with lighting the fire? While she was debating this point, and drawing off her gloves, a girl came in. She had left the door open so that anyone passing could look in and see her standing there, and the girl passing by looked in and saw her, and something in her attitude touched her, and she came in. Perhaps it was her black frock and her white face. 'Can I do anything for you?' she said. She didn't throw any sympathy into her voice; they never do at Newnham. 'I've got a kettle boiling if you'd like some water, or'--looking round the bare room and seeing that Lucy's things were not unpacked--'perhaps you'd rather have some tea.' 'Ye--es,' Lucy said quite thankfully; 'I would rather have some tea, please.' 'Then come into my room.' Lucy followed the girl, a solid-looking girl with no profile to speak of, and a turned-up nose and violent red hair. She had not to follow her far, only across the passage. There was a card slipped into a frame in the door of the room, and the name of the occupant was written on it--'Stubbs.' 'That's my name,' said the girl, pointing to it; 'Maria Stubbs--Capability Stubbs they call me. I suppose you are a fresher?' 'Yes,' said Lucy, 'I'm a fresher; I've only just come up. My name is Rae--Lucy Rae.' 'Not a bad name; but you won't have any use for it here. They'll call you Lucifer most likely; they don't call anybody by their right name here.' Maria Stubbs' room was unlike most Newnham rooms. It was distinctly utilitarian. There was nothing æsthetic about it. The most prominent thing in it was a bookshelf full of books, and there was a cabinet in one corner with a lot of narrow drawers, which Lucy found out after were crammed with specimens. A bright fire was burning in the little tiled grate, and a cloth was spread, and some tea-things were laid on the flap of the bureau, which was let down for the purpose, and there were some cakes in one of the pigeon-holes. 'Take off your hat and sit down,' said Maria, drawing a low chair to the fire; 'there's nothing to hurry for, they won't bring in your things for a long time; they never hurry themselves at Newnham.' 'I don't think I ought to take off my things until I've seen someone,' said Lucy. 'There's Miss Wrayburne I certainly ought to see. Perhaps she doesn't know I'm here.' The girl laughed--or cackled, rather; there wasn't the least fun in her laugh. 'Perhaps not,' she said, as she busied herself about making the tea; 'and I don't think it would make any difference if she did. You don't think the Dons are running about the college all day long shaking hands with the girls? You'll see Miss Wrayburne at the "High" at dinner, and she'll say "How d'ye do?" and smile--she always smiles--and that's all.' 'I didn't know,' Lucy said humbly. 'I'm only a fresher, you see; I shall know better soon. But it struck me as a very chilling reception.' Miss Stubbs cackled in her unfeeling way. 'Chilling! that's lovely! You've come to the wrong place if you expect any warmth at Newnham, or sympathy either. It would be nothing better than a big girls' school if we were always "How-d'ye-doing" and shaking hands with each other--we should get to _kissing_ soon! Thank goodness there is no spooning here! We are barely civil to each other; and we make a point of ignoring everybody if we meet 'em out-of-doors. I hope you won't, on the strength of this tea, nod to me if you happen to run against me in the street, because I shan't notice you.' 'No,' said Lucy, 'I certainly won't nod to you.' She didn't say it at all humbly, but she drank Miss Stubbs' tea. It was very good tea for Newnham. CHAPTER IV. PAMELA GWATKIN. Lucy saw the Principal, as Miss Stubbs had said, at dinner. She came into the hall rather late, and took her seat at the High table. It is necessary to spell it with a capital H, as it is distinctly a proper noun, and in Newnham parlance, like the tables in men's colleges where the Dons eat their dinners, it is known as the 'High.' Miss Wrayburne came in rather late, after the rest were seated, and took her place at the head of the 'High,' and then followed a moment's interval for grace, and then the murmur of tongues began--a low, distinctly female murmur, and occasionally a laugh--a little low laugh. There was a good deal of talk to-day, as everybody had come up fresh, and the atmosphere of the vacation was still about them, and nobody had begun work yet. They would unpack their books by-and-by, and then everything would be changed. Lucy did not know a soul in the place, except Maria Stubbs, and she sat at another table. She sat quite at the other end of the room, and never once looked Lucy's way, and brushed by her in the corridor as if she had never seen her before. 'She needn't be afraid I shall notice her, the horrid red-haired thing!' Lucy said to herself with quite unnecessary warmth, when Maria looked the other way. 'I wouldn't notice her for the world!' There were quite half a dozen tables between her and Maria, long narrow tables, with some half-dozen girls at each--girls who ignored everybody else except their own set, and talked across a stranger as if she were a dummy. They talked across Lucy, and she listened to their talk with a red spot burning on her cheeks and her heart beating. She had not much appetite for the dinner, and she got up from the table with a strange choking sensation that brought the tears smarting to her eyes. She took some comfort in the thought that some day she would talk across a fresher. Her turn would come some day; and while her mind was occupied with this agreeable reflection Miss Wrayburne smiled at her, and said: 'How do you do?' 'How do you do?' may mean a great deal, or it may mean nothing. It didn't mean very much from Miss Wrayburne's lips, and the smile that accompanied it meant less. If it had been a whole smile, or a smile meant entirely for Lucy, there might have been something in it; but it was only the fag-end of a smile that had already been distributed over half a dozen girls. Lucy accepted it meekly; and with those red spots burning on her cheeks and a choky feeling in her throat she went back to her room--her little desolate, bare room. She felt so utterly miserable and lonely on this wretched first night that she sat down on the side of her bed and had a little weep. Everything was so different to what she had expected; all her castles had been so rudely thrown down. And then, while she was weeping these foolish tears, she remembered a little curate--a weak-minded young man with red hair; perhaps Miss Stubbs had recalled him--who had once asked her to be his wife. She had refused him indignantly. What girl in her senses would accept a curate with red hair and one hundred and fifty pounds a year? She was not sure, if he had come to her now as she sat in that dismal room, feeling so utterly lonely and miserable, that she would have given him the same answer. She wanted a little love so much; and he loved her in spite of his red hair. She was not so certain, after all, that the higher education of women is quite the best thing--the thing most to be desired in the world. There are other things--she had not thought of them till now, as she sat weeping at the edge of the bed--that make up a woman's life: love, religion, duty, ministering to the wants of others; but love chiefly. She was not sure, after all, if this was not the _summum bonum_ of a woman's life. Lucy was so utterly miserable as she sat there weeping that, if the red-haired curate had come to her at that weak moment, she would have thrown over all her ambitions, she would have given up the higher education altogether, and she would have gone away with him to that poor little moorland cottage, and pinched, and pared, and slaved for him, as dear women before her have pinched and slaved for those they love ever since the world began. While she was still thinking of the curate, and the tears were dropping into her lap, there was a knock at the door, and someone came in. Lucy started guiltily, and hurriedly wiped her eyes. It was not the red-headed curate. It was a girl--to be more correct, a woman. Everybody is a woman at Newnham. A second-year girl, who had called to see if she could help her to unpack her things and get her room in order. It wasn't a formal 'call.' Calls at Newnham are usually made after ten p.m., when work is supposed to be over and one is yearning for bed. The second-year girl was a little bit of a thing--smaller than Lucy. A girl who looked as if she had shrunk--as if she had once been round, and plump, and bright-eyed, and soft-cheeked, and red-lipped as a girl ought to be at twenty. She was none of these things now. She was lean and angular; her eyes were dull, her lips were pale, and her cheeks had lost all their youthful roundness and rosiness, if they had ever had any. The roundness had gone into her figure, her back was quite round, her shoulders were bent and stooping, and her chest was narrow and flat like a board. She had been at Newnham two years, and she was twenty now, and wore glasses, but, alas! not 'sweet and twenty.' She looked exactly like a girl who had used up all her brains. 'I think you have made a mistake,' she said, as she knelt upon the ground unpacking Lucy's books, 'in taking Classics. You should take the Natural Science Tripos. Classics are a thing of the past. They are quite worn out. They will be superseded altogether shortly. Soon--very soon--Latin and Greek will not be compulsory in the examinations; we shall have more useful subjects. Life is so short--so very short' (she was just twenty)--'that we have no time for learning things that will not help us in the rush. Life is getting more of a rush every day, and Science is the only thing that can help us forward. There is no knowing where Science will lead us!' She clasped her hands, and gasped at the bare thought of it. 'No,' said Lucy, in a low-spirited way. She hadn't the least interest where Science was going to lead the girl on the floor--it wasn't likely to lead her very far--but she did object to see her pet Classics turned out of the box in that scornful way. 'You will learn all this trash,' the girl continued, opening the pages of Lucy's Euripides and letting the leaves drop through her fingers as if they were not of very much account, 'and you will pore over these rubbishy stories of a quite barbarous age--stories and fables and metamorphoses that, if they were written at the present time, would lay the writer open to a prosecution for perverting the public morals. You will soak your mind with all this nonsense and impurity, and you will think that you have attained culture. Oh, to think how girls waste their lives!' 'I'm sure Classics are ever so much nicer than Natural Science,' Lucy said with some spirit. 'Look at the dreadful subjects you have to study! and to sit side by side with men in lecture-rooms, and listen to lectures on things most women would blush to speak of! Oh, I wouldn't be a Natural Science student for the world!' The atmosphere of Newnham was beginning to tell. A few hours ago Lucy was as meek as a mouse, and if anyone had slapped her on one cheek she would have been quite ready to offer the other. Now she had plucked up sufficient spirit to defend her choice of a Tripos. If Newnham doesn't do anything else for a girl, it teaches her to take her own part. Lucy didn't learn the lesson all at once. It takes a long time to learn, when one has been brought up in the old-fashioned way, to consider other people first and to think of self last. It would never do to practise such a foolish doctrine at a college for women. There is only one person to consider--self, self, self! Lucy had a great deal to unlearn when she came to Newnham, and a great deal to learn; and she did not learn it all at once. She had always had somebody else to consider first, and now it was ever Number One. Oh, that horrid Number One! Everybody called upon her in Newe Hall the first week, and some of the girls from the other Halls called later on. The girls at Newe called generally after ten o'clock at night, when she was too sleepy to talk to them, and they went away and voted her 'stupid,' and took no further trouble about her. Among the girls who called upon Lucy when she was nearly asleep, and went away and voted her stupid, was Pamela Gwatkin, a girl who was much looked up to and worshipped at Newnham. It was no wonder Pamela thought her stupid. She was the leader of the most advanced set in the college, and held opinions that would make one's hair stand on end. There will be a good many Pamela Gwatkins by-and-by, when there are more Newnhams and the world is ripe for them. They will quite revolutionize society. They will not be misunderstood like the Greek women of old. Nobody will question their morals because they seek to lead and teach men. Men will be quite willing to be taught by them. It will no longer be a shame for a woman to speak or preach in public. There will be nothing to debar them from taking orders. Women have proved long ago that they can reach beyond such heights of scholarship as are demanded from a candidate for ordination. But women of Pamela Gwatkin's order will not go into the pulpit--their demands will be even more audacious. Lucy hadn't any opinions in particular, she was only a fresher; but she was such a poor-spirited creature that she went with the herd and worshipped the very ground that Pamela Gwatkin walked upon. She hadn't even the excuse of a nodding acquaintance with her after that unlucky call--she only caught glimpses of her at a distant table at Hall, or met her by chance in the library, or ran against her in the streets, coming and going from lectures, when Pamela looked over her head in her superior way and ignored her completely. She could very well look over Lucy's head, for she stood six feet in her shoes--they had rather high heels. A tall, fair girl, not plump or round by any means, nor rosy-cheeked--she was not a milkmaid; she was an advanced thinker--but lithe, and elastic, and dignified--very dignified. Lucy thought she had never seen anyone so dignified in her life as Pamela on the night of the first debate of the term at Newnham. She opened the debate on this particular evening--it happened to be some question of woman's rights which she was always advocating--and she spoke for half an hour without a single pause or hitch. Some people confess that they cannot bear to hear a woman speak; that when a woman stands up to speak in public it always gives them the sensation of cold water running down their backs. No one who listened to Pamela Gwatkin would have this uncomfortable sensation for a moment. It seemed as if she had been made to stand up in public; as if Nature had intended her for a female orator, and had given her the voice--the clear, penetrating, resonant voice--the quiet, assured manner, the full, free flow of words, without which no woman may attempt to stand on a public platform. Pamela Gwatkin had all these rare gifts, and she had opinions--very advanced opinions--on every subject under the sun--religion, morals, science, philosophy--nothing came amiss to her. When women are admitted into Parliament she will probably represent an important constituency, perhaps the University. Lucy, looking down from the gallery above, listened breathlessly, and when the debate was over watched her sailing down the hall in her pale violet gown, with the soft folds of her train gliding noiselessly after her. They didn't rustle and sweep like the frills and furbelows of the other girl, who came _frou-frouing_ down the room, pencil in hand, counting the votes. She might have spared her pains; of course, every girl in her senses voted with Pamela. There was a dance as usual after the debate, and the unique spectacle of fifty female couples spinning round untainted by the arm of man. Pamela Gwatkin danced as well as she spoke, but she didn't put any enthusiasm into it. She took it as the least troublesome way of taking exercise, but she didn't put any spirit into it. She didn't smile once all the evening, except in a weary, disdainful way when her partner broke down or fell out of the ring. She never broke down or fell out herself, and when she had tired out one girl she took up another. Lucy remarked that she always chose small girls--the smallest girls she could find--and that they were invariably 'gentlemen.' Lucy was wondering how ever they could drag her round, when, to her consternation, Pamela stopped in front of her. She had worn out all the other small girls in the room, and she had to fall back upon Lucy. The silly little thing stood up in quite a flutter. If a Royal Highness had asked her to dance she could not have been more flattered. Of course, she would take 'gentleman'! She told the most outrageous fibs, and said she preferred being 'gentleman;' she always chose it when she had the chance. After she had dragged Pamela round until she was fit to faint, and had ascertained how hard her whalebones were, and how regular her breathing, and that her favourite perfume was heliotrope, and that dancing with a goddess whose chin was on a level with the top of her head was not all pure bliss, she had her reward. Annabel Crewe, the Natural Science girl, asked her to 'cocoa' after the dancing was over, and here she met Pamela. It was Lucy's first experience of a Newnham 'cocoa.' There was quite a spread on Annabel Crewe's little writing-table--sweets and cakes and fruit, and cups brimming over with the nectar of Newnham. Pamela Gwatkin came in last; there was a crowd of girls in the room when she came in, filling it quite up, and occupying all the chairs and the ottoman and both sides of the bed. There was an art covering thrown over the bed embroidered with dragons, and a cushion with an impossible monster with a flaming tail; nobody but a Newnham girl would have dreamed it was a bed. Lucy was occupying a low cushiony-chair--the nicest chair in the room--and she got up directly Pamela came in and gave it up to her. She accepted it in her superior way, and flopped down into it as if it were in the order of things for everyone to make place for her. Then that wretched little sycophant, Lucy, waited upon her in her servile way, as if she were nothing short of a Royal Princess. She brought her her cocoa, and sweets, and cakes, and fruit. She positively snatched them from the other girls to offer them to Pamela, and be snubbed for her pains. She hadn't the spirit of a mouse. Everybody was talking at once, and there was such a clatter of tongues that Lucy couldn't have heard the goddess speak if she had deigned to speak to her. She did deign just before the party broke up. Lucy hadn't anywhere to sit, and she was tired out with dragging Pamela round, and she had found an idiotic three-legged milking-stool, and she was trying to sit upon it. It was an objectionable stool; in the first place, it had been painted with yellow buttercups, and varnished before the paint was dry. It was not dry yet, and it stuck to Lucy's black gown and left a proof impression of the buttercups on the back. In the second place, the legs hadn't been stuck in firmly, and it wobbled under her weight and threatened to collapse every moment. Lucy sat in fear and trembling, trying to look as if she were quite comfortable and used to wobbling, and while she sat the goddess spoke: 'I have a brother at St. Benedict's,' she said; 'I dare say you know him; he is in his third year.' Lucy murmured that she hadn't that pleasure; she didn't know any undergraduates. 'No, I suppose not,' Pamela said wearily--she generally spoke wearily, as if commonplace subjects were beneath her. 'They are an uninteresting class; only Eric is so quixotic; he does such absurd things that I should not have thought he could have been anywhere long without being known and laughed at.' 'Really!' said Lucy, in rather a shocked voice; she didn't know what else to say. 'It was one of his absurdities to come up here as an undergraduate. He had qualified--fully qualified--for another profession. He was a doctor, and when he had passed all his examinations, after seven years' work, he threw it all up. He found out that he had missed his right vocation. He had some absurd notion that he was specially called for the Church--that the Church couldn't do without him--and so he has come up here.' Pamela spoke scornfully, with her thin upper lip curling, and just a suspicion of pink in her face--her beautiful worn, weary face. 'Perhaps he has done right,' said Lucy. 'A man ought never to go into the Church unless he feels that he is called. Papa might have been Senior Wrangler, but he felt his vocation was the Church. He gave up everything for it, and----' 'And mamma' she was going to say, but she looked at Pamela and stopped short. 'It would be all very well if the Church were going to last,' she said wearily; 'but it isn't. Everybody knows that it isn't. Nobody but women and children believe in it now. Its methods are all exploded; its teaching is preposterous; it has had its day, like other beliefs, and now a new day is dawning. Oh, it was ridiculous of Eric to go into the Church just as it was falling to pieces!' Lucy was past expressing an opinion. The milking-stool had collapsed. The three idiotic legs had all gone different ways; it had fallen quite to pieces, like the Church was going to, and Lucy was seated on the floor. CHAPTER V. AFTER CHAPEL. The day succeeding the debate was Sunday, and Lucy went over to St. Benedict's to morning chapel. She was so glad to go. It was quite a relief to get outside Newnham and shake from her skirts the atmosphere of so much learning. It was a distinct relief to take her place in the stalls of St. Benedict's and look down upon the men who took life so much more easily. She was only just in time for the college chapel. The bell was going as she crossed the court, and the men were hurrying in in their white surplices. They were all smiling and debonair. There wasn't a single cloud on the brow of one of them, except the cloud of last night's tobacco. They were lusty and strong and fresh-coloured, and some of them had frames like giants; and they came across the court with a swinging stride, and health and life and vigour in every movement. Men take things so much more easily than women. The choir and the Master came in directly after Lucy had taken her seat. The Master looked across his wife and Mary, who sat between them, and nodded to Lucy. 'Very glad to see you, my dear,' he said in quite an audible voice. It was a longer service than usual at St. Benedict's on Sunday mornings. The Master read the Litany, and he took a long time in reading it, and Lucy had plenty of opportunity of looking among the men for Pamela Gwatkin's brother. He was a twin brother, she had learned from Annabel Crewe, who knew all about Pamela, and therefore he ought to be exactly like her. Tall and fair and thin-lipped, with clear, steady eyes--blue ought to be the colour, or gray, she was not sure which; but she could not mistake the profile. There could be no doubt about that clear-cut face, without an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it. Lucy looked at the men eagerly one after the other; she looked at every man in the chapel. The Senior Tutor from his stall on the other side saw her looking down at the men. She didn't look at him, and he wondered at the change in her. Her eyes were not wont to rove over the faces of the men sitting below in that eager way; they might have all been sticks and stones for the notice Lucy had hitherto vouchsafed them. Was this the outcome of a week at Newnham? Had she seen so much--so very, very much--of women in her new developments that she was thirsting for the sight of man? Cousin Mary saw her looking down at the undergraduates in the seat below, too, and sighed. She remembered the time when she used to look across the benches. She had seen so many generations of undergraduates come and go in fifteen years. She may have looked more than once in all that time to see if among them there was that one face that was to be her beacon through life; she had ceased to look for it now. Lucy had decided before she left the chapel that the man in the third row near the top was Pamela's brother. A tall man with a thin, fair, fresh-coloured face and firm lips--a capable face, a face quite worthy of the brother of Pamela Gwatkin. Lucy watched the men file out of chapel, and the man in the last seat of the last row naturally came out last. She refused to go into the lodge with Mary. She let the old Master and his wife toddle off down the cloisters together, and she stood holding Mary back and begging her to wait 'just a minute.' The man in the back seat came out at last and took off his cap to the Master's nieces as he passed. 'There!' said Lucy breathlessly, 'this is the man I waited for. Is he Eric Gwatkin?' 'Eric Gwatkin!' Mary repeated impatiently; she objected to being kept standing in the court watching the men come out of chapel; she could see them every day--twice a day if she liked--and she had seen them for fifteen years. 'Eric Gwatkin?' she repeated. 'The man who has just come out is Wyatt Edgell, the best man of the year. He will take a very high place in the Tripos--perhaps the highest--and Eric Gwatkin is only a Poll man. He is taking the theological Special, I believe, and I dare say he will be plucked.' 'Oh, I am sure there is some mistake!' Lucy said hotly; 'Pamela's brother never could be plucked. She is awfully clever, and--and he is a twin.' Cousin Mary didn't take the least interest in Pamela's brother; even the fact of his being a twin didn't move her. She went into the lodge and looked after the table that was spread for lunch. She altered the arrangement of the flowers, and put some finishing touches to it, and Lucy stood beside the window that overlooked the court watching her. She couldn't help pitying Mary for being interested in such small things, for being taken up with such petty cares. She had lived in the midst of culture for fifteen years, and yet she could potter about that dinner-table and be absorbed in the arrangement of the flowers. 'I am very glad to see you, my dear,' the old Master said to Lucy when she had dutifully kissed him and whispered to her aunt how well he was looking--the sure key to that dear, kind, simple heart was to tell her how well the Master was looking. It would be a sad day when those welcome words could no longer be said. 'And how is the Greek getting on, my dear? Who would have thought of my brother Dick's daughter learning Greek? She didn't get the taste for it from her father, for he was no scholar. He was good only for his own work, none better. There was not a man in the parish who could drive a straighter furrow than my brother Dick, and his wife was famous for her poultry. I remember her carrying her butter and eggs to market. She had the corner stall in the old butter market, my dear. I mind the very spot.' 'It was my grandmother, or great-grandmother, rather,' said Lucy, feebly trying to set him right. 'Mamma never kept a stall in the butter market.' 'Never mind which it was,' said the Senior Tutor, who had just come in, and was shaking hands with Lucy; 'a generation or two doesn't matter.' It didn't matter to him, who knew all the homely details of the Master's humble history; but suppose he were to go maundering about that stall in the butter market to Pamela Gwatkin, it would be all over Newnham that it was Lucy's mother, and that Lucy herself used to milk the cows. With such a pedigree there was no excuse for her tumbling off a milking-stool. If Lucy hadn't been so full of her own concerns that she had no eyes for others, she would have seen the reason for Cousin Mary's anxiety about the dinner-table. The Senior Tutor was coming to dinner. The lunch, or rather the dinner--for it was a real dinner; except on state occasions, the old Master dined in the middle of the day--was spread in the dining-room of the lodge--an old, old room panelled up to the ceiling with dark oak, with a delightful carved frieze running round the top, and a big oriel window with diamond panes and stained glass coats-of-arms of the old Masters who had occupied the lodge since it was first built, centuries ago. There were portraits of some of them in their scarlet gowns on the walls, looking down upon them as they sat at meat. It was a ghostly company, so many old Masters, and soon there would be another to hang among them. He was painted already, and hanging in the gallery outside; he would come in here soon, and take his place, not at the table, but on the walls with the rest. Perhaps the Senior Tutor was thinking of that not far-off time as he lay back in his chair glancing up at the dingy old walls that wanted beeswaxing dreadfully. There would be plenty for him to do when his time came. There had been nothing done here for years. He would have to go right through the house; he hardly knew where he should begin. And then Lucy broke in upon his pleasant reverie, and asked him about Eric Gwatkin. 'Gwatkin?' said the Tutor absently. He was just considering whether he should have the oak varnished or beeswaxed. 'Ye--e--s; he's going in for his Special, but I don't think he'll get through.' 'Only his Special!' Lucy hadn't got through her Little-go yet, but she regarded the Special from the Newnham standpoint. No woman has ever yet descended so low as a Special. 'His sister is one of the cleverest girls at Newnham. She has already taken a first in one Tripos, and now she is working for another. She is sure to take a double-first. He is her twin brother, and I'm sure she expects great things of him.' 'Then I'm very sorry for Miss Gwatkin,' the Tutor said with a laugh. 'If he gets through it's as much as he will do.' He declined to have anything more to say about Pamela's unpromising brother; and he talked to Lucy until the ladies left the table about her life at Newnham, and the progress she was making with her work. The old Master did not sit long over his wine; it had come to one glass now after dinner--one glass of that old, old wine that had already lain a dozen years in the darkness of the college cellar when he had come up a raw scholar to St. Benedict's. It did him quite as much good as a dozen glasses of a less generous vintage. It brought a warm flush into his wrinkled cheeks, and a light into his dim eyes, and stirred the slow blood circling round his heart, and it sent him to sleep to dream again of the old time, and to win afresh the laurels of his youth. While the Master sat nodding in his big chair on one side of the wide fireplace, where a fire was still burning, and his faithful partner sat nodding on the other side, Lucy slipped out of the room. She was only going to the old study to find some books, but she had to pass through the picture-gallery to reach it. The gallery of the lodge of St. Benedict's was very much like the galleries of most college lodges, only it was narrower--a long, low, narrow old room extending the length of one side of the cloistered court. It had been built when the cloisters beneath had been built, and it had suffered few changes since. The walls were panelled to the ceiling with oak, and it was lighted with deep, old-fashioned bay-windows; not particularly well lighted, as the diamond panes were darkened with painted arms of founders and benefactors, and old, dead and forgotten Fellows. The walls of the long gallery were hung with portraits from end to end. They began in the right-hand corner by the door in the fourteenth century--flat, angular, awful presentments of men and women whose names are household words in Cambridge, and they went on and on until it seemed that they would never cease. The walls were so full that it would be difficult to find room for another Fellow. Lucy paused on her way to the study, and looked round with quite a new feeling on these old painted faces. They represented something to her to-day that they had not represented before. She began dimly to understand what had made Cambridge the power it is in the land. It was these still faces looking down from the walls who had built up this great Cambridge. It was the men, after all, the patient men of old, whose toil had accomplished so much; and now the women were entering into their labours. There were not many portraits at Newnham; it was only in its infancy. There would be plenty by-and-by. Lucy ran over in her mind the women whose portraits would hang upon those white walls between the windows. She could not in that brief retrospect think of any who were doing such great work that they would earn that distinction, only Pamela Gwatkin. She was sure Pamela would one day hang on the walls. She would be an old woman then, most likely, a lean, wrinkled, hard-visaged old woman, with gray hair and spectacles, and she would have a big book beside her--a book she had written or explained--and she would wear--what would she wear? She would have gone quite bald by that time, like the old Fellows on the walls; her head would be bald and shining. She would wear it covered, of course, with--with a scholar's cap, with a long tassel depending over her nose, or a velvet Doctor's cap, which would be more becoming, and she would wear a scarlet Doctor's gown and hood. The picture would look lovely on the white walls of Newnham. Lucy had just settled to her satisfaction how Pamela Gwatkin was to be handed down by a future Herkomer to another generation, when the Senior Tutor entered the gallery. He, too, had been thinking. He hadn't been paying any attention to what Mary Rae had been talking about while the Master took his after-dinner nap; his thoughts were with Lucy in the gallery. He had watched her narrowly at dinner, and he had detected a change in her. He was used to watching men, and now he had begun to watch women. He remarked that her eyes were no longer soft; they were hard and eager, and had a hunted look in them. He knew the look; he had seen it in boys come up fresh from school--not brilliant boys from the sixth form of big public schools, but frank, fresh-faced fellows who had come up from country parsonages. He had seen the look on their faces when the work was new to them and the strain had begun to tell upon them. They lost it after a term or two when they bossed their lectures, and drifted away with the stream, or broke down, and went back to the country parsonages, and never came up again. He had seen this hunted look on boys' faces, but he had never seen it on a girl's face before. He wasn't sure if it wouldn't be well to take Lucy away before she broke down. She would never want the mathematics she was getting up with such labour for the Little-go; she would be able to add up the butcher's book quite as well without. As the future mistress of the lodge--it had really come to that; he had ceased to think about Mary, and he had almost unconsciously put Lucy in her place--he would have liked her to have the prestige of Newnham, and, considering her humble antecedents, it was quite as well that she should win her spurs. She had pluck enough, if her strength would only hold out. She was a brave little thing; he had never seen a girl so brave. The Little-go examinations would soon be over, and then, if the result was satisfactory, he would speak. She would have quite culture enough after the Little-go--quite enough to condone even the stall in the butter market. 'I think you had better let me coach you for the exam.,' he said, as they talked about her mathematics; 'for the Additionals, at any rate, you'll find the dynamics and the statics rather stiff.' 'Ye--es,' Lucy said with a sigh; 'they are dreadfully stiff.' 'When will you come to me? Will you come here, or shall I come up to Newnham?' 'Oh no, no! It would never do to come to Newnham!' Lucy turned quite pale at the suggestion. 'You have male lecturers,' said the college Don with a laugh. 'The difference would be that I should only be lecturing one girl instead of six.' 'I'm sure it wouldn't do; I'm sure Miss Wrayburne would object. I would rather, if you don't mind, come to you,' Lucy said meekly. 'Come, by all means. You had better come to my rooms; there will be less interruption than at the lodge. I can give you four hours a week, but it must be in the afternoon. When will you begin?' Lucy was quite ready to begin at once. She settled to go to the Tutor's rooms the very next day. She didn't even think of consulting Cousin Mary about the arrangement, or the Master, or the Master's wife. She had already made a distinct advance; she had decided for herself; she had engaged a University coach, and arranged to spend four hours a week alone with him in his college rooms. The woman of the future could not do more. CHAPTER VI. BEHIND THE SCREEN. Lucy went to her coach the next day. She ought to have known her way about a college staircase by this time, but she had never yet penetrated beyond the outer courts. She had never ventured up those mysterious stairways sacred to gyps, bed-makers and gownsmen. A great many gownsmen must have climbed the stairs that led to Mr. Colville's rooms before her; they had left their marks here, if they had left them nowhere else in the annals of the University. Mr. Colville's rooms were in the oldest part of the college, and his staircase was as narrow and steep and dark as any lover of mediæval architecture could desire. It was so dark that when Lucy reached the first landing she didn't see where to go; there was a passage in front of her and doors on either side. Instead of looking at the names painted over the doors, she went down the passage and knocked at the door at the end. There are several ways of knocking at a door, but there is only one way of knocking at a college door if one expects to be heard. A timid rap with the knuckles is wasted effort; the knob of an umbrella, or the handle of a walking-stick, or any other form of bludgeon one happens to have at hand, is more effective; or a succession of well-delivered blows with a fist, or the body falling heavily against the door, have been known to attract the attention of persons within the room; but Lucy had recourse to none of these devices. She knocked feebly with her gloved hand on the door and waited. She was sure it was the right landing. She had read the directions painted on the door-post at the foot of the staircase: FIRST FLOOR--MR. COLVILLE. She knocked again presently; and then, as nobody answered, she went in. The Senior Tutor was expecting her; it was surely right to go in. She thought she heard voices as she opened the door--at least a voice, a voice that had a familiar ring in it; she heard it clearer when she opened the first door; there was an outer oak, as usual to a college room. Lucy opened both doors and went in. She went quite into the room, and closed the door--there was a screen before the door--before she saw the occupants of the room. What she saw didn't exactly make her hair stand on end, but she gave a little cry. She couldn't help crying out. On the couch behind the screen a man was lying, with the blood flowing from a wound in his throat, and on his knees beside him was a man praying. The man who was praying stopped and looked up at the sound of that startled cry, and saw Lucy standing in the middle of the floor. He got up from his knees, and with a gesture of silence went behind the screen and fastened the two doors. 'I am glad you are come,' he said, going back to Lucy. 'I did not know the doors were open. You must be sure to keep them fastened. We don't want the authorities to know of this, and the Senior Tutor has the next rooms. You must be sure not to let him suspect anything. If you can do what is necessary for Edgell by day, I will sit up with him at night. It is not a bad wound; I don't think it is at all serious.' Lucy stood frightened and speechless. What did the man mean? Did he take her for a nurse? 'I am afraid there is some mistake,' she said in a low voice; she couldn't keep from shaking. 'I--I thought this was Mr. Colville's room.' Then a light seemed to break in upon the man, and he looked at Lucy with a quick, startled glance. 'Oh!' he said, 'I thought you were the nurse. I beg your pardon. There--there has been an accident here; our friend has not been quite himself--he has been over-working--and--and this has happened. Thank God it is no worse! It might have been fatal; a mere hair's breadth and it would have been fatal. We are anxious to keep it from the authorities. It would be very serious for him if it were known. It would ruin him for life. May we ask you to keep the chance knowledge of this most deplorable occurrence secret?' What could Lucy say? Clearly it was her duty as the Master's niece to go straight to the lodge and acquaint him with the state of affairs. It was her duty to summon Mr. Colville without a moment's loss of time; he was only separated from the scene of this tragedy by a narrow passage. Of course, the man lying bleeding there ought to have a doctor and a nurse, and his friends should be telegraphed for, and the whole college ought to be thrown into a commotion. Suppose the man were to die, what would her feelings be if she were _particeps criminis_ in this dreadful secret? All these things flashed through Lucy's mind as she stood there looking at the man on the couch. She knew him now; it was the man who had taken his hat off to her as he came out of chapel. It was the man that Cousin Mary said was going to take a very high place in the Tripos, perhaps the highest. It was Wyatt Edgell. She made up her mind in a moment. 'Yes,' she said, 'I will keep your secret. But I cannot go away from here and leave you like this. There is something I can do. I am used to nursing and sickness; tell me what I can do.' She had torn off her gloves and thrown down her books, and was kneeling beside the couch where the man lay, wiping away the blood that was trickling beneath the bandage, and dropping down over his chest. There was so much she could do that a woman could best do, and the man with his hand on the wrist of the patient stood by and watched her while she did it. 'You know something about medicine?' she said. 'I have been a doctor. I have spent seven years in acquiring a knowledge of surgery--seven years out of my life--but it has not been wasted if I have been the means of saving him;' and he nodded towards the bed. 'And you think you have saved him?' Where had she heard this man's voice before, and where had she seen his eyes? She was asking herself this question as she was speaking to him. 'Yes, I think he is saved. He will do very well with careful nursing. One of the men has a sister at Addenbroke's, and he has gone to fetch her. I thought she had come when I saw you standing there. She will certainly be here presently. I don't think we need detain you.' 'I shall not go till she comes,' Lucy said with such decision that she quite frightened herself. 'I shall certainly stay here as long as I can be of any use.' She had been of a good deal of use already. She had removed all traces of the dreadful deed; she had washed up every stain that could be washed away, and she had covered up the rest. She had fetched a pillow and some coverings from the adjoining room, and straightened the couch, and anyone coming into the room and seeing the man lying there with a white handkerchief over his throat, and the quilt drawn up over his chest, would not have dreamed of the ghastly sight beneath. He looked as he lay there as if he had broken down in the middle of his work, and had thrown himself down there in a sudden attack of faintness. His face was dreadfully white, as white as the coverlet, and he was breathing hard, and there was a strange faint odour Lucy noticed as she bent over him. He was not sensible, but once he opened his eyes and looked at her with a strange, far-away look in them that haunted her for days. They were beautiful eyes, tender and dreamy as a woman's, with a depth in them Lucy had never seen in any eyes before. But then she had not been accustomed to look into young men's eyes. She could not remember bending over a man before and seeing herself reflected in his eyes. Perhaps it was the novelty of the situation that moved her. Having done all, everything she could do, she settled herself down in a chair by the head of the bed and began to weep. The man was nothing to her, she had never heard his name till yesterday, and here she was sitting by his side weeping for him as if she had known him all her life. The man who stood by let her tears fall unchecked. 'I don't think you will disturb him,' he said with a smile; 'I have given him an anodyne. Nobody could tell what he would do if he were left to himself, so I have made things sure by quieting him for a time. Pray have your cry out if it does you any good.' He evidently knew something of girls. There is nothing like a little weep for soothing the nerves. While Lucy was availing herself of her woman's privilege, he turned down the coverlet and examined the bandages; the blood was trickling down beneath them, thick and black where it had congealed, and a paler streak behind. 'It's broken out again,' he said quietly. 'I think there must be a stitch. Can you help me?' If Lucy had been told an hour ago that she could have stood by and assisted as the man sewed up that gaping wound, and never by word or look betrayed faintness or alarm, she would not have believed it. It was the little weep that did it. 'I think it will do now,' said the man, drawing up the coverlet over his work. 'There is only one thing we can do more for the poor fellow, and that is commit him to God. Will you kneel down beside him while we ask His blessing on the means that we have used? Remember, when two or three are gathered together--we are two, and--and I am sure his mother is here with us.' Lucy knelt down beside the couch while the man prayed aloud. He talked to God as he knelt there as one who knew Him as a Friend of old. He made no preamble in entering this solemn Presence Chamber, but went straight up to the throne with his petition, and laid the poor, blind, suffering soul at the foot of the Cross. Lucy had been brought up in the bosom of the Church; she had heard prayers read every morning and evening of her life, and she had never missed being in her place on Sundays. She had heard her father read the prayers hundreds of times, and she had heard, oh, so many sermons, but she had never heard a man pray like this. It was heart speaking to heart; it was the spirit of man speaking to the Spirit of God. While he was still speaking the door, or doors, rather, opened, and someone came in. He did not stop or get up from his knees, but went on wrestling for the blessing that he sought. Lucy felt dreadfully guilty kneeling there. She heard the door open, and people--distinctly people--come in; and she had an awful overwhelming sense of guiltiness, as if she had been consenting to a murder. She was afraid to get up; she expected to see the Senior Tutor standing there and her cousin Mary. She didn't at all know why she expected Mary. She was almost afraid to look up when she rose from her knees, and she felt herself shaking all over. But it was not Mary, and it was not the Tutor. It was a man that Lucy had often seen in the courts below, and he had a girl in a nurse's dress with him. He looked over to Lucy in some alarm, and took off his cap. 'It's all right,' said the other. 'You didn't lock the door after you, old man, when you went out, and this lady found her way in--at least, God showed her the way in. If she hadn't come at the right moment it would have gone hard with our friend here. I am glad you have brought your sister. And now,' he said, turning to Lucy, 'we need not detain you any longer. This lady will stay with us, I hope, till late; and I shall sit up with him to-night. To-morrow, I hope, the worst will be over.' 'I hope so,' Lucy said with a sob she couldn't choke down--she hadn't the heart to say any more. 'I am sure you will respect our secret,' the man said, as Lucy was drawing on her gloves. She didn't answer him; she only looked at him, and she saw the blood flush up under his skin. She remembered somebody else's cheeks she had seen flush in the same way--not a man's. 'I beg your pardon,' he said humbly. Lucy was so angry with him for doubting her that she did not see his proffered hand; she drew her gloves on hurriedly, and picked up her books and went out into the passage, but she beckoned the nurse to follow her. 'I don't think the man's going to get better,' she said in a hurried whisper. 'It's like consenting to a murder to let him lie there and die; but _I_ am not going to tell. I think his mother ought to know. I think someone ought to write and tell her that he is ill--dying!' The nurse shook her head. 'It would kill her!' she said. 'She has such faith in her son--her beautiful son! He is such a noble, splendid fellow! Oh, it is a dreadful pity!' 'Why did he do it?' 'Why? Oh, don't you know?' 'No----' The door of the room opened as they were speaking, and the nurse's brother beckoned her to come in. 'Come to me to-morrow morning at Addenbroke's,' she said. 'Ask for Nurse Brannan;' and then she went into the room and shut the door. Lucy crept guiltily down the stairs. She quite shivered as she passed the Tutor's door: she would not have encountered him for the world. She didn't feel safe until she had got outside the college gate, and then she ran all the way back to Newnham. CHAPTER VII. LUCY'S SECRET. Lucy felt dreadfully guilty all through that wretched evening. If she had assisted in a murder she couldn't have felt worse. She had no appetite for dinner, and when she went back to her room, what was still more unusual, she had no appetite for her work. A Newnham girl is a gourmand where work is concerned; she may leave her meals untasted, but that terrible craving within creates an appetite that is akin to ravenous where work is concerned. When that craving ceases she goes down--or breaks down. It had ceased quite suddenly with Lucy; she hated the very thought of work; she loathed with an unutterable loathing the sight of those mathematical books she had brought back from St. Benedict's. She shrank from them with a dreadful sense of faintness and sickness when she attempted to open them. They smelt of blood, or else she fancied they did. The air was full of fancies. It was a stormy night, and the wind was wailing round her corner of the building, and every now and then a sharp blast of driving rain would strike upon her window. She heard the rain distinctly dropping down the pane like tears, and she fancied--oh, it was a dreadful fancy!--that it was drops of blood. She bore it in that lonely room as long as she could, and then she got up and went out into the passage. The lights were out, and the place was quite still; everybody had gone to bed. Dark and deserted as the corridor was, it was not so lonely as her own room. There were girls sleeping behind every one of those closed doors. She heard them--for the ventilators of most were open--breathing audibly, and some were moaning in their sleep. Lucy walked up and down the long corridor; her feet were bare, and she had thrown nothing over her shoulders. Cousin Mary would have scolded her dreadfully if she had seen her, with her white garments trailing on the stone floor. She never thought of the draughts or the cold stones; she only thought of getting away from that everlasting drip, drip of the window-pane, that brought the scene of the afternoon so vividly before her. She was nervous and overwrought, and she was burdened with a secret she ought never to have bound herself to keep. Wild horses shouldn't tear it from her, she told herself, as she paced up and down that draughty passage. Whatever happened, she would be true to her word. It would be hard if a girl couldn't be trusted as well as a man. What was the use of coming to Newnham if gossip and emptiness--the habits of the slave--still had dominion over her? It was all very fine and high-sounding; but she would have given the world to have told somebody, to have eased her overburdened mind and poured out the dreadful story on some soft feminine, sympathetic bosom. And then, while she was telling herself all these fine things, and repeating Lord Tennyson's nice verses about that open fountain that was to wash away all those silly human things and make woman perfect--quite perfect--a strange thing happened. She heard the voice of the man praying. He was praying now; she heard him quite distinctly, but she could not catch the words. She was quite sure it was the voice; it had sunk down so deep into her ears that she could never forget it. Lucy paused in the darkness and listened. The voice came from a room at the door of which she was standing. She had no idea, in the darkness, whose room it was; she was only sure--quite sure--of the voice. An overpowering desire to see the speaker--perhaps to get her release--seized her, and she opened the door of the room. There was no man there praying; there was only a girl sitting reading by the light of a shaded lamp, and she was reading aloud. It was Pamela Gwatkin, and she was reading a Greek play. Lucy went a few paces into the room and stood there as if spellbound, listening to the girlish voice, in low solemn accents, mouthing the rhythmic Greek. She didn't read it as if it were Wordsworth, or Cowper, or Keats, or even Tennyson; she mouthed it; and the noble words, falling in noble cadence, brought back the voice of the man wrestling with God for his friend. Pamela heard the door open, and she looked up. She didn't divide the shuddering night with a shrill-edged shriek, and bring all Newnham about her, as she might have done at the sight of the white-robed figure standing in the doorway. She thought it was a girl walking in her sleep, and she got up softly and went towards her. For a moment, as she came forward, she saw the figure swaying in the doorway, and as she came nearer Lucy tottered forward with her arms out-stretched like one walking in a dream, and fell upon her bosom--literally fell, with her clinging arms around her, and her head pillowed on Pamela's bosom. 'Oh, it is Eric Gwatkin!' she sobbed, 'it is Eric Gwatkin!' Pamela got her over to the couch--it was a bed now, not a couch; the serge rug had been removed, and a snowy coverlet was in its place, and a real pillow, not a sham roundabout bolster covered with an embroidered dragon. Pamela Gwatkin laid the girl down on her own bed and covered her up. She was shaking dreadfully, and her hands and feet were like ice, and she was sobbing hysterically. When Pamela had covered her up, she shut the door of the room; it was no good making a scene and arousing everybody, because a girl--a little weak-minded fresher--had broken down under the strain and got hysterical. All girls get hysterical at times, only the stronger ones lock the door and wrestle with the enemy in secret. 'Oh, Eric Gwatkin!' moaned the girl on the bed. 'I can't keep it any longer; I must tell!' 'What have you got to do with Eric Gwatkin?' Pamela asked severely. 'I am sure he is nothing to you; he is never likely to be anything to anybody.' 'Oh yes, he is! He is everything to--to Wyatt Edgell. He has saved his life. Oh, you don't know what he is to him!' 'Saved his life? What are you talking about? What has Wyatt Edgell got to do with you, and with Eric?' '_He sewed it up_--the wound--the dreadful gaping wound!' Lucy covered her eyes with her hands to shut out the dreadful sight, and she was trembling so dreadfully that the bed shook with her. Clearly the girl was in a fever, and her mind was wandering. The name of Wyatt Edgell was familiar to Pamela; it was familiar to everybody in Cambridge. He was the coming Senior Wrangler. What could Eric have to do with him--poor Eric, who was grinding for his 'Special'? 'What wound?' said Pamela impatiently; 'and who sewed it up?' 'Eric sewed it up, and I helped him. I drew the edges together, while he put the needle in the quivering flesh. Oh, it was horrible!' Lucy sank back on the couch, and her lips grew pale, and her cheeks gray, and Pamela thought she was going to faint. She hadn't got anything but eau-de-Cologne to give her--not a nip of brandy for the world; not even a pocket flask is allowed at Newnham. She went to the water-jug and poured out some water in a basin, and dabbed it over the girl's face and hands, and made her own bed streaming. Perhaps there was something in the girl's story, after all! She couldn't have dreamed these hideous details. 'Where was the wound? how had he hurt himself?' she asked presently. 'He had cut his throat.' Pamela let the basin of water she was holding fall on the floor. She didn't scream as any less well-regulated mind would have done, but she let the basin slip out of her hands, and the water made a dreadful mess on the floor. 'Cut his throat?' she repeated faintly--she was nearly as white as Lucy--'and Eric----' 'Eric sewed it up.' 'Is--is he dead?' She asked the question hoarsely, in a voice Lucy couldn't have recognised for Pamela's, but she was past noticing voices. 'No--o; Eric has asked God to give him back his life, that he may begin it afresh.' 'What use is that?' said Pamela bitterly. 'I am sure God heard him--we were praying for him when the nurse came in. He was asking that the nurse might be sent quickly, and she came while the words were on his lips.' 'Of course the nurse would be sent; you can get a nurse at any moment from Addenbroke's without praying for one.' 'Oh, you don't understand!' Lucy moaned; 'you don't know the worst. It had to be done secretly: no one must know. It would ruin him for life if it were known.' 'You don't mean that they haven't told anyone? that they are trying to hush it up, and not let the tutors know?' Lucy moaned. 'Oh, what folly is this! I am sure Eric is at the bottom of it.' 'Yes; it was Eric made me promise I wouldn't tell, and I have told you,' Lucy murmured helplessly. 'Of course you have told me. Having told me so much, you must tell me all--you must keep nothing back.' And so Lucy sat up in the bed with her arms round Pamela--she couldn't have told her without having something to cling to--and told her her wretched little story, and how she had pledged herself to keep this young man's secret. 'What do you think I ought to do?' she asked weakly, when the recital was finished. 'Do?' said Pamela, but she didn't answer the girl's question. She disengaged herself from her clinging arms, and she paced up and down the room, her feet dabbling in the water on the floor. She stopped presently in her walk, her chin up, and her face set with the light of a high resolve upon it towards the light that was breaking in at the east window; she might have been reciting that Greek play. 'Do?' she repeated, and her face was hard and cold and tired. The old weary look had come back to it--no wonder; it was three o'clock in the morning. 'Do? Why, go to bed, of course!' She refused to say another word about Lucy's secret. She helped her back to her room, and put her to bed, and tucked her in, and drew back the curtains, that the light of the new day might drive away the ghosts of the night. Pamela did all this without speaking a word; but when she got to the door of Lucy's room she stopped and looked back. She could see from the tremulous motion of the clothes that the girl was weeping, and she went over to the bed and put her cool lips to Lucy's forehead. 'Good-night, dear!' she said softly. 'I think you have behaved beautifully!' CHAPTER VIII. WATTLES. As soon as she could get away from Newnham the next morning, Lucy went to Addenbroke's to see Nurse Brannan. She couldn't get away very early; there was a mathematical lecture at nine o'clock that wasn't over till eleven, and she had to plod, plod through those weary diagrams while her mind was far away. Oh, how she hated those problems and riders, and all the dreary, dreary round! She made one or two futile little diagrams on her paper, and then she rubbed them out again, and sat staring at the blackboard, and watching the perplexing white lines come and go while her mind was far away. She was calculating what would happen if the man had died in the night. 'What would they do with the body? Would Eric Gwatkin expect her to keep the secret, and assist, perhaps, at some mysterious obsequies?' It was with a distinct feeling of relief she saw the duster sweep over the blackboard and wipe all those cabalistic characters away. It was like wiping out the record of her guilt. Lucy shook off the dust and gloom of the lecture-room and ran off to Addenbroke's. She really could run a good part of the way. She went across the Fens, as less frequented, and giving her space to breathe and think. It was such a blue day, and the fresh green of the year was over the low-lying fields, and the chestnut-tree by the bridge was budding, and the pollard willows that marked the winding course of the river were sallow-gray in the sunshine, and the daisies were in bloom. Lucy walked over quite a carpet of flowers; she crushed the little tender pink buds remorselessly under her feet in her hurry to get to Addenbroke's. She had never been to the hospital before, and she was rather afraid to go in when she got there. There were a lot of people coming out with newly-bandaged limbs and white faces, and some children were carried in in their mothers' arms. There were people of all ages, men and women, and little children all with that sad patience on their faces which is born of suffering. Lucy was so sorry for the people. She had no idea her heart was still tender; she had rather prided herself on its growing cold and hard like Maria Stubbs and the rest of the Stoics of Newnham. There was a tired-looking woman coming up the path with a puny little creature in her arms, with, oh! such a white, white face. Its eyes were open, and it was smiling a wan little smile up into the mother's face, and she was crooning over it; she was a poor, weakly thing, and she carried it as if even its light weight were too much for her. Lucy turned to look after the sickly mother and the sickly child, and she noticed the child's arm--a lean, puny little arm--had escaped from the shawl in which it was wrapped, and was feebly embracing the mother's waist. The sight of that small clinging hand brought a rush of tears to her eyes. There was compensation even here; there was something here between that sickly mother and child--there wasn't much to show for it, only a crooning voice and a wan smile and a little wasted clinging hand--that would last longer than the Stoics, that would last 'to and through the Doomsday fire.' Strangely softened by this every-day sight, Lucy crept up the wide stone staircase to find Nurse Brannan. She looked so lost that a man going up, a medical student, asked her where she was going, and took her to the ward where Miss Brannan was nurse. 'I am afraid the doctors are going their rounds,' he said, as he looked in at the door, 'but I will take you into Miss Brannan's room, and you can wait there.' He led Lucy through the ward--a large, delightful chamber, well lighted and cheerful, and with quite a bank of tall palms and ferns on a table near the door, an oasis of verdure for tired eyes to feast upon. Lucy saw all this at a glance, and she saw also a group of men round a bed, and the nurses standing near, and she crept softly into Nurse Brannan's room. She had time before the nurse came to her to see what a nurse's room was like. It was a tiny bit of a room partitioned off the ward, and it seemed all walls and ceiling. There was a little floor room, however, and a big window that went nearly up to the ceiling. It was not unlike a room in a woman's college, only that there were texts on the walls, and there are no texts on the walls of the Stoics. The occupant of the room must have understood Latin and Greek, for there were texts in both these languages. There was one text only in our common tongue, and that was over the mantelpiece. It was not an illuminated text, and it had no lovely floral border. It was written in plain, bold characters in black and white: 'Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these My brethren, ye do it unto Me.' Lucy couldn't keep her eyes off those familiar words which she read now in a new light. There wasn't much else in the room to look at. There was a bed that was a couch by day; it was a bed still, though it was past eleven o'clock; Nurse Brannan had evidently not long risen from it. The room was in the disorder of the early morning, and the day arrangements did not yet prevail. It was as untidy as a nurse's room well could be: the breakfast things were still on the table, and the demure little bonnet and cloak looked as if they had hastily been taken off and thrown on the bed, and a pair of outdoor shoes were lying in the middle of the floor. While Lucy was still noticing these details Nurse Brannan came in. She was a little bit of a nurse, with pink cheeks and steady blue eyes and fluffy hair. She was not at all a formidable person. Lucy ran up to her when she came in, and took both her hands. She couldn't ask the question that was on her lips, she was moved out of all sense and reason. The anxieties of the night and the mathematics of the morning, and the lean little encircling arm had moved her strangely, and now she was hardly master of herself. Nurse Brannan shook her head. 'He is no better,' she said. She didn't say it at all sadly. She was so used to such things--to sickness and suffering and death--it didn't move her in the least. 'I have just come back from St. Benedict's, and there is no improvement. He has had a dreadful night. They thought at one time of calling up the Tutor.' 'And they have not told him yet?' Lucy asked, pale to the lips. 'Are they going to let him die?' 'They have not told him; they have not told anyone in the college; but I don't know about letting him die.' 'You think he'll get over it? Oh, do you really think it possible with that--that dreadful wound he can get better?' Only talking about the wound made Lucy sick and faint. She was made of very poor stuff. She would have been no good at Addenbroke's. Nurse Brannan smiled. 'The wound is nothing,' she said: 'it is not at all serious. He will get better if he is well watched, and they protect him from himself. When the attack passes off he will not be much the worse--only it may occur again at any time.' 'The attack?' Lucy said feebly; she was quite at sea as to Nurse Brannan's meaning. 'Oh, you didn't know he did it in a fit of delirium tremens. This is the second time he has had an attack, and he has attempted his life both times. His friends ought to take him away and put him under restraint.' Lucy didn't know what delirium tremens meant; happily she had been spared all her life from such miserable knowledge. She vaguely knew it was a 'possession' of some kind, an awful 'possession' like that which used to seize the men of old. 'You think the fit will pass?' she said. 'Oh yes; there is no reason why it shouldn't pass, and then the less they say to him about it the better. It would be well if he never knew; but the scar will remain, they cannot cover up that. There is no reason why he shouldn't be well enough to take his Tripos and go "down." The best thing that can happen to him will be to "go down."' 'Go down'--he looked very much more like going 'up,' Lucy thought, as she recalled the white face on the pillow; but she was immensely relieved by the nurse's assurance. 'And you have seen him this morning?' she said. 'Yes; I ran over for a minute directly I got up. I was not up till late. A woman was dying in the ward, and I stayed with her till she died. She did not die till daylight, and then I lay down for a few hours; and I had just time to snatch some breakfast and run over to St. Benedict's before the doctors came their rounds. I was only just back in time. I had to throw my things down and put on my slippers--I hadn't even time to put my cap straight. They were waiting for me in the ward when I came back. Oh dear! what a mess I left my room in!' Her pretty plaited nurse's cap, that ought to be worn in the most demure fashion, that ought to be as straight as those lines of that detestable blackboard, was all awry, was positively jaunty, and her fluffy hair was quite outrageous. She didn't look the least like a real, staid nurse who is called upon to face death at any moment, and is always doing dreadful disagreeable things. She might have been playing at nursing, only her eyes were steady, and her lips had a great calm about them; they didn't quiver, and tremble, and curl, and ripple with laughter, like other girls. Lucy was almost angry with her for the cool, not to say unfeeling, way in which she spoke of these dread realities--death and suffering. 'She has no heart!' she said to herself as she went back over the Fens to Newnham. 'Nurses are so used to pain that they have no sympathy. I wouldn't be a nurse for the world!' Then she remembered the words over the mantelpiece: 'Inasmuch----.' Was this the secret of that little fluffy, girlish nurse's hardness and endurance? They don't do very much for other people at Newnham; and they do nothing for each other. They positively ignore each other. Perhaps this is owing to culture--the higher culture--and it hadn't reached Addenbroke's yet. Lucy had written to the Tutor of St. Benedict's when she got back the previous day, excusing herself, in an incoherent fashion, for not keeping her appointment, and promising to come to his rooms at the same hour the next day. She knew her way quite well this time, and she was five minutes before the hour she had appointed. The Senior Tutor's door was closed, and the way was quite clear. There was not a soul on the staircase; there was not a soul in the passage. Lucy could not resist the desire to knock at that closed door at the end of the passage, and find out for herself how the man was. She hadn't much faith in that thick-skinned little nurse; she would see for herself. She knocked at the door at the end of the passage in her futile way, but of course nobody answered. If she had wasted all her strength upon it, it would have been the same thing, as the inmates of that mysterious room only gave admittance to privileged individuals upon preconcerted signals. Lucy hadn't got the secret of that 'Open sesame,' and she was turning away. She hadn't got to the end of the passage, when the door really did open and someone came out. It was the bed-maker with a tray. Somebody had been having a meal, and she was carrying the débris away. Lucy stopped her at the end of the passage, and the two women stood looking at each other--the bed-maker suspiciously, and Lucy eagerly. There was no mistaking the anxious eagerness in Lucy's eyes. 'How is he?' she asked, more with her eyes than her lips, and she laid her detaining hand on the woman's arm. There must have been some Freemasonry in the touch, for the bed-maker softened, and the look of suspicion gave place to one of pity. 'He's quieter,' she said in a whisper, drawing Lucy back into the passage, out of sight of the Tutor's door; 'but he's been orful bad all the morning. As much as two of 'em could do to keep him in bed. It's a sad pity, miss, and such a nice gentleman--there isn't his fellow in the college!' The bed-maker sniffed; she would have wept, no doubt, but she held a tray, and it would have been inconvenient, so she sniffed instead, and regarded Lucy with a watery eye. She evidently thought Lucy was his sweetheart. Lucy took a coin from her slender purse and laid it on the tray. She didn't give it to anybody in particular, she only laid it on the tray, and the bed-maker curtsied. 'Will you ask Mr. Gwatkin if I may come in?' she said--'the lady who was with him yesterday.' She didn't give her name, but the woman knew her quite well--every bed-maker in St. Benedict's knew her. She wasn't the least surprised at the Master's niece taking an interest in one of her gentlemen--the nicest gentleman in the college. She had a tender spot in her withered bosom, under that rusty old shawl, and she was quite flustered at an _affaire de coeur_ on her staircase. She toddled back, tray and all, and by a preconcerted signal the door was opened, and she said a few words to someone inside, and then Eric Gwatkin came out into the passage and led Lucy in and closed the doors behind her. He was looking dreadfully tired, she thought, and there were quite deep lines on his face; he seemed to have aged since yesterday. Perhaps it was with want of sleep, but Lucy put it down at once to his guilty conscience. She was feeling old herself, years older than yesterday. 'He has had a very bad night,' Eric Gwatkin said, speaking in a low voice and with his lips twitching, 'such a night as I pray God I may never witness again. You were not praying for us last night. You did not pray for him--for me--when you went away.' Lucy bowed her head; she remembered she had not prayed for these men. What were they to her that she should pray for them? She had been walking about the passages and frightening Pamela out of her wits instead, when she ought to have been on her knees. The screen had been moved since yesterday; it had been drawn nearer the bed, so that the middle of the room where they were standing was left clear. 'He does not like to see anyone whispering,' Eric explained; 'he is very suspicious, and the least thing excites him.' 'You were alone with him all night?' Lucy asked, with a perceptible quiver in her voice; 'you have been up two nights.' 'That doesn't matter,' he said, 'I shall have all the strength I need; but last night he was very violent, and--and I thought I should have to call Mr. Colville. It was a great temptation--I could hardly resist it.' 'Oh, why didn't you?' said Lucy. 'Why do you take all this responsibility upon yourself?' Eric Gwatkin smiled. His smile was not the least like Pamela's. Lucy couldn't help thinking, as she stood there, how it would change Pamela's face and take the weariness out of it if she had that smile. 'I don't mind the responsibility,' he said, 'or the anxiety, if I can save him. It would be worse than death to him to have it known. Oh, I think you must go home and pray that he may be brought through this, and may be kept for the future. He will need all our prayers.' 'What on earth are you whispering about, Wattles? I wish you would speak so that a fellow can hear what you are saying.' The voice came from behind the screen--an impatient voice, not weak by any means. 'All right, old man; Miss Rae has come to ask how you are. He saw you yesterday,' he said, turning to Lucy and speaking in a lower voice; 'he remembered you quite well.' 'It's awfully good of you,' Wyatt Edgell said as Lucy came from behind the screen; 'I'm afraid we don't look like receiving visitors. Old Wattles here insists upon making a mess.' He was lying back on the pillow with a wet bandage round his head, and a basin of lotion and some rags on a chair beside the bed. His shirt was torn open as if in a struggle, and his chest was bare. There was a scarf round his throat, a large silk scarf striped with the colours of his college that concealed whatever was beneath. Lying there with his head thrown back and those wet bandages, and his chest open--his splendid manly chest with all the muscles exposed--he looked like a man stricken down with fever, or some head trouble; no one would have guessed what the scarf thrown so loosely around his neck concealed. 'I am so glad you are better,' said Lucy softly, coming over to the bed and bending over him; 'you ought to get well soon, you have got such a good nurse.' 'Old Wattles, yes; he's very well, only he persists in keeping me in such a mess.' He took the bandages off his head as he spoke, and rolled them up into a ball, and flung them to the other end of the room, where they rolled under a heavy piece of furniture, and Wattles, or Gwatkin rather, had to go on his knees and fish them out. 'There!' he said, 'that will give Wattles an excuse for going on his knees. He has been going on his knees all night. He would be a good fellow if he weren't always preaching and praying.' He rolled his head impatiently on one side, and flung the pillow after the bandages, and Lucy, looking down upon him, saw a dark light in his eyes she had never seen in any eyes before. It wasn't exactly terror, but it was disgust and loathing and impatience. 'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'but there was a creature on that--a toad. I hate toads!' He shuddered as he spoke, and his eyes followed the direction of the pillow. 'It's there now! I wish Wattles would put it outside. It's been here all night.' Gwatkin took up the pillow and shook it, and appeared to take something off it, and opened the window and made a gesture as if he had thrown the thing into the court below. 'There, old man,' he said reassuringly, 'it's gone now. It can't trouble you any more.' And then he brought back the pillow, and Lucy put it under the poor fellow's head while he supported it, and she arranged it and smoothed it as only a woman's hand can arrange a pillow. When she had done this, she put on the wet bandages afresh and bathed his head, and as she bathed it the dark light seemed to fade out of his eyes. 'You are very good,' he said with a sigh; 'you have exorcised that hideous little beast. It is gone now'--and he looked round the room fearfully--'quite gone.' 'Thank God!' said Gwatkin. 'Your visit has done some good, Miss Rae, if it has dispelled that hideous nightmare that has been pursuing him all night. I think he will sleep now.' 'I'm sure you ought to sleep yourself,' Lucy said, as she suddenly remembered the time and began dragging on her gloves. 'It is quite gone,' she said to Edgell, bending down over the bed; 'I am going to pick it up as I go out and carry it away.' Having told this little fib, she went out, and Gwatkin closed the two doors after her. She had to tell another fib or two when she went into the Tutor's room. He had been waiting for her exactly fifteen minutes, and he had waited an hour the day before. She was absent and distrait all through the lesson; she was thinking about the man in the next room, and the creature she had promised to pick up in the court. The Senior Tutor had never coached such an unpromising pupil. She would never get through her Little-go, he told himself--never, never. She would get plucked to a certainty. Oh, it would never do for the future Mistress of St. Benedict's to be plucked! He debated with himself while he was bending over her, and remarking what a dainty little profile it was, and how the little rings of chestnut hair clustered on her forehead, and how clear, how deliciously transparent, was the carnation tint of her cheek, and the shapely curve of her throat--such a little throat he could clasp it with his hand--he debated with himself, as he remarked these quite every-day things that no man in his senses except an old bachelor Fellow of a college would have noticed, whether it would not be better to settle the thing at once, and stop all this unprofitable work. If Lucy knew what was before her, she would have other opportunities of fitting herself for her high position besides poring over mathematics, for which she clearly had no vocation. 'I'm afraid you find the work rather hard,' he said with a preliminary 'H'm' and 'Ah' to clear his throat. He didn't know exactly how to begin. What comes by nature at thirty is uncommonly hard at sixty. It is like going in again for a hurdle-race, or taking the high jump. He could have done it easily years ago, but he couldn't do it now. He stopped with that preliminary 'Ah.' 'Yes,' said Lucy, 'it is not very easy, but I am going to work eight hours a day. It is more than a month to the exam.; if I work very hard eight hours every day, I think I may manage it.' Eight hours a day for a whole month! She was so much in earnest; and when she lifted her little pale drooping face to his, with just a suspicion of a tear on her eyelashes, he was really sorry for her. He was very near taking her in his arms and kissing away that fugitive tear and settling the matter--he was never nearer in his life. Perhaps it was the best thing he could have done, but he missed the chance, and Lucy picked up her books and began to talk about the work she was to prepare for the next lesson. 'I wouldn't work eight hours a day,' he said; 'you will get through easier than that. I would give an extra two hours to tennis.' He had never given a man this advice--perhaps it was not needed. He watched her, out of his window, cross the court. She did not happen to pick up the thing by the way as she had promised. Her step was less elastic, he noticed, than it used to be, and her face was paler--paler and thinner. She would never, never be young again, and life would never open afresh. There is only one young life, one time of roses, one sweet blossoming time, and it was just a question in the Tutor's mind, as he watched Lucy cross the court, whether the loss of this were worth all the mathematics in the world. CHAPTER IX. A WOMAN'S PARLIAMENT. Lucy saw Pamela Gwatkin once only during the day, and that was at dinner. She only caught a far-off glimpse of her at the High table. Pamela very often sat at the 'High' among the Dons. The younger Dons were very fond of her: her opinions kept pace with theirs--they were very advanced opinions--and sometimes they outran them. She would be a Don herself some day, and she would be a pioneer in quite a new school of thought. Lucy watched her with a feeling of awe as she sat among those great minds eating gooseberry pie--Lucy wouldn't have sat there for the world. The presence of so much learning would have taken away her appetite. The presence of the Master of St. Benedict's at the dinner-table never took away her appetite, but the dear old thing never talked above her head. He was very fond of recalling those old days, as he sat at meat, when Dick--not Lucy's father, but her great-grandfather--used to drive a team afield, and his good wife kept the stall in the butter market. But the President and the Dons of 'Newe' never discussed such commonplace topics. They talked of literature, philosophy, science, with a fine breadth of handling which is peculiar to a woman's college. Pamela Gwatkin was in her right place among them. There was the weekly political meeting held after Hall--a little miniature House of Commons--where the affairs of the nation were discussed, a foretaste of what will be by-and-by, when things are rearranged. When the House took its seat at nine o'clock, Lucy found herself in the Opposition, and a long way off from the benches occupied by the Government of the country. Lucy only represented an insignificant little borough that nobody else would stoop to represent. She had a little freehold in it--her only freehold--six feet of earth beneath the east window of her father's church at Thorpe Regis. Most people have a freehold of this sort, but it does not always give them a voice in the affairs of the nation. Lucy was returned unopposed on the strength of her little freehold, and as her views, if she had any, were not at all advanced, she found herself in the minority. Pamela Gwatkin, or, as the girls called her, Newnham Assurance, was the Leader of the House, and Annabel Crewe Secretary for the Colonies, and Capability Stubbs had been unanimously elected Chancellor of the Exchequer; every girl that was worth anything had a place in the Cabinet. Lucy hadn't much interest in the business that was going on, and she took out her knitting and turned the heel of a sock while the great affairs of the State were being discussed. It was quite clear from what she did gather from the speeches on the Ministerial side that the country had been misgoverned long enough by the feeble race of men. It was quite time there was a change. A great deal of time had been lost; ages had been lost in the history of the world. Men had been first in the field; women took a longer time to ripen. They had ripened now; they were quite, quite ripe; they were ready for the change. Oh, it was beautiful to hear the girls speak! There is an idea among narrow-minded people that debating societies encourage volubility of speech. Perhaps they do among men, and the practice of public speaking is apt to make them too loquacious, too apt to air their elementary knowledge and crude information in senseless verbiage. But garrulity is not the sin of the students of colleges for women. They not only know a great deal more than men know, but they have the delightful gift of ready and accurate language. They do not haggle and hesitate, and 'H'm' and 'Ah,' and have that dreadful difficulty in finding words that even prevails in a real House of Commons. It was remarkable to see with what ease the Newnham girls handled those topics which old-fashioned legislators have been puzzling over Session after Session. There was a certain fine breadth in their way of handling them that would have taken a Conservative Leader's (the Leader of a real House of Commons) breath away. It didn't take anybody's breath away in the Ladies' Parliament. Everybody knitted and listened unmoved, and when eleven o'clock came two very important Bills that had been brought forward from last Session were advanced a stage. There was an exciting division before the House separated, that resulted in an overwhelming majority for the motion, 'That the Legal Profession and the Church be thrown open to women.' That foolish little Lucy voted in the minority; there were not a dozen girls in Newnham who showed such a poor spirit, and of these five, it was rumoured, were engaged to curates. The girls ran off to their rooms when the sitting of the House was ended in the highest possible spirits. Some of them sang snatches of songs, and some caught each other round the waist and waltzed madly down corridors. The thing was practically settled. The Bar and the Church opened vistas, immense vistas, for every sort of talent, and especially for the kind of talent that Newnham produced. There would have to be more colleges for women--Newnham and Girton could not turn out nearly enough--there would have to be a great many Newnhams. Some girls, no doubt, sat down at once and began to prepare a sermon, and others took down Blackstone and began seriously to study law. Lucy went back to her room alone. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, though she 'kept' next door, wouldn't take the slightest notice of her. She had lighted her lamp, and was just thinking what she would give for a cup of tea, when someone knocked at her door. It wasn't a girl with a cup of tea, as she hoped it might be--the Chancellor of the Exchequer, with all her fine airs, generally brought her in a cup of tea before she went to bed, and sometimes she condescended to sit down for five minutes and discuss the burning questions of the day. It was not the Chancellor of the Exchequer--it was a far greater person--it was the Leader of the House. 'Well?' she said, when she came in and had shut the door after her--'well?' She had come in so suddenly, and Lucy's mind was so full of the motion of the evening--this Parliamentary business was quite a new thing to her, and she had taken it _au serieux_--that she could not collect herself sufficiently to think what Pamela meant. Her mind was so full of the lady curates and the female barristers that she looked up at the Leader of the House in bewilderment. 'Well,' said Pamela impatiently, 'how is he? I saw by your face at Hall that he was not dead. Is he going to get well?' Then Lucy remembered all about it. 'Oh dear!' she said, 'how could I have forgotten! Yes, he is going to get well, I think. He will owe his life if he does to Eric. Oh, Eric has been lovely!' 'Eric has done no more than anyone else would have done,' Pamela said coldly; 'no more than a woman would have done if a woman had been in his place.' 'I don't think a woman _could_ have done what Eric has done,' Lucy said. She was thinking of those stitches he had put in, and how he had struggled with the poor fellow all night, and how he had been watching and praying beside him for two whole nights and days. Nurse Brannan would have done as much as most women, but she would not have done all this. 'Oh, you don't know what women can do!' Pamela said, with a little curl of her lip. Her lips were so thin and so hard--such crisp lips that they couldn't help curling. 'You are only a fresher; when you have been here three years you will have found out what a woman can do. He would never have cut his throat if a woman had been near him.' 'No,' said Lucy eagerly, 'I am sure he wouldn't--not if a woman he loved had been near. Oh dear! you should have seen the wistfulness in his poor eyes when I put the wet bandage on his head! It was enough to melt one's heart. Eric says he will be sure to do it again--at least, that we must never leave off praying for him. I am sure that there is only one thing that can save him from doing it again.' 'Only one thing?' Pamela repeated, with just an inflection of scorn in her voice. 'And what is this panacea for his wickedness and folly? What is this fine thing that is to save him from himself?' 'Don't speak of it so lightly; it is not a little thing!' There were tears in Lucy's voice as she spoke, and in her eyes. She had the picture before her of the strong man, with his beautiful bare chest, and his splendid frame, and those wistful eyes, and the loathing and the dread with which he shrank from the creature on his pillow. The pity of it was strong upon her, and she was deeply moved. 'A great love would save him--the love of a good woman. He would do a great thing for a woman he loved; he would make any sacrifice. I don't think anything else would save him.' The Leader of the House of Commons turned from white to pink. Lucy might have been talking about her. She wore a very pretty white gown of some soft silky stuff, and it was folded across the bosom, and the folds heaved up and down as Lucy spoke, as if she were breathing heavily. 'Perhaps he has done this for a woman's sake,' she said bitterly. 'Men are such fools! they will do anything for a woman's sake--not always a worthy woman.' 'I am sure he has not!' said Lucy hotly. 'He has been working too hard, and he has broken down. I heard at the lodge that he was working ten hours a day; that he was certain to come out first. Oh, you don't know how they are building upon him at St. Benedict's! It isn't a woman--it's overwork.' Pamela smiled. 'You are a capital champion, my dear, only don't suffer yourself to get too much interested in this foolish young man; it will interfere with your work. You must not make a mistake and let pity drift into--love.' She made a little pause before the word, and the colour came again into her cheeks. She looked ever so much prettier talking about pity--and love--than she did speaking on those troublesome Bills that had already occupied the time of two Sessions. 'Oh, he is never likely to love me!' said Lucy. 'He could only love his equal; no one else would have any influence over him. He would only love a queen among women.' 'Perhaps he has found his queen already. Most men have before they are twenty-three.' The colour went out of the girl's face, and the cold light came back into her eyes, and her lips, that a moment before were tremulous and tender, were hard and firm. 'I wouldn't go too often to Mr. Edgell's rooms, if I were you, dear,' she said when she went away. 'The authorities would make a fuss if they heard of it. We are not supposed, you know, to visit a man's room without a chaperon. I don't think it would do to take a chaperon there. If you have any more interest in him, I will find out for you how he is going on from Eric.' 'Thank you,' said Lucy warmly; 'I can find out for myself. I can hear all about the St. Benedict's men at the lodge.' She was quite frightened at herself for speaking in that way to the Prime Minister. She had got into the way now, since she had been at Newnham, of taking her own part; she was beginning to have no respect for dignities. CHAPTER X. 'THAT CONFOUNDED CUCUMBER!' Lucy didn't go to Wyatt Edgell's room again. She caught sight of the friendly bed-maker once or twice on the staircase when she went to Mr. Colville's room to be coached in mathematics, and she held a little whispered conference with her on the stairs. Edgell was better: he was up again and at work--working very hard, the woman said (and bed-makers know something about work). He was 'going on as quiet and as steady as any gentleman on the staircase.' This verdict from such a quarter was as good as a college testimonial. When there is a mixed University, and a lady President at the lodge, and a female Vice-Chancellor, and the affairs of the Senate are conducted by dowagers, bed-makers will no doubt be required to sign college testimonials. The first time Lucy saw Wyatt Edgell after that day when she put the wet bandage round his head, and promised to pick up the dreadful thing Eric had thrown out of window, and carry it away with her, was at the college chapel. It was a fortnight after the day when she had picked him out from among all the men of St. Benedict's as Pamela Gwatkin's brother. He was sitting in the same place, and he was very little changed; he was paler, Lucy thought, and he was muffled up round the throat for that warm May day. She couldn't help looking at him. Her eyes would wander over to the bench where he sat, do what she would to keep them fixed in quite an opposite direction. The Master took such a long time over the Litany that morning. He had read it for so many years in that college chapel, Sunday after Sunday, but he had never read it so slowly as he was reading it to-day. The men yawned and fidgeted as he read, and the old fellows in the stalls opposite looked across with grave, questioning eyes--they would have to elect another Master shortly--and the women-folk kneeling by his side looked up anxiously; but Lucy's eyes had wandered again to the end seat on the last bench, while her lips were murmuring: '"That it may please Thee to raise up them that fall, and finally to beat down Satan under our feet."' Wyatt Edgell looked up while she was praying for him--she was distinctly praying for him, she had prayed this very prayer for him every night and morning since Eric had told her how he needed her prayers--and their eyes met. Lucy was covered with confusion. She was quite sure in that swift momentary glance that he had read her inmost thoughts. She was ashamed that he should know that she had been praying all this time that he should be strengthened and comforted and helped and picked up again when he fell, and that the enemy should be beaten down under his feet. She never looked at that end of the chapel again all the rest of the service. It was over at last--the long, long Litany and the slow, faltering prayers: the men need not have been so restless, they would not hear them much longer. The old walls would echo another voice soon, and the feeble lips would be repeating another Litany elsewhere. The old college chapel was full of echoes and shadows; there would be another shadow shortly, and the echo of a tremulous, quavering voice would join those other ancient echoes in the roof. It was a dark, gloomy old chapel; it had been built for hundreds of years, and it was full of old memories. Every bench and stall and desk had a memory of its own, stretching back, far back, into quite early ages--memories of old Masters and Fellows and scholars and undergraduates who had worshipped there through, oh! so many generations. There was a musty smell of old Masters rising up from the vaults beneath and pervading the chapel, and in the ante-chapel beyond there were monuments on the walls, and brasses--quite lovely old brasses--on the pavement, and great hideous tombs of long dead and gone Masters and Fellows. It was touching to see how they were forgotten after a generation or two; how even their very tomb-stones were hidden away in a corner, and covered up with organ pipes. There was the marble effigy of an old, old Master, whose learning and virtues were recited in a long Latin epitaph on an elaborate tablet hidden away behind the organ. Everyone had forgotten him years ago, and his old monument was in the way, and so they had covered it up. Music is so much more delightful than old memories. They will all be swept away soon, and a new chapel will be built. There will be no old memories and old ghosts and old storied windows, no decaying woodwork or musty odour of old Masters. It will all be fresh and bright and sweet-smelling and shiny as new paint and varnish can make it, and there will be a new organ with electric stops. It will be dark and shadowy no longer; the old echoes and the old ghosts will all be scared away--they will vanish quite away in the blaze of the new electric lamps with which the chapel will be lighted. Lucy vanished out of the college chapel almost as rapidly as the ghosts will by-and-by. She did not linger in the cloisters to-day. She hurried back to the lodge, and left Cousin Mary and the Master's wife to toddle back beside the Master. 'How do you think your uncle looks to-day, my dear?' the old lady asked Lucy when they had got him safely back to the lodge, and had put him in his great armchair, and given him some wine. There was a shade of anxiety in her voice as she asked the question. Lucy hadn't seen the Master for a week, so she might have been expected to notice any change in him. 'Oh, I think he looks lovely, aunt! He walked back from chapel quite strong.' Mrs. Rae shook her head; she was not quite convinced. 'There were two of us supporting him, my dear, one on either side, and I thought he leant rather heavily.' He had nearly crushed the poor little soul into the ground; she could not have supported his weight a dozen steps more. 'Perhaps you are not so strong yourself to-day, auntie dear; you are looking pale. Most likely the weakness is yours, and you are not so well able to bear his weight. He always leans heavily; I often wonder how you and Mary can keep him up!' 'Perhaps so, my dear. I hope it may be so!' But still the cloud on the dear old face did not quite vanish. 'I fancied that his reading in chapel was slower to-day than usual--that his voice was weak. Did you notice it?' 'Oh yes; I noticed that he read lovely! I never heard him read so well as he read to-day.' 'You really think so? I am very glad! The fault must be in me. I don't think I am quite so strong to-day--I can't expect to be at my age; but I am very glad there is nothing unusual the matter with the Master. You would have been quite sure to have noticed it, my dear, if there had been, as you haven't seen him for a week.' She kissed that mendacious little Lucy and tottered out of the room. She was very feeble to-day--perhaps the Master's weight had been too much for her; but there was quite a glad smile on her patient face. She was so happy, the brave old soul, to feel that the weakness was hers, not his. Wyatt Edgell went back straight from chapel to his own rooms. He met Eric coming out of chapel, and they went back together. 'Where have I seen that girl before?' he asked Eric when they got back to the room. 'Oh, you've often seen her in chapel. She's the Master's niece, or grand-niece, or something of the kind,' said Eric evasively. But the other was not so easily put off. 'I have seen her somewhere else, besides in chapel,' he said thoughtfully. 'I've seen her in this room. I've seen her beside my bed. Good heavens! Wattles, you didn't let that girl in--when--when----' 'When you weren't quite yourself, old man,' said Eric cheerfully, filling up the gap. 'What on earth should the Master's niece come in here for? Be reasonable, and don't ask such foolish things!' 'Foolish or not, I'll be hanged if I didn't see her in this room, standing where you stand now! You may as well tell the truth, Wattles. You may as well say you called her in and showed her the spectacle!' He was a very determined-looking young man, and he didn't look like one to be trifled with, as he stood with his back to the empty fireplace, leaning against the mantelpiece, and his great hands stuck down well in his pockets. 'Dear old man, you may take my word for it: I did not call her in; I should as soon have thought of calling the Master in!' 'I wish to Heaven you had called the Master in--I should have known the worst then; but for this girl to see me--in--in that state!' He paused and groaned, and two upright lines came out on his forehead. 'You take too much for granted, old man,' said the other; but he couldn't put any heartiness into his voice. 'Haven't I told you that not a soul in the college but Brannan and myself came into the room--while--while you were ill?' 'Yes,' said the other moodily--'not a soul in the college; but this girl from Newnham came in. I'll swear it! I saw it in her eyes.' It was no use Eric pretending. Edgell was not in a mood to be trifled with. He was a great big, determined fellow. He could have taken Eric up and flung him to the other end of the room with the same ease with which he had flung the pillow. 'Go on,' he said moodily; 'go on, and tell me all about it. Tell me why this girl came in, and the spectacle she saw. Let me know exactly the degradation to which I have sunk!' There was no help for it. Eric had to tell him all about Lucy's visit--Lucy's second visit; he didn't say anything about the first. How could he tell the poor fellow that she had come in at that dreadful time; that it was her hands that had wiped up all the traces of his crime; that it was she who had helped him when he had put those stitches in that gaping wound in his throat! Eric told him quite enough. His head had fallen forward on his breast, and he looked a picture of despondency. A despondent giant of six feet, with a great broad chest, and big muscular limbs, and a splendid head splendidly set on a splendid full white throat--it was muffled up now, but it was as white and shapely as a woman's beneath the crisp, close-cut whisker curling down below the cheek. His chin and his great square jaw were close-shaven, but there was a thin, slight, crisp moustache on his upper lip, and his short hair curled crisply at the edges. He wore it parted in the middle, not very neatly parted, and tossed back off his forehead. Everything about him denoted strength and courage--such a man could not be despondent long. 'Then she knows the worst,' he said--'the very worst. There is nothing else she has got to learn about me. There is only one thing to be done, Wattles, with a girl who knows so much about me: I must marry her. You must introduce me again, old man, and I shall make her an offer, and--and she will marry me.' His gloom and depression had quite gone, and he was smiling again. He was a delightful fellow when he smiled. Not a man in the college could resist that delightful smile; it disarmed the wrath of all the Dons, and it won the hearts of bed-makers. 'Marry her!' said Eric, turning quite pale. 'Dear old man, don't be in such a hurry. Think it over. She isn't the sort of woman for you, Edgell.' Wyatt Edgell laughed. His laugh was a full-blown edition of his smile; but Gwatkin looked serious. 'Perhaps you'll tell me, Wattles, what is the sort of woman for me.' 'Oh, I wouldn't pretend to say; only, old man, don't trifle with this poor little thing. She's the sort of girl to break her heart for a man. I wouldn't break her heart if I were you.' 'Perhaps she'll break mine,' said Edgell dryly; and then he sat down and ate his lunch which the bed-maker had already spread out on the table. It was a very nice college lunch. It was not tinned beef, or brawn, or tongue, or any questionable dainty that had been soldered up a year or two in a metal case. It was a lovely head and shoulders of salmon, and it had been judiciously pickled, and there was cucumber cut up in a dish--little delicate flakes of cucumber which Edgell ate with the healthy returning appetite of a man who had long been denied this delicacy. The salmon was followed by a chicken and a ham, to which he also applied himself with the same zest. The edge was quite taken off his appetite, when Eric pushed these things aside and set a jelly just freshly turned out of a mould before him. 'I don't want any of that stuff,' he said, and he pushed over his glass in the direction of the claret. 'I don't think I'd take any more, old man,' said Eric; 'you've already had four glasses. I wouldn't have any more. Have a soda?' 'I'll be hanged if I do!' said the other doggedly, 'unless you put some brandy in it. I must have a nip of brandy, Wattles. I'm sure that cucumber has disagreed with me. I haven't had any cucumber for an age, and it never did agree with me.' Eric got up and unlocked a cupboard, and took out a liqueur-bottle more than half full of brandy, and poured a small--a very small--quantity into a glass, and filled it up with seltzer-water. He had put the bottle back into the cupboard and the key into his pocket, and was putting on his gown to go out. He always took a service somewhere in the country, or did some open-air preaching on Sunday afternoons, and he was in a hurry to get away. 'I wish you'd leave that key behind you, Wattles,' Edgell called out when he got to the door. 'That confounded cucumber or the pickled salmon has disagreed with me. I may want the key before you come back.' Eric took the key out of his pocket reluctantly and laid it on the mantelpiece. 'You'll be careful, old man,' he said; 'you'll be sure to be careful. Remember----' 'Shut up!' said the other angrily. 'Do you think I'm such a fool?' Eric went out and shut the door. When he came back two hours later the liqueur-bottle was on the table empty, and Edgell was breathing heavily on the floor. It was all that confounded pickled salmon and cucumber! CHAPTER XI. IN THE FELLOWS' GARDEN. That mendacious little Lucy, in spite of all her assurances to the Master's wife, was a little anxious about the Master. He had not taken his dinner with his usual appetite; he had scarcely eaten a morsel, and he had not had his usual nap after. He had left half the wine in his glass, and he had got up from the table earlier than usual; but he had not fallen asleep in his chair after, as was his wont. He had sat talking to Lucy all the afternoon about the old time. His memory was wonderfully clear about the things that had happened, oh! so long ago--more than half a century before she was born--and he talked to her about them as if they had happened yesterday. He was always so glad to see Cousin Dick's little daughter; she brought back the past to him, and seemed a link between the old far-off time and the present. He recalled to-day his very earliest years, his first remembrances. He recalled the time when his brother Dick carried him on his shoulders to the fair. 'It was Midsummer Fair, my dear,' he explained, 'and your father left off work early; he was very fond of fairs, and junketings, and wrestling matches. He liked bull-baiting, too. I mind the bull-ring at the end of the village on a piece of waste ground; I dare say it is there now. I've seen many a bull baited there in my day. There was never a fair within ten miles but your father was there in his best, with a flower in his button-hole--he always wore a flower in the button-hole of his plum-coloured coat. I remember that coat well; it had gilt buttons, and he wore a waistcoat to match, with two rows of buttons on either side--it was the fashion then, my dear. He carried me on his shoulder all the way to the fair; it was held on the green; there was a large green in the middle of the village in those days, but it is built over now; things have altered since then.' The old Master shook his head and sighed. He hated changes of any kind; he would have liked the world to go on in the same old grooves for ever. He was silent for some time, and his watchful women-folk thought he was going to sleep--that he would have his after-dinner nap, after all; but he was only thinking. Those old chambers of memory were unlocked, and the old faces of his youth were crowding around him. 'Yes,' he said presently, brightening up, 'your mother was there, too, my dear. Dick met her in a dancing-booth. She wouldn't look at Dick at first, she had so many sweethearts. She was a proud little thing, with a spirit of her own; she nearly broke Dick's heart before he married her, but she made him a good wife--a good wife and a good mother, and always in her place in church, and bringing her children up to work and to fear God. I don't know that women do more in these days when they learn so many things.' Lucy couldn't help thinking of that motion in the House of Commons, which was carried with such an overwhelming majority, that was to admit women to practise at the Bar and in the Church, to say nothing of those other learned professions that were already practically open. The old Master's views were very, very old-fashioned; the world had made rapid strides while he had been sitting in his armchair and reading his Sunday Litanies in that musty old college chapel. 'Your father had a spirit of his own, too, my dear,' the old man babbled on with quite surprising vigour--these old memories made him quite young again; 'he wouldn't stay there to be slighted, with all the neighbours looking on. He left your mother going round with a young spark who had come down from London, and with me on his shoulder he went through the fair. I mind the booths quite well, with the gilt gingerbread, and the toys, and the trumpets, and the drums, and the merry-go-rounds. There was a show with a fat woman--I have never forgotten that fat woman. I have never seen anything like her since. There was a dwarf there, too--the smallest dwarf that was ever seen. I remember him strutting about the stage with his little sword; he wore a sword, and a gold-laced coat, and a cocked hat. The fat lady took his arm when the performance was over--she had to stoop down to do it, and he had to stretch up. I shall never forget seeing them go off the stage, arm-in-arm--the funniest sight I have ever seen--or how the people in the show laughed and clapped their hands when the showman made a ridiculous speech as they went out. "That's the way they go to church every Sunday of their lives!" he said, pointing after them. I believed him, if the crowd didn't, and for years after I used to watch the church door to see them coming in; but I have never seen them since.' Lucy was so anxious about the old Master that when she went for her lesson to the Tutor's rooms the next day she could do nothing but talk about him. The Tutor was anxious too, perhaps, in another way. He had noticed a change in the Master, and he went over to the lodge with her as soon as the lesson was over. The Master was very feeble to-day, but he was up, and downstairs, and he was talking about going out into the garden. He was very fond of the old Fellows' Garden, and the seat beneath the walnut-tree--a sunny seat in the winter, a shady seat in the summer. It was shady now, but the garden was full of sunshine; the lilacs were in bloom, and the laburnums were a blaze of gold, and the thorn-tree was white with may. It was the blossoming time of the year, and everything was at its prime. The Tutor took him out on his arm and sat him down on his old seat. He noticed how heavily he leant upon him as he tottered feebly across the grass. He would have crushed a woman with his weight. The Master's wife came out too, and sat by his side, with his hand in hers, and Lucy walked with the Tutor in the shady, winding paths beneath the trees. The trees were all old and gnarled, and some had broken down with age, and were propped up. The borders were full of old-fashioned flowers--perennials that went down into the earth every winter, and came up again every spring. There was nothing new here. The Senior Tutor, as he walked by Lucy's side, was thinking how he should change all this by-and-by. He would cut down those useless old trees, and he would have the turf rolled and laid out for tennis. Nothing could be better for Lucy than tennis, and she could invite her Newnham friends. Those old flower borders should be all dug up, and some standard rose-trees planted. He would have nothing but first-rate sorts, the very latest. He would do away with that vulgar cabbage rose in the corner, and that poor, shabby little pale blush that hung in clusters on the wall. It had hung there for so many years; it was quite time it should be cleared away. It seemed a pity to lose time. There were so many improvements to be made; it seemed a pity not to begin now. Looking across the grass and the sunshine at the old stooping figure under the walnut-tree--it was bent more than usual to-day--he could not but feel that the time was not far off when it would be there no longer. There was nothing pathetic in the sight to him. He had waited for the place--the Master's place--so long. If he waited much longer he would be feeble and old and white-haired, too. There is little pathos in the young. The sad realities of life touch only those who know something about them. One must have suffered one's self to have any sympathy with suffering. Lucy, looking across the sunshine, was touched, in spite of herself, at the group under the walnut-tree. It didn't affect her as it affected the Tutor. It would be no gain to her if the old Master were to die; it would mean loss and change and being driven out again homeless into the wide world. But it was not this consideration that moved her. She was touched by the tender picture of the two brave, patient old souls sitting hand-in-hand in that calm closing evening of their life. Here was a love that Lucy knew nothing about--a love that had weathered all the storms of life, and was burning brightly at its close. Riches and honour and learning were nothing to it. They were the Master's still, but they were nothing beside love. He would leave these behind him, but love would cling to him out of time. He wouldn't shake that off when he shook off everything else. Lucy didn't put the idea into words, but it touched her; and then, strangely enough, rose up before her the face of the man who had sat on the last seat in the chapel and had caught her looking at him. It was quite ridiculous to think of Wyatt Edgell at such a moment; there was nothing here to remind her of him. There was an old disused greenhouse at the end of the Fellows' garden. Nothing had grown in it for years. A neglected vine was dropping down from the roof in one corner, and a great deal of the glass was broken, and the woodwork was decayed and rotting. The Tutor shook the door as he passed, and it opened, and he paused and looked in. 'I think we must have this place rebuilt,' he said, thinking aloud. 'You would like a greenhouse. We must get some ferns and palms and foliage plants. Do you like foliage plants?' 'Not much,' Lucy said. She could not think what he meant by appealing to her. 'I like flowers best. I don't care for leaves. I'm afraid my taste is very vulgar. I like geraniums, and mignonette, and camellias; I am very fond of camellias. We used to have some in our greenhouse at home.' 'You can keep as many as you like here,' he said. 'We will get all the varieties there are, and you can have geraniums in flower all the year round.' He shut the door, and they walked down the path together, while Lucy wondered what he could mean. It would be scarcely worth while to do up the old greenhouse and fill it with flowers when it was not likely she would be there another spring to see it. In the long path they met Cousin Mary coming towards them. She looked rather pale and worn in the sunshine, and she had on a most unbecoming garden-hat. It had been hanging up in the hall all the winter; it might have been hanging there for years, and it was battered out of all shape. There was not a bed-maker in the college that would have worn it. The Tutor had never noticed before how gray her hair had grown, and that there were crow's-feet round her eyes, and that her cheeks were faded. She had not changed lately. She had looked like this for years, getting a little grayer every year, and adding a line or two beneath her eyes, but he had never noticed it before. He was very fond of her still; he had the highest opinion of Mary Rae, but he was very glad that Lucy had come in time--just in time--to save him from throwing himself away. 'Mr. Colville is going to have the old greenhouse done up, Mary,' Lucy shouted to her when she was quite a dozen paces away. 'He's going to have camellias and geraniums all the year round; but perhaps you don't like camellias.' The Senior Tutor for once in his life blushed. It was not for Mary he was going to have those geraniums in perennial bloom. 'I don't think it's worth it,' said Mary bluntly--'at least, not for us. We shall soon be going away.' And she looked in the direction of the walnut-tree beneath which the old Master and his wife were still sitting. 'That should make no change,' the Tutor said awkwardly; 'the lodge would be still your home.' He grew ridiculously red, and he did not dare to look Mary in the face. 'We need not talk about that yet,' she said with a smile; 'the dear Master is still with us. I came to ask you to help him in; he has sat there long enough. He is not so strong to-day; I can't manage him alone.' 'I should think not!' said the Tutor, and he hurried off across the grass and took the old Master back to the lodge. Lucy did not go in; she slipped through the garden-door into the court, and hurried back to Newnham. She had promised to drink tea in a girl's room, and she was already half an hour late. She went back by way of the Fens, and when she was near the bridge she saw some figures she thought she knew crossing it, and they stopped while she came up, and looked down into the water. It was Pamela Gwatkin and her brother, and there was another man with him. She had never seen Pamela with her brother before, and she was struck as she came up to them with the points of difference between them. Being twins, they ought to have been exactly alike. Eric was short, and Pamela was tall--tall and graceful and slender, as a girl ought to be, with a proud, self-reliant bearing that is peculiar to the students of a college for women. Eric was not only short, but he was stout, and not at all graceful, and he had no bearing to speak of. He was an awkward, well-meaning, commonplace fellow. There was nothing remarkable about him whatever, except that he was Pamela's twin brother. This in his case was a decided disadvantage--the ingredients hadn't been properly mixed. All the masculine characteristics had gone to Pamela, and the tender, endearing qualities to her brother. He saw Lucy come tearing along across the Fen, and he took off his hat as she came up to him. 'You have met Eric before,' said Pamela, by way of introduction. She was looking very pink and white and cool as she stood there on the bridge looking down into the dark shady water, and Lucy had run herself into a fever, and was hot and flushed, and looking 'hideous,' as she told herself. 'Oh yes,' she panted--she was quite out of breath with running in the hot sun--'I have met Mr. Gwatkin before.' She didn't see, until Pamela's brother introduced her, that the other man leaning over the bridge was Wyatt Edgell. She was so flustered with running, and so taken by surprise, that she blushed like a peony. She felt she was blushing furiously, and that Pamela, cool and critical and self-possessed, was watching her. Oh, how she hated herself for not being cool and dignified and self-possessed like other people! They walked back over the Fen and through the lane to Newnham in couples, Lucy and Wyatt Edgell in front, Pamela and her brother behind. Lucy would have given the world to have reversed the order, but the man took his place by her side, and he wouldn't go away until he left her at the gate of Newnham. 'You have met me before, Miss Rae, as well as Gwatkin,' he said, as he walked by Lucy's side. 'I believe he invited you in to see the spectacle.' 'He didn't invite me in at all,' Lucy said hotly; 'I came in. You were very ill when I saw you; I did not expect you would get well so soon.' 'No?' he said indifferently, 'I suppose not. It did not much matter either way.' 'It mattered a great deal!' she said sharply. She was very angry with him for speaking in that absurd way--absurd and ungrateful--considering what a trouble he had been to his friends. 'It mattered a great deal to Mr. Gwatkin. Oh, you don't know how anxious he was about you! He saved your life.' 'Yes,' he said in his slow, indifferent way, flicking with his cane at the nettles in the hedge; 'I believe he did. It was rather a pity he should have taken so much trouble, but I suppose he liked it. I believe he didn't get off his knees all one night. He's always glad of an excuse for getting on his knees.' And then he laughed. It was such a delightful laugh that it ought to have been infectious, but Lucy looked grave. 'I suppose he was on his knees when you came in?' he said. 'Yes,' said Lucy shortly, but she didn't tell him that she had knelt down beside Eric and prayed that the life he valued so little might be spared. She was very angry with him; she could only trust herself to say 'Yes.' 'Oh, he is a good fellow is Wattles, but he has his little crazes.' 'He is a splendid fellow!' said Lucy warmly. She was ashamed of her warmth the moment after she had said it, but they had reached the gate of Newnham by this time, and she was glad to say 'Good-bye' and run away. She left him standing at the gate waiting for the others to come up, while quite a dozen girls on the lawn were looking at him and admiring him, and making up all sorts of fine stories in their heads about him. If they had only known what Lucy knew about him they would have made up a great deal more. CHAPTER XII. AN UGLY FALL. There was a row royal when Pamela got back to Newnham. She told Lucy that her conduct was disgraceful, and that if it came to the ears of the Dons she would be 'hauled.' There had been several girls 'hauled' lately for the same offence--walking with an undergraduate to the very gate of the college. Lucy mildly suggested that she was not exactly alone, that Pamela and her brother were with her, and that she herself, when she came up to her on the bridge, was walking in the young man's society. 'You forget that Eric was with me,' Pamela replied sharply. 'It makes all the difference if you have a brother, or any male relative, with you; but to be walking alone, tearing along at the rate you were, and talking confidentially--anyone could see that you were talking confidentially--dozens of girls have been sent down for less than that!' Lucy wasn't 'hauled,' and she wasn't 'sent down'; but Pamela behaved like a bear to her for the remainder of the term. Lucy was so anxious about the Master that she went over to the lodge the next day directly after lunch. Cousin Mary was out; she had left him sitting in his chair taking his after-dinner nap as usual, and she had gone out. He woke up directly Lucy came in, and began to talk to her about her father and the old time. She was very glad that she had not brought Pamela in with her, or any of the Newnham girls, as she sometimes did. He would have told them that ridiculous story that was running in his mind, how his brother Dick had met her mother at a dancing-booth at the fair. He would have dwelt on all the homely details of their humble history. It would have been all over Newnham the next day that her father was a ploughman, and her mother kept a stall in the butter-market. Annabel Crewe, who had a fine taste for caricature, would have drawn delightful pictures of Lucy's progenitors--a lovely old man in a smock-frock with straw round his legs, and a milkmaid with her pail! She couldn't divert the Master's attention from this ridiculous topic. He had forgotten all about the things that had happened in later years, and had gone back in memory to the old familiar scenes and faces of his youth. His eyes were brighter to-day, and he was more restless than usual; he wanted to go out into the garden and sit in his accustomed seat on the lawn. It was such a perfect May day that no wonder he wanted to get out of that dark, gloomy old room, with the stuffy moreen curtains over the windows, and the faded carpets, and the worm-eaten, old-fashioned furniture, and the musty old books, into the sweet summer sunshine, where everything was fresh and new. There was nothing dark and gloomy and oppressive out there in that sweet leafy Fellows' garden. The lilacs were in their prime, pale puce and white and purple, every delightful indescribable hue, and the laburnum was dropping gold upon the grass. There was a cuckoo somewhere, calling, and the thrushes were singing, and the blackbird's note was still shrill and clear. It would soon be hoarse as a raven's, and the thrush would be silent, and the cuckoo would have altered his tune, and the lilac would have faded, and the gold of the gleaming, down-dropping laburnums would have turned to gray--and--and he might not be here to see it. If he wanted to enjoy the fleeting sunshine and the flying blossoms of the year, there was no time like the present. The Master didn't exactly put it in this way, but he was impatient to be out in the garden, in his old seat, and he wouldn't wait a minute longer for anybody. If Mary wasn't there he would go without her. There are none so impatient as the old. The young have plenty of time to spare--they have their life before them; but the old have not a minute to lose. The Master went out as usual, leaning on the arm that had supported him so many years, that had never failed him yet. Mrs. Rae and Lucy took him out between them. He walked in his slow accustomed way, leaning rather heavily on these two frail props until he reached his seat beneath the walnut-tree, and here he ought to have sat down. But he didn't sit down. He insisted on going farther; he insisted on going down the path to the greenhouse. Mary had been saying something about it, repeating what the Tutor had said yesterday about having it done up and turned to some account, and the Master would not be satisfied until he had seen it. He must be consulted about it; nothing should be done in the gardens without his consent. He had been worrying about it all night. He had got half-way down the path, when Lucy fancied he was beginning to lean heavily, more heavily than she could bear, though she put out all her strength. There was not a seat near, but she stopped and begged the Master to rest awhile. He was so anxious to see the greenhouse that he would not listen to her. He never thought of the women who were being weighed down with his great weight. He was as eager and determined as a child. 'I am sure, aunt, you are not strong enough to keep him up,' Lucy said in despair; she was getting really frightened. 'We must get someone to help him back. Oh, if someone would only come in!' There was not a gardener in sight, and it was not likely that anyone would come in. Nobody but the Fellows ever walked in that garden. The Master tottered on, feebler at every step; but he would not be kept back, and the two frightened women held him up as well as they could. He seemed to want more support every step he took; he was as feeble and helpless as a child, but still he pressed on. Lucy was sure she couldn't bear the strain a minute longer, and the dear old mistress was straining with all her might to keep up with him. She was putting out all her strength. It wasn't much to put out at the best, but she didn't keep back a feather weight. Oh, if someone would only come! They came in sight of that wretched greenhouse at last, and here the Master stopped. He didn't exactly stop, but he tottered forward, and Lucy with a supreme effort kept him up, and with all his weight upon her he swayed to and fro, and before she knew what was happening he had slipped through her arms to the ground. He lay on the path, as he fell, all of a heap. He had no power to help himself, and he lay panting and breathing heavily as he had fallen, and the women stood beside him wringing their hands. Lucy didn't stand beside him long. There was a door in the wall beside the greenhouse that led out into one of the courts, and she flew over to it. Fortunately the door was unlocked. Lucy looked eagerly round the deserted court and raised her feeble cry for help. It was such a feeble, piteous cry; it was like a wail. A man sitting reading at an open window looked out at that strange sound, and Lucy called to him: 'Oh, come, come, do come!' The man didn't stay to ask what had happened; he was at Lucy's side in another moment, and she took him in through the open door to where the Master lay. It was Wyatt Edgell. A gyp coming across the court had heard the cry for help, and between them they bore the Master back to the lodge. When Mary Rae came in she found a little anxious group gathered round him, and Wyatt Edgell was trying to reassure the frightened women. Nothing very serious had happened. No bones were broken, but the Master was very much shaken, and he was not quite himself. Wyatt Edgell stayed with him until the doctor had come, and had ascertained that things were not very bad--not so bad as they might have been--and had calmed the fears of the women; and then Lucy was so shaken that he walked back with her to Newnham. Lucy certainly would have been 'hauled' if the Dons had seen her walking back leaning heavily on an undergraduate's arm. She would have been invited to an interview with the authorities in the Principal's room, and she would have received a caution, perhaps a reprimand, and she would have been very lucky if nothing worse had happened. Lucy forgot all about the Dons and Pamela's warning. She only thought about that poor old man at the lodge. 'I don't think he will ever get over this,' she said, or rather sobbed. She was not herself at all. She was such a tearful, frightened little Lucy. She was not in the least like a Stoic. 'I am afraid not,' said Edgell. 'The Master has been failing for some time. The men all remarked that he would never read the Litany again in chapel.' 'You think he is so bad as that?' Lucy said tearfully. 'Yes, quite. Think of his age. His time must come some day, and he has lived longer than most men. You could not expect him, in any case, to live for many months longer.' 'No,' said Lucy sadly; and then he saw the tears dropping down her pale face. He could not believe she was weeping for that old, old man whose time had come, and who was a stranger to her till yesterday. 'What will you do when he is gone?' he asked abruptly. 'Do? I don't know--I have not thought. I shall stay at Newnham, I suppose, two years; I shall not be able to afford three; and then--and then I shall go out as a governess.' 'You shall never go out as a governess!' said Edgell with an oath. Lucy looked at him, frightened and bewildered; she couldn't think what he meant, and then she broke down and began to cry. 'Dear Miss Rae--Lucy!' he said, and then he stopped and looked at the girl. He would have liked to take her in his arms, but there were several Newnham girls all hurrying down the road, and they looked at him, and they looked at Lucy. Some of them blushed, and some turned pale, and all were shocked. It was a dreadful precedent. The atmosphere of Newnham revived Lucy, and she paused at the gate and looked up into his face with a little white smile. 'I am very stupid,' she said, 'but the Master frightened me so much, and I am not quite myself.' He held her hand longer than he need have done, and he looked down into the small white face with a smile of ownership and protection that was quite new to Lucy. Nobody had ever looked in her eyes like that before, and, instead of drawing her hand away, Lucy hung her head and blushed like a poppy. 'Shall I bring you word how the Master is the first thing in the morning?' he said, still holding her hand; 'how early will you be out in the lane if I come?' 'Oh, as early as you like; seven o'clock!' And so Lucy made her first appointment to meet Wyatt Edgell. CHAPTER XIII. SLIPPING AWAY. When Lucy went out into the road outside the gates of the college, before seven o'clock the next morning, Wyatt Edgell was already there waiting for her. It is a short, narrow road, or lane, and it leads to nowhere, unless Selwyn College be considered anywhere. It has been the privilege of the students of Selwyn to use this road as a shortcut to their college, but it will not be their privilege much longer. The road is now the private property of the authorities of Newnham, and a new wing connecting the old and the new halls will be built across the road, and the jealous walls that shut out the grounds from masculine eyes will be thrown down, and the old dusty lane will be covered with smooth, green turf, and it will be a thoroughfare no longer for the foot of man to pass over. Perhaps they will restore again the old fortifications. There was a Roman camp here once, and a battle ditch running all the way to Grantchester. Every inch of ground here is classic, and strewn with remains of those old Romans who brought us all the gentler arts. Perhaps they brought the Muses with them and planted them at Newnham? There was an old Roman dug up the other day, four feet beneath the surface, a noble skeleton, six feet six in length. The whole earth teems with ancient coins and pottery and Roman relics. They will have to build a museum in the new wing to preserve the 'finds' that are unearthed in digging its foundations. Lucy was quite indifferent to the Romans. She would rather, if she had had the choice, have met one of their old ghosts in the lane than one of the Dons of Newnham taking her morning walk. She looked fearfully up and down the road when she got outside the gate, but there were only some Selwyn men going down to the bathing sheds; there was not a girl in sight. Wyatt Edgell was walking up and down the path flicking at the sweetbriar hedge as he passed, and his eyes were looking down on the ground. He was so lost in thought that he did not see Lucy till he heard her little cry, and she ran to meet him. 'Oh!' she cried, a little pale and breathless, 'how is the Master? Is he worse this morning?' She augured badly from Edgell's downcast look. 'Not worse,' he said; 'at least, I hope not worse, but I fear not better. When I inquired at the lodge when the gates were opened at six o'clock, they told me the Master had had a very disturbed night, that he had not slept at all, but that he did not appear to be in any pain. Your cousin has been up with him all night, and Mrs. Rae.' 'I was sure she would not leave him,' said the girl, the tears filling her eyes. She was thinking of the anguish in that kind old face when the Master slipped through her feeble arms. 'I think I ought to go over at once and relieve her; she must be worn out.' Lucy didn't stay to think. She walked back to St. Benedict's with the undergraduate who had brought her the news; she didn't even stay to fetch her gloves. She walked down by his side in the morning sunshine, just as she had hurried out of her room, with a ridiculous little tennis-cap on her head and her ungloved hands. Two Newnham girls who were returning from an early--a very early--walk looked shocked, as well they might be, and some rude Selwyn men whistled as they passed. They were only jealous that she was not taking a morning walk with them. Lucy found the watchers still up when they reached the lodge. Mrs. Rae would not be persuaded to lie down, and she was looking dreadfully tired and worn out. She looked ten years older, Lucy thought, this morning, and her poor face was as white as her hair. Mary looked pale, too. Perhaps it was the air of that close room that was still darkened; and there was a shade of anxiety under her eyes, but she would not own to being tired. She could stay up a week, if necessary. The Master had fallen into a doze; but Lucy's light footstep or the whisper of their voices reached him, and he woke up when she came in. Lucy went over to him and laid her warm, moist hand on his, and the touch seemed to revive him. 'Is the milking over?' he asked, turning upon her his pale-blue eyes with that strange brightness in them that is peculiar to the very old. 'I have heard the cows lowing all night for the calves. You have taken the calves away?' 'It is Lucy, uncle,' she said, stroking his hand softly--'little Lucy, not Lucy's mother----' She was going to say 'grandmother,' but she thought 'mother' would humour his fancy best. 'Yes, yes: I know you, my dear. I have been watching for you all the night. You must not go away again for so long; they don't understand me here as you do. Where's Dick?' 'He is gone, uncle,' she said softly. She did not like to say that he was dead. 'Gone? Where is he gone? He was here just now. Is he in the field or in the barn? Send him to me when he comes in, my dear.' Lucy turned away pale and trembling. She could not bear it; he did not recognise her in the least. The Tutor came in while she was there, and went over to the bed; but the Master took him for Dick--the brother who had died fifty years ago. His eyes lighted up when the Tutor came in, and with a strange, eager interest he asked him questions about the crops and the farm. All the later associations of his life had quite faded from his memory, and he had gone back to the scenes and faces of his youth. The Tutor turned away from the bed with a sigh. He had waited for this half his life. He had looked forward so long as he could remember to being Master of St. Benedict's, and now, when it seemed within his grasp, he turned from it with a sigh. What was it, after all, this shadow he was grasping? Wealth, honour, position, it would all slip through his hands by-and-by, as it had slipped through the hands of the old scholar on the bed: all, everything, that had taken a lifetime--a long lifetime--to gain, would slip away, and there would be nothing left but old memories. Everything would fail; and he would go back to the old humble time, and the dear faces--if happily he had dear faces to go back to. There would be nothing left--nothing that he could carry away with him--but those old tender memories. The Tutor turned away from the bed and went out of the room. On the landing outside he saw Lucy sitting in the window-seat weeping. The tears were in his own eyes, and he could not trust himself to speak. He went over, and took Lucy's hand, and drew her towards him. 'Oh,' she murmured through her tears, 'he does not know me the least bit. He thinks I am his brother Dick's wife.' 'And he takes me for Dick,' said the Tutor, with an involuntary smile, pressing the little warm hand he held. 'We shall all come to it, my dear, some day--to the vanishing-point, where everything slips away from us but the memories of our youth. Well for us at that time if we have nothing but innocent memories of kindly deeds and loving faces--if we have no regrets, no sorrow, no remorse! Perhaps it is the happiest lot to have the slate wiped clean of all the storms and passions of later years, and to go back at the last, and to take away with us only the memory of the old innocent early days.' He was a good deal moved. He might have committed dreadful crimes since the days of his innocent youth, instead of being a grave, sober, reverend Tutor of a college. 'You don't think he will ever be better?' Lucy sobbed. 'I don't think, even if his life is prolonged, that his mind will ever be clear again. I fear it has gone, quite gone. Perhaps it is better so: he will pass away happier; he will have no regrets; he will leave nothing behind.' Lucy sat sobbing in the window-seat. If she had been older she would not have wept so freely: the young have so many tears to spare. 'There is nothing to regret,' he said tenderly, bending over the hand he still held. 'The dear Master has lived his life--a good life, and, I think, a happy one--and he will exchange it for a better and a happier. We have only to concern ourselves about those who are left--Mrs. Rae and your cousin. They must stay with us, Lucy; they must make the lodge their home. You must let them understand, dear'--here the Senior Tutor really pressed Lucy's hand, that he had held all the time he had been talking to her, and she had never once thought of drawing it away: he would have taken her in his arms, but the servants were coming up and down stairs--'you must let them quite understand,' he went on, 'that their home is here with us. I am sure we shall do everything to make them happy.' Lucy hadn't the least idea what he meant. She would have stayed at the lodge and taken her share of the nursing night and day, but the Tutor would not hear of it. 'You have got your work to do, my dear,' he said. He called her 'my dear' now quite naturally. 'You have all your work cut out before you to be ready for the examinations in June. You can't afford to risk breaking down for the sake of doing work that any woman can do. A trained nurse from Addenbroke's will do all, and more than all, you three dear anxious women together.' He sent in a nurse from Addenbroke's during the morning, and Cousin Mary and the Master's wife were turned out of the room. It was quite time the Master's wife was turned out of the room, or there would have been two to nurse instead of one. The nurse who had been sent from Addenbroke's Hospital to nurse the Master was the little fluffy nurse that had been brought by her brother to Wyatt Edgell's rooms after that miserable folly, and had kept his secret. If Lucy didn't like trusting a foolish young man she knew nothing about to this flighty nurse, she was much more unwilling to trust this valuable life in her hands. She watched with mistrust, and a certain dull glow of impatience, this little bit of a creature turn the Master's wife out of the room, and reverse everything that had been done under Cousin Mary's directions. The nurse from Addenbroke's pulled up the blinds and threw open the windows, and let in the balmy air of the sweet May morning, that everybody had been so anxious to keep out; and she threw off the heavy quilts, and took away the pillows, and did everything according to the latest fashion in nursing. If people do not choose to get well when all this is done for them, it is their own fault, and not the fault of the system. Before Lucy went back to Newnham she went into the little room--her own room till she had left it for Newnham--where the Master's wife had gone to lie down to rest. She had chosen this room because it was near the Master's, and she would be within call. Lucy insisted on undressing her and putting her to bed, and perjuring herself with fibs of the deepest dye to set her mind at rest. 'I never thought he would go before me,' the dear old soul murmured, when Lucy was undressing her. 'I always thought I should go first; and it has been such a comfort to me to think that Mary could fill my place so well. And now to think that he should be called away first!' 'Who said he would go first?' Lucy said in her reassuring manner. 'He is not at all likely to go before you, you poor dear! If you had been yourself, he would not have fallen. You had no strength left, so he slipped through your poor arms. You hadn't the strength of a baby. Anyone can see how you have been failing lately, and you think it is the Master.' 'And you think it was my fault he fell--that the weakness was not in him?' the poor trembling old creature asked eagerly. She was so anxious to believe Lucy, and the faint colour flushed up under her white skin. 'Of course it was. The doctor will not tell you it was, because he doesn't want to frighten you. Anyone can see that you are much weaker than the Master.' There really seemed some truth in what Lucy said. The Master's wife was trembling all over like a leaf--she couldn't have got into bed without Lucy's help; but she was trembling with joy. 'God bless you, my dear!' she said, when the girl went away. 'You have made me so happy!' Lucy went back to Newnham with a heavy heart. It seemed as if everything were slipping away from her. It is so hard for the young to realize the great change. She felt dimly that it was not far off--that this was, indeed, the beginning of the end. Anyone could have seen that. But it was not the personal sorrow of it that moved her; there was a deeper pathos than death in the fidelity of the dear woman who clung to the old Master with a love stronger than death itself. She could not but think of the look of relief on the old tired face as she walked back to Newnham. The girls remarked that Lucy looked pale at Hall--that is, those who took any interest in her. Pamela Gwatkin never looked her way. She sat at the 'High,' among the Dons; she never condescended to look down the hall to the table where the freshers sat. Capability Stubbs came into her room after Hall, as she sat trying to work, and brought her in a cup of tea. The tea was very grateful to Lucy's overwrought nerves: it was the only thing that was nice about Miss Stubbs. Pamela Gwatkin had given her a cup of tea once or twice, but it tasted of tooth-powder. She had packed the tea and the tooth-powder in a biscuit-tin when she came up, and the lid had got off the tooth-powder box, and it had got mixed up with the tea. It would not have been political economy to have thrown it away. 'Nice scandal you've been making in the college!' observed Miss Stubbs cheerfully, as she handed Lucy the teacup. She had only brought a teacup; she considered saucers superfluous, unless one happened to be a kitten. 'Scandal!' said Lucy, aghast. 'What scandal have I been making?' 'Oh! it was rumoured you had eloped with a Selwyn man. Somebody saw you going off.' 'With a Selwyn man!' said Lucy with fine scorn. 'As if I should elope with a Selwyn man! If it had been St. Benedict's it would have been different.' 'Or Hall?' suggested Miss Stubbs, who was rumoured to have a cousin at Trinity Hall, or to know a girl who had. 'Ye--es; even Hall would have been better. Who set the ball rolling--Newnham Assurance?' Lucy was much too angry with Pamela to call her by her name. 'No, it wasn't Assurance. She took the other side. She said if you were going to run away with--with a man, you would have had the self-respect to stop and put your gloves on first.' CHAPTER XIV. WYATT EDGELL. Late on the evening of the day when Lucy was supposed by the students of Newnham to have eloped, the man she was said to have eloped with sat working in his college-room. It was not a Selwyn man. The crest on the pocket of the blazer he was wearing was the crest of St. Benedict's. It was nearly the eve of the Mathematical Tripos; there were only a few days more, and, having lost all the early part of the term, Wyatt Edgell was sitting down now at the last minute to recover by a tremendous effort the ground he had lost. He had always been sure of a first; he had never yet taken a second class in any examination at school or college, and his name had generally stood first in the lists. The authorities of St. Benedict's had predicted that it would stand first now in the coming Tripos. There would have been no doubt about it but for that ugly 'accident'--he called it an 'accident'--in the beginning of the term. He had not been himself since he came up this May term. He had been moody and taciturn, and subject to fits of depression. He had given up his wine-parties, and his club suppers and breakfasts, and he had shut himself up in his rooms and sported his oak. Everybody, Tutors and all, said he was working hard, and they 'let him alone'; but his bed-maker knew better! Bed-makers know so much more about a man than anyone else. She fetched Gwatkin to him one morning, when she had come in and found him lying on the floor in a fit of delirium tremens. They kept the matter quiet between them and put him to bed, and the bed-maker gave out to all the men on her staircase that 'he was a-readin' hisself to death.' It was not a very bad attack--it was not the first, but Gwatkin didn't know that at the time--there were no violent ravings, only mutterings and depression--dreadful depression. Gwatkin and the bed-maker looked after him during the morning, and towards noon he fell into a deep sleep. It didn't seem at all likely that he would wake for hours. The bed-maker had had some experience of such cases, and she knew that the fever would take eight or ten hours' sleep to spend itself, and then he would awake with shaking hands and a splitting headache, and have a fine time of it for a week. Leaving him as she thought sleeping soundly, she went about her work. She had to clear the tables of the other men on the staircase, but before she went she took the precaution to fasten his oak, and to take the key to Gwatkin's rooms. Gwatkin ran over as fast as he could to Edgell's rooms. He had given such strict injunctions that he was not to be left alone on any pretence. Run as fast as he could, he was only just in time. Had he been a minute later he would have been too late. He took the razor from the poor fellow's hand, and he bound up the wound he had made with it as he best could without assistance. He had not the heart to call for help, to reveal his miserable secret to the whole college. He did for him as he would have wished others to have done for himself if he had been in his place. He kept his secret. There was a man on his own staircase who had a sister a nurse at Addenbroke's, and when he had done all he could for Edgell, and fastened his arms down to the bed, Gwatkin ran across the court and brought Brannan over. He had to let him into the secret; there was no help for it. He saw exactly how matters stood. He was in his third year, and it was not the first time that he had helped to cover up an act of undergraduate folly. Brannan went away to fetch his sister. He could promise her silence. Phyllis Brannan was as true as steel; but in his haste and agitation he had left the outer oak open, and Lucy came in. Wyatt Edgell's secret had been faithfully kept by these men and women. Only one of them had committed a breach of trust--Lucy had told Pamela. She couldn't help it, she explained, if she had had to die for it the next day; but Pamela had held her tongue. Not a soul in the college guessed his secret--his dreadful secret. Everybody looked up to him, and praised him, and expected great things of him--everybody but his bed-maker. She knew something about that last orgie. She had helped to put him to bed, and she had cleared away the small sodas the next morning. She smiled when she saw him settling down to work on the evening of the day when he had brought Lucy to the lodge from Newnham. 'A lot of readin' 'e'll get through,' she said, shaking her head as she went down the stairs with her basket under her shawl. ''E'll be under the table, I reckon, when I come in in the mornin'.' Eric Gwatkin was doubtful about him, too. He was more anxious about Edgell's Tripos than he was about his own Special. He couldn't rest before he went to bed without coming over and seeing if he was all right. He found his oak sported, and he had to knock a good many times before Edgell would let him in. 'Confound it----' he began, and then he saw Eric and stopped. 'Oh, it's you, Wattles!' He didn't say it very graciously, and Eric was sorry he had disturbed him. He really looked in working trim. He had thrown off his coat, and he was sitting in his shirt-sleeves. He wore a flannel shirt, and the collar was open and showed his white throat and chest, as it had showed it that day when Lucy leaned over the bed and put on the wet bandage. It showed, too, what it had not shown on that day, when a scarf was thrown over the throat--an ugly scar extending for some inches beneath the left ear. It was still purple and red and discoloured--a hideous livid mark on the beautiful white skin. Eric shuddered when he saw it. The sight of it always made him shudder to think what a near thing it was--what _might_ have been! He could not understand how Edgell could bear to see it in the glass, could bear to uncover it, that others coming in might see it. 'I am sorry to disturb you, old man,' he said, looking round at the work on the table, and the books lying open before Edgell. 'I only looked round to see--if--if you were all right.' 'To see if I had cut my throat again,' said Edgell calmly. There was a shade of bitterness in his voice, and his lips curled slightly with amusement or scorn, or both. They were beautiful clear-cut lips, full and tender as a woman's, and they had a way of curving when he spoke. They never quivered, they curved; and his nostrils dilated. It was a strong face, with a massive square jaw, but it had these nervous tricks. 'Very kind of you, Wattles,' he went on with a laugh; 'but I'm not going to repeat that performance again--at least, not for the present. I'm going in for my Trip--and--and I'm going to marry Miss Lucy.' Gwatkin's face fell. 'I don't think this is a time to talk of marrying,' he said, with a certain hesitation in his voice, and the cloud on his plain, homely face deepening. 'The poor old Master is dying.' 'So much the more reason to talk about it. Lucy will want a home. She won't be able to stay up at Newnham, she tells me; she will have no one but her cousin Mary when the Master is dead, and the old lady. I think I shall ask her to-morrow. I should like her to feel that she will not be left friendless when the end comes.' 'I should wait till after the exam., if I were you. I shouldn't let anything interfere with the exam. You will have all your life to marry in.' Edgell lay back in his chair and laughed good-naturedly at his Mentor. 'Anyone would think, Wattles, that you wanted to marry her yourself.' There was no occasion for that very common-place-looking young man to blush so dreadfully. 'I only meant to advise you for your good,' he said awkwardly, and then he went over to the door and said good-night; but when he reached the door, and he had the handle in his hand, he paused irresolutely, and looked across the room at the man with the scar in his throat leaning back in the chair. The scar was dreadfully visible in that light. It seemed to have a charm for Gwatkin. He couldn't keep his eyes off it. 'What's up?' said Edgell, seeing that he paused by the door. Eric came back to the table where Edgell was seated, and laid his hand on his shoulder, a friendly, unmistakable grip. 'Dear old man,' he said in a broken voice, and the other could see that his foolish weak lips were quivering, 'you won't mind my speaking my mind to you; you will forgive what I say?' 'Fire away!' said Edgell; but he didn't look at Gwatkin, he looked at the opposite wall. 'Before you go any farther--before you ask Lucy Rae to marry you--pause and consider----' 'I've already considered,' Edgell interrupted impatiently, and with his face still averted. 'You have not considered everything. You have thought only of yourself. You have not thought of her.' 'I have thought of her!' 'No, no; you have not thought of her in the way I mean. Bear with me, dear fellow. God knows I am saying this for your sake and hers. You have not thought of her as orphaned and friendless, having no one but you in the world, being bound up in you, having all her happiness dependent upon you. A little, tender, delicate creature, with no spirit of her own, who would suffer, and break her heart, and never complain----' 'What would she have to complain of?' Edgell interrupted savagely. 'God only knows!' 'You--you think I shall go over the old thing again--that----' 'Hush! For heaven's sake don't let us even suppose it! You haven't got to consider yourself in this matter, you have to consider her. Do you think it fair to ask her--to--to--forgive me, dear fellow--to ask her to risk it?' Wyatt Edgell bowed his head. 'You have no faith in me,' he said moodily, with his head upon his breast and his brows knitted. 'I have every faith in you, dear fellow; but I want you to think of her. It is the chivalrous thing to do. Forgive me for saying it. Unless you felt that you could make her happier than any other man in the world--and--and ensure her happiness, you have no right to ask her to marry you!' Eric Gwatkin was quite astonished at his own temerity--astonished and frightened. He was a weak, nervous, emotional fellow; he couldn't trust himself to say another word. His voice broke, and his eyes were clouded, and he was afraid he had said too much, and with a grip of Edgell's great muscular shoulder he went away and left him sitting in his chair, with his head on his breast, and that ugly scar gleaming like the dark blade of a knife across his white throat. END OF VOL. I. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. NEW LIBRARY NOVELS. THE IVORY GATE. By Walter Besant, Author of 'All Sorts and Conditions of Men,' etc. 3 vols. THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS. By Aaron Watson and Lillias Wassermann. 3 vols. TRUST-MONEY. By William Westall. 3 vols. A FAMILY LIKENESS. By Mrs. B.M. Croker. 3 vols. THE MASTER OF ST. BENEDICT'S. By Alan St. Aubyn. 2 vols. MRS. JULIET. By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. 3 vols. BARBARA DERING. By Amélie Rives. 2 vols. GEOFFORY HAMILTON. By Edward H. Cooper. 2 vols. TREASON-FELONY. By John Hill. 2 vols. London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, Piccadilly, W. 
43764	----	Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. Variation in the spellings of names has not been corrected (i.e. Queens'/Queen's) Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. The footnotes follow the text. ^{e} signified a superscript letter e Some illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note) CAMBRIDGE AND ITS STORY _All rights reserved_ [Illustration: Oriel Windows Queen's College] CAMBRIDGE AND ITS STORY BY CHARLES WILLIAM STUBBS, D.D. DEAN OF ELY [Illustration] WITH TWENTY-FOUR LITHOGRAPHS AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS BY HERBERT RAILTON THE LITHOGRAPHS BEING TINTED BY FANNY RAILTON 1903 LONDON J. M. DENT & CO. ALDINE HOUSE, W.C. Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. At the Ballantyne Press PREFACE I should wish to write one word by way of explanation of the character of the descriptive historical sketch which forms the text of the present book. Some time ago I undertook to prepare, for "the Mediæval Towns Series" of my Publisher, a work on the Story of the Town and University of Cambridge. Arrangements were made with Mr. Herbert Railton for its pictorial illustration. It had been intended in the first instance, that the artist's pen and ink sketches should have been reproduced by the ordinary processes used in modern book illustration. But the poetic glamour of such a place as Cambridge and its _genius loci_ did not allow the enthusiasm of the artist to remain satisfied with such drawings only as might be readily reproduced by the ordinary processes. In addition to many sketches in black and white, suitable for reproduction in the body of the text in illustration of interesting bits of architectural detail, or of quaint grouping, Mr. Railton has also drawn a series of large-sized pencil-pictures of the principal College buildings. These drawings are so beautiful, so full of delicacy and tenderness and yet so firm and effective in their treatment of light and shade, and show so much sympathy for the old buildings and all their picturesque charm, that the Publisher at once felt that they must not be treated as ordinary book illustrations. The artist had produced pictures worthy to be classed with the best work of Samuel Prout. It became the duty of the Publisher to treat them with corresponding respect. The method of auto-lithography has accordingly been adopted, by which the plates are an absolute reproduction in size and tint of the pencil drawings, and the artist's work goes straight to the reader without any mechanical intervention. A new feature has been added by which the colour stones have been made by Mrs. Railton acting in collaboration with her husband. This process of reproduction necessarily involved a change in the proposed format of the book. It was determined, therefore, to issue in the first instance an _edition de luxe_ of "The Story of Cambridge," on specially prepared paper and in large quarto size. I have readily consented to such a course, for although I may seem, by the more imposing form of a large Library Edition, to be guilty of some presumption in placing my Historical Sketch in competition with such histories as those of Mr. Mullinger in the "Epochs of History Series," or of my friend, Mr. T. D. Atkinson, in "Cambridge Described"--the larger books of Mr. J. W. Clark on the architectural history of Cambridge, and of Mr. Mullinger on the general history of the University are already classics to which humbler writers on Cambridge can only look as to final authorities--I can only hope that my readers will recognise that my presumption is only apparent, and meanwhile I rest confident that even the historical critic will have little care for the inadequacy of my prose rendering of "The Story of Cambridge," absorbed as he must be by his delight in the beauty of Mr. Railton's drawings. In any case, I shall be entirely satisfied if only my descriptive sketch is found adequate for the help of the general reader in appreciating the story of which the artist has been able to give so poetic an interpretation. C. W. S. THE DEANERY, ELY, _Michaelmas_, 1903. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE v LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xiii CHAPTER I LEGENDARY ORIGIN OF THE UNIVERSITY 1 Geographical and commercial importance of the city site--Map of the county a palimpsest--Glamour of the Fenland--Cambridge the gateway of East Anglia--The Roman roads--The Roman station--The Castle Hill--Stourbridge Fair--Cambridge a chief centre of English commerce. CHAPTER II CAMBRIDGE IN THE NORMAN TIME 22 William I. at Cambridge Castle--Cambridge at the Domesday Survey--Roger Picot the Sheriff--Pythagoras School--Castle and Borough--S. Benet's Church and its Parish--The King's Ditch--The Great and the Small Bridges--The King's and the Bishop's Mills--The River Hythes--S. Peter by the Castle and S. Giles Church--The early Streets of the City--The Augustinian Priory of Barnwell--The Round Church of the Holy Sepulchre--The Cambridge Jewry--Debt of early Scholars to the Philosophers of the Synagogue--Benjamin's House--Municipal Freedom of the Borough. CHAPTER III THE BEGINNINGS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE 49 Monastic Origins--Continuity of Learning in Early England--The School of York--The Venerable Bede--Alcuin and the Schools of Charles the Great--The Danish Invasions--The Benedictine Revival--The Monkish Chroniclers--The Coming of the Friars--The Franciscan and Dominican Houses at Cambridge--The Franciscan Scholars--Roger Bacon--Bishop Grosseteste--The New Aristotle and the Scientific Spirit--The Scholastic Philosophy--Aquinas--Migration of Scholars from Paris to Cambridge--The term "University"--The Colleges and the Hostels--The Course of Study--Trivium and Quadrivium--The Four Faculties--England a Paradise of Clerks--Parable of the Monk's Pen. CHAPTER IV THE EARLIEST COLLEGE FOUNDATION: PETERHOUSE 71 The Early Monastic Houses in Cambridge--Student Proselytising by the Friars--The Oxford College of Merton a Protest against this Tendency--The Rule of Merton taken as a Model by Hugh de Balsham, Founder of Peterhouse--The Hospital of S. John--The Scholars of Ely--Domestic Economy of the College--The Dress of the Mediæval Student--Peterhouse Buildings--Little S. Mary's Church--The Perne Library--The College Chapel. CHAPTER V THE COLLEGES OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY 93 The Fourteenth Century an Age of Great Men and Great Events but not of Great Scholars--Petrarch and Richard of Bury--Michael House--The King's Scholars--King's Hall--Clare Hall--Pembroke College--Gonville Hall--Dr. John Caius--His Three Gates of Humility, Virtue, and Honour. CHAPTER VI THE COLLEGE OF THE CAMBRIDGE GUILDS 120 Unique Foundation of Corpus Christi College--The Cambridge Guilds--The influence of "the Good Duke"--The Peasant Revolt--Destruction of Charters--"Perish the skill of the Clerks!"--The Black Death--Lollardism at the Universities--The Poore Priestes of Wycliffe. CHAPTER VII TWO ROYAL FOUNDATIONS 137 Henry VI--The most pitiful Character in all English History--His devotion to Learning and his Saintly Spirit--His foundation of Eton and King's College--The Building of King's College Chapel--Its architect, Reginald of Ely, the Cathedral Master-Mason--Its relation to the Ely Lady Chapel--Its stained glass Windows--Its close Foundation--Queens' College--Margaret of Anjou and Elizabeth Wydville--The buildings of Queens'--Similarity to Haddon Hall--Its most famous Resident, Erasmus--His _Novum Instrumentum_ edited within its Walls. CHAPTER VIII TWO OF THE SMALLER HALLS 173 The Foundation of Trinity Hall by Bishop Bateman of Norwich--On the Site of the Hostel of Student-Monks of Ely--Prior Crauden--Evidence of the Ely Obedientary Rolls--The College Buildings--The Old Hall--S. Edward's Church used as College Chapel--Hugh Latimer's Sermon on a Pack of Cards--Harvey Goodwin--Frederick Maurice--The Hall Library--Its ancient Bookcases--The Foundation of S. Catherine's Hall. CHAPTER IX BISHOP ALCOCK AND THE NUNS OF S. RHADEGUND 183 The New Learning in Italy and Germany--The English "Pilgrim Scholars": Grey, Tiptoft, Linacre, Grocyn--The practical Genius of England--Bishops Rotherham, Alcock, and Fisher--Alcock, diplomatist, financier, architect--The Founder of Jesus College--He takes as his model Jesus College, Rotherham--His Object the Training of a Preaching Clergy--The Story of the Nunnery of S. Rhadegund--Its Dissolution--Conversion of the Conventual Church into a College Chapel--The Monastic Buildings, Gateway, Cloister, Chapter House--The Founder a Better Architect than an Educational Reformer--The Jesus Roll of eminent Men from Cranmer to Coleridge. CHAPTER X COLLEGES OF THE NEW LEARNING 210 The Lady Margaret Foundations--Bishop Fisher of Rochester--The Foundation of Christ's--God's House--The buildings of the new College--College Worthies--John Milton--Henry More--Charles Darwin--The Hospital of the Brethren of S. John--Death of the Lady Margaret--Foundation of S. John's College--Its buildings--The Great Gateway--The new Library--The Bridge of Sighs--The Wilderness--Wordsworth's "Prelude"--The aims of Bishop Fisher--His death. CHAPTER XI A SMALL AND A GREAT COLLEGE 246 Dissolution of the Monasteries--Schemes for Collegiate Spoliation checked by Henry VIII.--Monks' or Buckingham College--Refounded by Sir Thomas Audley as Magdalene College--Conversion of the old buildings--The Pepysian Library--Foundation of Trinity College--Michaelhouse and the King's Hall--King Edward's Gate--The Queen's Gate--The Great Gate--Dr. Thomas Neville--The Great Court--The Hall--Neville's Court--New Court--Dr. Bentley--"A House of all Kinds of Good Letters." CHAPTER XII ANCIENT AND PROTESTANT FOUNDATIONS 265 Queen Elizabeth and the Founder of Emmanuel--The Puritan Age--Sir Walter Mildmay--The Building of Emmanuel--The Tenure of Fellowships--Puritan Worthies--The Founder of Harvard--Lady Frances Sidney--The Sidney College Charter--The Buildings--The Chapel and the old Franciscan Refectory--Royalists and Puritans--Oliver Cromwell--Thomas Fuller---A Child's Prayer for his Mother. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS _TINTED LITHOGRAPHS_ ORIEL WINDOWS, QUEENS' COLLEGE _Frontispiece_ THE SCHOOL OF PYTHAGORAS _facing page_ 28 PETERHOUSE " 82 CLARE COLLEGE AND BRIDGE " 96 PEMBROKE COLLEGE " 106 GATE OF HONOUR AND GATE OF VIRTUE, CAIUS COLLEGE " 112 THE CHURCHES OF S. EDWARD AND S. MARY THE GREAT FROM PEAS HILL " 123 CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE AND S. BENEDICT'S CHURCH " 128 THE PITT PRESS, S. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH, AND CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE " 132 THE WEST DOORWAY, KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL " 144 GATEWAY TO OLD COURT OF KING'S COLLEGE " 153 THE CHAPEL, TRINITY HALL " 174 ORIEL WINDOW, JESUS COLLEGE " 178 GATEWAY IN GREAT COURT, S. CATHERINE'S COLLEGE " 180 THE CHAPEL, CHRIST'S COLLEGE " 214 GATEWAY, S. JOHN'S COLLEGE " 230 ORIEL IN LIBRARY, S. JOHN'S COLLEGE " 236 TOWER AND TURRETS OF TRINITY FROM S. JOHN'S COLLEGE " 243 THE LIBRARY, CHAPEL, AND HALL, MAGDALENE COLLEGE " 248 GATEWAY AND DIAL, TRINITY COLLEGE " 254 NEVILLE'S COURT, TRINITY COLLEGE " 260 HALL AND CHAPEL, EMMANUEL COLLEGE " 266 DOWNING COLLEGE " 274 THE GARDEN FRONT, SIDNEY SUSSEX COLLEGE " 278 _BLACK AND WHITE ILLUSTRATIONS_ PAGE COURTYARD OF THE FALCON INN 25 SAXON TOWER, S. BENEDICT'S CHURCH 29 THE ABBEY HOUSE 35 CHAPEL, BARNWELL PRIORY 39 THE ROUND CHURCH 41 ORIEL WINDOWS FROM HOUSE IN PETTY-CURY _facing page_ 46 CLARE COLLEGE AND BRIDGE 101 PEMBROKE COLLEGE 107 PEMBROKE COLLEGE, ORIELS AND ENTRANCE 109 CAIUS COLLEGE, THE GATE OF HONOUR 117 KING'S PARADE 139 KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL 145 KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL _facing page_ 150 KING'S COLLEGE QUADRANGLE 155 CLOISTER COURT, QUEENS' COLLEGE 163 ORIEL WINDOW, QUEENS' COLLEGE 166 THE BRIDGE AND GABLES, QUEENS' COLLEGE 169 A BIT FROM SIDNEY STREET 172 DIVINITY SCHOOLS AND S. JOHN'S 193 NORMAN WORK IN CHURCH OF JESUS COLLEGE 197 NORMAN WORK IN N. TRANSEPT, JESUS COLLEGE CHAPEL 201 ENTRANCE TO CHAPTER-HOUSE, PRIORY OF S. RHADEGUND 203 JACK IN WOLSEY'S KITCHEN, CHRIST'S COLLEGE 219 THE COURTYARD OF THE WRESTLERS' INN _facing page_ 220 ENTRANCE TO S. JOHN'S COLLEGE 229 S. JOHN'S COLLEGE FROM THE BACKS 233 BRIDGE OF SIGHS, S. JOHN'S COLLEGE 239 TOWER AND GATEWAY, TRINITY COLLEGE _facing page_ 252 THE FOUNTAIN, TRINITY COLLEGE " 258 [Illustration: CAMBRIDGE AND ITS STORY] CHAPTER I LEGENDARY ORIGIN OF THE UNIVERSITY "Next then the plenteous Ouse came far from land, By many a city and by many a town, And many rivers taking under-hand Into his waters as he passeth down, The Cle, the Were, the Grant, the Sture, the Bowne, Thence doth by Huntingdon and Cambridge flit, My Mother Cambridge, whom as with a crowne He doth adorne, and is adorn'd by it With many a gentle Muse and many a learned wit." --SPENSER'S _Faerie Queene_, iv. xi. 34. Geographical and commercial importance of the city site--Map of the county a palimpsest--Glamour of the Fenland--Cambridge the gateway of East Anglia--The Roman roads--The Roman station--The Castle Hill--Stourbridge Fair--Cambridge a chief centre of English commerce. One could wish perhaps that the story of Cambridge should begin, as so many good stories of men and cities have begun, in the antique realm of poetry and romance. That it did so begin our forefathers indeed had little doubt. John Lydgate, the poet, a Benedictine monk of Bury, "the disciple"--as he is proud to call himself--"of Geoffrey Chaucer," but best remembered perhaps by later times as the writer of "London Lackpenny" and "Troy Book," has left certain verses on the foundation of the Town and University of Cambridge, which are still preserved to us.[1] Some stanzas of that fourteenth-century poem will serve to show in what a cloudland of empty legend it was at one time thought that the story of the beginnings of Cambridge might be found:-- "By trew recorde of the Doctor Bede That some tyme wrotte so mikle with his hande, And specially remembringe as I reede In his chronicles made of England Amounge other thynges as ye shall understand, Whom for myne aucthour I dare alleage, Seith the translacion and buylding of Cambridge. * * * * * "Touching the date, as I rehearse can Fro thilke tyme that the world began Four thowsand complete by accomptès clere And three hundred by computacion Joyned thereto eight and fortie yeare, When Cantebro gave the foundacion Of thys citie and this famous towne And of this noble universitie Sette on this river which is called Cante. * * * * * "This Cantebro, as it well knoweth At Athenes scholed in his yougt, All his wyttes greatlye did applie To have acquaintance by great affection With folke-experte in philosophie. From Athens he brought with hym downe Philosophers most sovereigne of renowne Unto Cambridge, playnlye this is the case, Anaxamander and Anaxagoras With many other myne Aucthors dothe fare, To Cambridge fast can hym spede With philosophers and let for no cost spare In the Schooles to studdie and to reede; Of whose teachinges great profit that gan spreade And great increase rose of his doctrine; Thus of Cambridge the name gan first shyne As chief schoole and universitie Unto this tyme fro the daye it began By cleare reporte in manye a far countre Unto the reign of Cassibellan. * * * * * "And as it is put eke in memorie, Howe Julius Cesar entring this region On Cassybellan after his victorye Tooke with hym clarkes of famous renowne Fro Cambridg and ledd theim to Rome towne, Thus by processe remembred here to forne Cambridg was founded long or Chryst was borne." But it is not only in verse that this fabric of fable is to be found. Down even to the middle of the last century the ears of Cambridge graduates were still beguiled by strange stories of the early renown of their University--how it was founded by a Spanish Prince, Cantaber (the "Cantebro" of Lydgate's verses), "in the 4321st year of the creation of the world," and in the sixth year of Gurgant, King of Britain; how Athenian astronomers and philosophers, "because of the pleasantness of the place," came to Cambridge as its earliest professors, "the king having appointed them stipends"; how King Arthur, "on the 7th of April, in the year of the Incarnacion of our Lord, 531," granted a charter of academic privileges "to Kenet, the first Rector of the schools"; and how the University subsequently found another royal patron in the East Anglian King Sigebert, and had among its earliest Doctors of Divinity the great Saxon scholars Bede and Alcuin. I have before me as I write a small octavo volume, a guide-book to Cambridge and its Colleges, much worn and thumbed, probably by its eighteenth-century owner, possibly by his nineteenth-century successor, in which all these fables and legends are set out in order. The book has lost its title-page, but it is easily identifiable as an English translation of Richard Parker's _Skeletos Cantabrigiensis_, written about 1622, but not apparently published until a century later, when the antiquary, Thomas Hearne, printed it in his edition of Leland's _Collectanea_. My English edition of the _Skeletos_ is presumably either that which was "printed for Thomas Warner at the Black Boy, Pater Noster Row," and without a date, or that published by "J. Bateman at the Hat and Star in S. Paul's Churchyard," and dated 1721. As an illustration of the kind of record which passed for history even in the last century,--for the early editions of Hallam's "History of the Middle Ages" bear evidence that that careful historian still gave some credence to these Cambridge fables,--it may be interesting to quote one or two passages from the legendary history of Nicholas Cantelupe, which is prefixed to this English version of Parker's book:-- "Anaximander, one of the disciples of Thales, came to this city on account of his Philosophy and great Skill in Astrology, where he left much Improvement in Learning to Posterity. After his Example, Anaxagoras, quitting his Possessions, after a long Peregrination, came to Cambridge, where he writ Books, and instructed the unlearned, for which reason that City was by the People of the Country call'd the City of SCHOLARS. "King Cassibelan, when he had taken upon him the Government of the Kingdom, bestowed such Preheminence on this City, that any Fugitive or Criminal, desirous to acquire Learning, flying to it, was defended in the sight of His Enemy, with Pardon, and without Molestation, Upbraiding or Affront offer'd him. For which Reason, as also on account of the Richness of the Soil, the Serenity of the Air, the great Source of Learning, and the King's Favour, young and old, from many Parts of the Earth, resorted thither, some of whom JULIUS CÆSAR, having vanquished Cassibelan, carry'd away to Rome, where they afterwards flourish'd." There then follows a letter, given without any doubt of authenticity, from Alcuin of York, purporting to be written to the scholars of Cambridge from the Court of Charles the Great:-- "To the discreet Heirs of CHRIST, the Scholars of the unspotted Mother Cambridge, _Ælqninus_, by Life a Sinner, Greeting and Glory in the Virtues of Learning. Forasmuch as Ignorance is the Mother of Error, I earnestly intreat that Youths among you be us'd to be present at the Praises of the Supreme King, not to unearth Foxes, not to hunt Hares, let them now learn the Holy Scriptures, having obtain'd Knowledge of the Science of Truth, to the end that in their perfect Age they may teach others. Call to mind, I beseech you dearly beloved the most noble Master of our Time, _Bede_ the Priest, Doctor of your University, under whom by permission of the Divine Grace, I took the Doctor's Degree in the Year from the Incarnation of our Lord 692, what an Inclination he had to study in His Youth, what Praise he has now among Men, and much more what Glory of Reward with God. Farewell always in _Christ Jesu_, by whose Grace you are assisted in Learning. Amen." We may omit the mythical charter of King Arthur and come to the passage concerning King Alfred, obviously intended to turn the flank of the Oxford patriots, who too circumstantially relate how their University was founded by that great scholar king. "In process of time, when Alfred, or Alred, supported by divine Comfort, after many Tribulations, had obtained the Monarchy of all England, he translated to Oxford the scholars, which Penda, King of the Mercians, had with the leave of King Ceadwald carried from Cambridge to Kirneflad (rather Cricklade, as above), to which scholars he was wont to distribute Alms in three several Places. He much honour'd the Cantabrigians and Oxonians, and granted them many Privileges. "Afterwards he erected and establish'd Grammar Schools throughout the whole Island, and caus'd the Youth to be instructed in their Mother Tongue. Then perceiving that the Scholars, whom he had conveyed to Oxford, continually applied themselves to the Study of the Laws and expounded the Holy Scriptures: he appointed Grimwald their Rector, who had been Rector and Chancellor of the City of Cambridge." The severer canons of modern historical criticism have naturally made short work of all these absurd fables; nor do they even allow us to accept as authentic the otherwise not unpleasing story quoted from the Chronicle, or rather historical novel, of Ingulph, in the quaint pages of Thomas Fuller, written a generation later than Richard Parker's book, which tells how, early in the twelfth century, certain monks were sent to Cambridge by Joffrey, Abbot of Crowland, to expound in a certain public barn (by later writers fondly thought to be that which is now known by the name of Pythagoras' School) the pages of Priscian, Quintillian, and Aristotle. There is little doubt, I fear, that we may find the inciting motive of all this exuberant fancy and invention in the desire to glorify the one University at the expense of the other, which is palpably present in that last quotation from Parker's book, and which is perhaps not altogether absent from the writings and the conversation of some academic patriots of our own day. We may, however, more wisely dismiss all these foolish legends and myths as to origins in the kindlier spirit of quaint old Fuller in the Introduction to his "History of the University of Cambridge":-- "Sure I am," he says, "there needeth no such pains to be took, or provision to be made, about the pre-eminence of our English Universities, to regulate their places, they having better learned humility from the precept of the Apostle, In honour preferring one another. Wherefore I presume my aunt Oxford will not be justly offended if in this book I give my own mother the upper hand, and first begin with her history. Thus desiring God to pour his blessing upon both, that neither may want milk for their children, or children for their milk, we proceed to the business." Descending then from the misty cloudland of Fable to the hard ground of historic Fact, we are shortly met by a question which, I hope, Fuller would have recognised as businesslike. How did it come about that our forefathers founded a University on the site which we now call Cambridge--"that distant marsh town," as a modern Oxford historian somewhat contemptuously calls it? The question is a natural one, and has not seldom been asked. We shall find, I think, the most reasonable answer to it by asking a prior question. How did the town of Cambridge itself come to be a place of any importance in the early days? The answer is, in the first place, geographical; in the second, commercial. We may fitly occupy the remaining space of this chapter in seeking to formulate that answer. And first, as to the physical features of the district which has Cambridge for its most important centre. "The map of England," it has been strikingly said by Professor Maitland, "is the most wonderful of all palimpsests." Certainly that portion of the map of England which depicts the country surrounding the Fenlands of East Anglia is not the least interesting part of that palimpsest. Let us take such a map and try roughly to decipher it.[2] If we begin with the seaboard line we shall perhaps at first sight be inclined to think that it cannot have changed much in the course of the centuries. And most probably the coast-line of Lincolnshire, from a point northwards near Great Grimsby or Cleethorpes at the mouth of the Humber to a point southwards near Waynefleet at the mouth of the Steeping River, twenty miles or less north of Boston, and again the coast-line of Norfolk and Suffolk from Hunstanton Point at the north-east corner of the Wash round past Brancaster and Wells and Cromer to Yarmouth and then southwards past Southwold and Aldborough to Harwich at the mouth of the Orwell and Stour estuary, has not altered much in ten or even twenty centuries. But that can hardly be said with regard to the coast-line of the Wash itself. For on its western side our palimpsest warns us that there is a considerable district called _Holland_; that on its south side, a dozen miles or more from the present coast-line, is a town called _Wisbech_ (or Ouse-beach); that still farther inland, within a mile or two of Cambridge itself, are to be found the villages of Waterbeach and Landbeach; and that scattered throughout the whole district of the low-lying lands are villages and towns whose place-names have the termination "ey" or "ea," meaning "island"--such, as Thorney, Spinny, Sawtrey, Ramsey, Whittlesea, Horningsea; and that one considerable tract of slightly higher ground, though now undoubtedly surrounded by dry land, is still called the Isle of Ely. These place-names are significant, and tell their own story. And that story, as we try to interpret it, will gradually lead us to the conclusion that the ancient seaboard line of the Wash, instead of being marked on the map of England as we have it now, by a line roughly joining Boston and King's Lynn, would on the earliest text of the palimpsest require an extended sea boundary on which Lincoln, and Stamford and Peterborough, and Huntingdon and Cambridge, and Brandon and Downham Market would become almost seaboard towns, and Ely an island fifteen miles or so off the coast at Cambridge. Such a conclusion, of course, would be somewhat of an exaggeration, for the wide waste of waters which thus formed an extension of the Wash southwards was not all or always sea water. So utterly transformed, however, has the whole Fen country become in modern times--the vast plain of the Bedford level contains some 2000 square miles of the richest corn-land in England--that it is very difficult to restore in the imagination the original scenery of the days before the drainage, when the rivers which take the rainfall of the central counties of England--the Nene, the Welland, the Witham, the Glen, and the Bedfordshire Ouse--spread out into one vast delta or wilderness of shallow waters. The poetic glamour of the land, now on the side of its fertility and strange beauty, now on the side of its monotony and weird loneliness, has always had a strange fascination for the chroniclers and writers of every age. In the first Book of the _Liber Eliensis_ (ii. 105), written by Thomas, a monk of Ely, in the twelfth century, there is a description of the fenlands, given by a soldier to William the Conqueror, which reads like the report of the land of plenty and promise brought by the spies to Joshua. In the _Historia Major_ of Matthew Paris, however, it is described as a place "neither accessible for man or beast, affording only deep mud, with sedge and reeds, and possest of birds, yea, much more by devils, as appeareth in the Life of S. Guthlac, who, finding it a place of horror and great solitude, began to inhabit there." At a later time Drayton in his _Polyolbion_ gives a picture of the Fenland life as one of manifold industry:-- "The toiling fisher here is towing of his net; The fowler is employed his limèd twigs to set; One underneath his horse to get a shoot doth stalk; Another over dykes upon his stilts doth walk; There other with their spades the peats are squaring out, And others from their cars are busily about To draw out sedge and reed to thatch and stover fit: That whosoever would a landskip rightly hit, Beholding but my Fens shall with more shapes be stored Than Germany or France or Thuscan can afford." This eulogy of the Fenland, however, Drayton is careful to put into the mouth of a Fenland nymph, who is not allowed to pass without criticism by her sister who rules the uplands:-- "O how I hate Thus of her foggy fens to hear rude Holland prate That with her fish and fowl here keepeth such a coil, As her unwholesome air, and more unwholesome soil, For these of which she boasts the more might suffered be." But probably the most picturesque and truthful imaginative sketch of the old fenlands is that which was given in our own time by the graphic pen of Charles Kingsley in his fine novel of "Hereward the Wake," somewhat amplified afterwards in the chapters of "The Hermits," which he devoted to the history of St. Guthlac:-- "The fens in the seventh century," he says, "were probably very like the forests at the mouth of the Mississippi or the swampy shores of the Carolinas. Their vast plain is now in summer one sea of golden corn; in winter, a black dreary fallow, cut into squares by stagnant dykes, and broken only by unsightly pumping mills and doleful lines of poplar trees. Of old it was a labyrinth of black wandering streams, broad lagoons, morasses submerged every spring-tide, vast beds of reed and sedge and fern, vast copses of willow and alder and grey poplar, rooted in the floating peat, which was swallowing up slowly, all devouring, yet preserving the forests of fir and oak, ash and poplar, hazel and yew, which had once grown on that low, rank soil, sinking slowly (so geologists assure us) beneath the sea from age to age. Trees torn down by flood and storm floated and lodged in rafts, damming the waters back on the land. Streams bewildered in the flats, changed their channels, mingling silt and sand with the peat moss. Nature left to herself ran into wild riot and chaos more and more, till the whole fen became one 'dismal swamp,' in which at the time of the Norman Conquest, 'the last of the English,' like Dred in Mrs. Stowe's tale, took refuge from their tyrants and lived like him a free and joyous life awhile." Such was one aspect, then, in the early days of English history, of the great plain that stretches from Cambridge to the sea. But our map-palimpsest has further physical facts to reveal which had an important influence on the civic and economic development of Cambridge. To the south-east of this great plain of low-lying fenlands rises the upland country of boulder clay, stretching in a line almost directly west and east from the downs at Royston, thirteen miles below Cambridge, to Sudbury-on-the-Stour. The whole of this ridge of high ground, which roughly corresponds with the present boundaries between Cambridgeshire and Suffolk and Essex, was in the early days covered with dense forest. Thus the Forest and the Fen between them formed a material barrier separating the kingdom of East Anglia from the rest of Britain. At one point only could an entrance be gained. Between the forest and the fen there runs a long belt of land, at its narrowest point not more than five miles wide, consisting partly of open pasture, partly of chalk down. In the neck, so to say, of this natural pass into East Anglia lies the town of Cambridge. A careful scrutiny of our map will show, on the under-text of our palimpsest, a remarkable series of British earthworks, all crossing in parallel lines this narrow belt of open land between the fen and the forest, marked on the map as Black Ditches, Devil's Dyke, the Fleam or Balsham Dyke, the Brent or Pampisford Ditch, and the Brand or Heydon Way. Of these the longest and most important is the well-known Devil's Dyke, near Newmarket. It is some eight miles long in all, and consists of a lofty bank twelve feet wide at the top, eighteen feet above the level of the country, and thirty feet above the bottom of the Ditch, which is itself some twenty feet wide. The ditch is on the western side of the bank, thus showing that it was used as a defence by the people on the east against those on the west. It was near this ditch that the defeat of the ancient British tribe of the Iceni by the Romans, as described by Tacitus ("Annals," xii. 31), took place in A.D. 50.[3] At Cambridge itself the ancient earthwork known as Castle Hill may belong to this British period, and have formed a valuable auxiliary to the line of dykes in defending the ford of the river and the pass behind; but upon this point authorities are divided.[4] Indeed, there is good ground for the opinion that the Castle Hill is a construction of the later Saxon period, and may, in fact, be referred to the time of the Danish incursions in the ninth century, during which time Cambridge is known to have been sacked more than once. However that may be, there is ample proof that the site of the Castle at any rate was occupied by the Romans, for the remains of a fosse and vallum, forming part of an oblong enclosure within which the Castle Hill, whether early British or later Saxon, is included, seem to indicate the position of a Roman station here. Moreover, to this place converge the two great Roman roads, of which the remains may still be traced: _Akeman Street_, leading from Cirencester (Corinium) in the south through Hertfordshire to Cambridge, and thence across the fen (by the Aldreth Causeway, the scene of William the Conqueror's two years' campaign with Hereward) to Ely, and so onwards to Brancaster in Norfolk; and the _Via Devana_, which, starting from Colchester (Colonia or Camelodunum), skirted the forest lands of Essex through Cambridge and Huntingdon (Durolifons) northwards to Chester (Deva). Whether the Roman station, however, at the junction of these two roads can be identified as the ancient Camboritum is still a little doubtful. Certainly the common identification of Cambridge with Camboritum, because of the resemblance between the two names, cannot be justified. That resemblance is a mere coincidence. The name Cambridge, in fact, is comparatively modern, being corrupted, by regular gradations, from the original Anglo-Saxon form which had the sense of Granta-bridge. The name of the town is thus not, as is generally supposed, derived from the name of the river (Cam being modern and artificial), but, conversely, the name of the river has, in the course of centuries, been evolved out of the name of the town.[5] To return, however, to the Castle Hill. It may be doubtful, as we have said, whether the Roman station there was Camboritum or not, but there can be no doubt that the station, whatever it may have been called by the Romans, must have been a fairly important one, not only as commanding the open pass-way between the forest and the fen leading into East Anglia, but also as standing at the head of a waterway leading to the sea. It is difficult, of course, to estimate the extent of the commerce in these early days, or even perhaps to name the staple article of export that must have found its way by means of the fenland rivers to the Continent, but that it must have been at times considerable we may at least conjecture from the fact that in the records of the sacking of the Fenland abbeys--Ely, Peterborough, Ramsey, and Crowland--by the Danes in the seventh century there is evidence of a great store of wealth, costly embroideries, rich jewels, gold and silver, which can hardly have been the product of native industry alone, but seem to indicate a fair import trade from the Continent. The geographical position, in fact, of Cambridge at the head of a waterway directly communicating with the sea is a factor in the history of the town the importance of which cannot be exaggerated. In direct communication with the Continent by means of the river, and on the only, or almost the only, line of traffic between East Anglia and the rest of England, it naturally became the chief distributing centre of the commerce and trade of eastern England, and the seat of a Fair which in a later age boasted itself the largest in Europe. In his "History of the University," Thomas Fuller gives an account of the origin of this Fair, which is perhaps more picturesque than accurate:-- "About this time," he says--that is, about A.D. 1103, in the reign of the first Henry--"Barnwell,[6] that is, Children's Well, a village within the precincts of Cambridge, got both the name thereof and a Fair therein on this occasion. Many little children on Midsummer (or St. John Baptist's) Eve met there in mirth to play and sport together; their company caused the confluence of more and bigger boys to the place: then bigger than they: even their parents themselves came thither to be delighted with the activity of their children. Meat and drink must be had for their refection, which brought some victualling booths to be set up. Pedlers with toys and trifles cannot be supposed long absent, whose packs in short time swelled into tradesmen's stalls of all commodities. Now it is become a great fair, and (as I may term it) one of the townsmen's commencements, wherein they take their degrees of wealth, fraught with all store of wares and nothing (except buyers) wanting therein." This description of Fuller is obviously a rough translation of a passage from the _Liber Memorandorum Ecclesia de Bernewelle_, commonly called the "Barnewell Cartulary," given at page xii. of Mr. J. W. Clark's "Customs of Augustinian Canons," and dated about 1296. It is possible, of course, that the celebrated Stourbridge Fair, which in later centuries was held every autumn in the river Meadow, a mile or so below the town, adjoining Barnwell Priory, did date back to these early times, but its two earliest charters undoubtedly belong to the thirteenth century, one belonging to the reign of King John, granting the tolls of the Fair to the Friars of the Leper Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, the other to Henry III.'s time fixing the date of the Fair for the four days commencing October 17, being the Festival of St. Etheldreda, Virgin, Queen and Abbess of Ely. From this time onward at any rate the annual occurrence of this Fair furnishes incidents, not always commendable, in the annals of both town and University. It is said with probability that John Bunyan, who in his Bedfordshire youth may well have been drawn to its attractions, made the Fair at Stourbridge Common the prototype of his "Vanity Fair." And certainly any one who will take the trouble to compare the description of the Fair given by the Cambridgeshire historian Carter with the well-known passage in the "Pilgrim's Progress," cannot but feel that the details of Bunyan's picture are touches painted from life:-- "Then I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the Wilderness, they presently saw a Town before them, and the name of that Town is _Vanity_; and at the Town there is a Fair kept, called _Vanity Fair_ ... therefore at this Fair are all such Merchandise sold, as Houses, Lands, Trades, Places, Honours, Preferments, Titles, Countries, Kingdoms, Lusts, Pleasures, and Delights of all sorts, as Whores, Bawds, Wives, Husbands, Children, Masters, Servants, Lives, Blood, Bodies, Souls, Silver, Gold, Pearls, Precious Stones and what not. "And moreover at this Fair there is at all times to be seen Jugglings, Cheats, Games, Plays, Fools, Apes, Knaves, and Rogues, and that of all sorts. "And as in other Fairs of less moment, there are the several Rows and Streets under their proper names, where such and such wares are vended; so here likewise you have the proper places, Rows, Streets ... where the wares of this Fair are soonest to be found. Here is the Britain Row, the French Row, the Italian Row, the German Row, where several sorts of vanities are to be sold." The historian, it is true, speaks of "the Sturbridge Fair as like to a well-governed city, with less disorder and confusion than in any other place where there is so great a concourse of people," yet when one reads in Bunyan's "Progress" of the Peremptory Court of Trial, "under the Great One of the Fair," ever ready to take immediate cognisance of any "hubbub," one cannot but remember that the judicial rights of the University in the regulation of the ale-tents and show-booths on Midsummer Common were at least a fertile theme for satire with the licensed wits of both Universities, whether of "Mr. Tripos" at Cambridge, or of the "Terræ Filius" at Oxford, and wonder what amount of truth there may have been in the rude statement of the latter that "the Cambridge proctors at Fair time were so strict in forbidding undergraduates to enter public-houses in the town because it would spoil their own trade in the Fair." But as Fuller would say, "Enough hereof. It tends to slanting and suppositive traducing of the records." Let us proceed with our history. And that we may do so let us end this introductory chapter of Fable and Fact by enforcing the point, of which the incident of Stourbridge Fair was but an illustration, that Cambridge became the seat of an English University, because it had already become a chief centre of English trade and commerce, and had so become because in the early centuries it had stood as guardian of the only pass-way which crossed the frontier line of the kingdoms of Mercia and the West Saxons and the kingdom of the East Anglians, and at a later time had been the busy porter of the river gate, by which the merchandise of northern Europe, borne to the Norfolk Wash and the Port of Lynn by the ships of Flanders and the Hanse towns of the Baltic, found its way, by the sluggish waters of the Cam and the Ouse, to a place which was thus well fitted to become the great distributing centre of trade for southern England and the Midlands. Stourbridge Fair is a thing of the past. Cambridge as a distributing centre for the trade of northern Europe has ceased to be. The long line of river barges no longer float down the stream. The waters of the Wash are silting up. The fame of the town has been eclipsed by the fame of the University. But town and University alike may still gaze with emotion at the old timbered wharfs and clay hithes of the river, the green earthwork of the Castle Hill, the far-stretching roads once known as Akeman Street and the Icknield Way, the grass-grown slopes of the Devil's Dyke, as the symbols of mighty forces which in their day brought men from all parts of Europe to this place, and have been potent to make it through many centuries a centre of light and learning to England and the world. CHAPTER II CAMBRIDGE IN THE NORMAN TIME "At this time the fountain of learning in Cambridge was but little, and that very troubled.... Mars then frighted away the Muses, when the Mount of Parnassus was turned into a fort, and Helicon derived into a trench. And at this present, King William the Conqueror, going to subdue the monks of Ely that resisted him, made Cambridgeshire the seat of war."--FULLER. William I. at Cambridge Castle--Cambridge at the Domesday Survey--Roger Picot the Sheriff--Pythagoras School--Castle and Borough--S. Benet's Church and its Parish--The King's Ditch--The Great and the Small Bridges--The King's and the Bishop's Mills--The River Hithes--S. Peter by the Castle and S. Giles Church--The early Streets of the City--The Augustinian Priory of Barnwell--The Round Church of the Holy Sepulchre--The Cambridge Jewry--Debt of early Scholars to the Philosophers of the Synagogue--Benjamin's House--Municipal Freedom of the Borough. On the site of the ancient Roman station of which we have spoken in the preceding chapter, as guarding the river ford and the pass between forest and fen into East Anglia, William the Conqueror, returning from the conquest of York in the year 1068, founded Cambridge Castle, that "it might be"--to quote Fuller's words--"a check-bit to curb this country, which otherwise was so hard-mouthed to be ruled." Here, in the following year, he took up his abode, making the castle the centre of his operations against the rebel English who had rallied to the leadership of Hereward the Wake, in his camp of refuge at Ely. But the castle at Cambridge never became a military centre of importance. No important deed of arms is recorded in connection with it. It was a mere outpost, useful only as a base of operations. It was so used by William the Conqueror. It was so used by Henry III. in his futile contest with the English baronage. It was so used by the Duke of Northumberland in his unsuccessful attempt to crush the loyalist rising of East Anglia against his plot to place Lady Jane Grey on the throne. It was so used by Oliver Cromwell when he was organising the Eastern Counties Association, and forming "his lovely company" of Ironsides. But beyond these episodes Cambridge Castle has no history. In the early part of the fourteenth century it was used as a prison for common criminals. Edward III. built his College of King's Hall with some of its materials, and from that time onwards it appears to have been used as a quarry by the royal founders of more than one college. Its last remaining outwork, the Gate House, was demolished in 1842. Now there is nothing left but the grass-grown mound, still known as Castle Hill, the resort of occasional American tourists who are wise enough to know how fine a view of the town may be obtained from that position, and, so it is said, a less frequent place of pilgrimage also to certain university freshmen who are foolish enough to accept the assurance of their fellows that "at the witching hour of night" they may best observe from Castle Hill those solemn portents which, on the doubtful authority of the University Calendar, are said to happen when "the Cambridge term divides at midnight." But if the Castle at Cambridge, as a "place of arms," had practically no history, much less had the town over which nominally it stood guard. The old streets of Cambridge show no sign of ever having been packed closely within walls in the usual mediæval fashion. In the early days the town seems to have been limited to a little knot of houses round the castle and along the street leading down to the river ford at the foot of the Castle Hill. From the Domesday Survey we learn that in the time of Edward the Confessor the town had consisted of 400 dwelling-houses, and was divided into ten wards, each governed by its own lawman ("lageman") or magistrate, a name which appears to suggest that the original organisation of the town was of Danish origin. By the year 1086 two of these wards had been thrown into one, owing to the destruction of twenty-seven houses--"pro castro"--on account of the building of the Castle, and in the remaining wards no fewer than fifty-three other dwellings are entered as "waste." Altogether, in Norman times the population of Cambridge can hardly have exceeded at the most a couple of thousand. The customs of the town were assessed at £7, the land tax at £7. 2s. 2d. Both of these seem to have been new impositions, payable to the royal treasury. How this came about one cannot say, but from this time onward, all through the middle ages, the farm of Cambridge appears frequently to have been given as a dower to the Queen. [Illustration: Courtyard of the Falcon Inn] The earldom of Cambridge and Huntingdon has been almost invariably held by a member of the Royal Family. The first steps, indeed, towards municipal independence on the part of the borough were taken when the burgesses demanded the privilege of making their customary payments direct to the King, and ridding themselves of this part, at any rate, of the authority of the sheriff. Certainly, there was much complaint made to the Domesday Commissioners concerning the first Norman sheriff of Cambridgeshire, one Roger Picot, because of his hard treatment of the burgesses. Among other things, it was said that he had "required the loan of their ploughs nine times in the year, whereas in the reign of the Confessor they lent their ploughs only thrice in the year and found neither cattle nor carts," and also that he had built himself three mills upon the river to the destruction of many dwelling-houses and the confiscation of much common pasture. Reading of these things one is almost tempted to wonder, whether the old stone Norman house still standing, styled, by a tradition now lost, "the School of Pythagoras," in close proximity as it is to the river, the ford, and the castle, may not have been the residence of this sheriff or of one of his immediate successors. The house cannot, certainly, be of a later date than the latter part of the twelfth century. Originally, it appears to have consisted of a single range of building of two storeys, the lower one formerly vaulted, the upper one serving as a hall. How it came by its present name of "Pythagoras School" we do not know, and certainly there is no reason to suppose that it was at any time a school. The Norman occupier, however, of this stone house, with his servants and retainers, could hardly have been other than a leading personage in the community, and must have contributed in no slight degree to its importance. Possibly it may have been owing to the destruction of houses caused by the clearing of the sites for both this mansion and for the Castle, that the dispossessed population sought habitation for themselves on the low lying ground across the ford, on the east bank of the river. Whether this was the cause or not, certainly the town on the west bank--"the borough," as the castle end of Cambridge was still called in the memory of persons still living[7]--overflowed at an early period to the other side of the river, and gradually extending itself along the line of the Via Devana, eventually coalesced with what had before been a distinct village clustering round the ancient pre-Norman church of S. Benedict. This church, or rather its tower, is the oldest building in Cambridge and one of the most interesting. It is thus described by Mr. Atkinson.[8] [Illustration: The School of Pythagoras.] "The tower presents those features which are usually taken to indicate a Saxon origin. It is divided into three well-marked stages, each one of which is rather narrower than the one below it. The quoins are of the well-known long-and-short work (a sign of late date), and the lowest quoin is let into a sinking prepared for it in the plinth. The belfry windows are of two sorts; the central window on each face is of two heights, divided by a mid-wall balister shaft, supporting a through-stone of the usual character. On each side of this window there is a plain lancet at a somewhat higher level, and with rubble jambs. Above these latter there are small round holes--they can hardly be called windows. Over each of the central windows there is a small pilaster, stopped by a corbel which rests on the window head; these pilasters are cut off abruptly at the top of the tower, which has probably been altered since it was first built; most likely it was originally terminated by a low spire or by gables. The rough edges of the quoins are worked with a rebate to receive the plaster which originally covered the tower. The arch between the tower and the nave springs from bold imposts, above which are rude pieces of sculpture, forming stops to the hood mould. The quoins remaining at each angle of the present nave show that it is of the same length and width as the nave of the original church, and they seem to show also that the original church had neither aisles nor transepts. The chancel is also the same size as that of the early church, for though the east and north walls have been rebuilt, they are in the positions of the Saxon walls. The south wall of the chancel has been altered at many different periods, but has probably never been rebuilt. The bases of the chancel arch remain below the floor. The early church was probably lighted by small lancets about three inches wide, placed high in the wall, and without glass." The present nave is of the thirteenth century. The chancel was built as late as 1872. The building which still abuts against the south chancel wall belongs, however, to the fifteenth century, and was a connecting hall or gallery with "the old court" of Corpus Christi College, which not only took its early name of S. Benet from the ancient church, but for some century and more possessed no other College chapel. The bells of S. Benet, we read in the old College records, were long used to call the students "to ye schooles, att such times as neede did require--as to acts, clearums, congregations, lecturs, disses, and such like." But this belongs to its story in a later age. The Pre-Conquest Church of S. Benet, as we have said, probably served a township separate and distinct from the Castle-end "borough" on the west bank of the river. After the two villages became united, the Norman Grantebrigge, and indeed the mediæval Cambridge of later days, seemed to have formed a straggling and incompact town, stretching for the most part along the Roman road which crossed the river by the bridge at the foot of Castle hill, and so eastward past S. Benet's, and onward to the open country, eventually reached Colchester across the forest uplands. This Roman Way, following the line of the modern Bridge Street, Sidney Street, S. Andrew Street, Regent Street, ran close to the eastern limit of the town, marked roughly at a later time by the King's Ditch. This was an artificial stream constructed as a defence of the town by King John in the year 1215. It was strengthened later by King Henry III., who had also intended to protect the town on this side by a wall. The wall, however, was never built, and the Ditch itself could never have been much of a defence, except, perhaps, against casual marauders, though for centuries it was a cause of insanitary trouble to the town. Branching out of the river at the King's and Bishop's Mills, just above Queen's College, it joined the river again, after encircling the town, just below the Great Bridge and above the Common now called Jesus Green. The Ditch was crossed by bridges on the lines of the principal roads. One of these, built of stone, still remains under the road now called Jesus Lane. There appears to have been a drawbridge also at the end of Sussex Street. The river itself, which formed the western boundary of the town, was spanned by two bridges, the Great Bridge at Castle End and the Small Bridge or Bridges at Newnham by the Mill pond. Between the two bridges were the principal wharfs or river hithes--corn hithe, flax hithe, garlic hithe, salt hithe, Dame Nichol's hithe. These have all now given place to the sloping lawns and gardens of the colleges, the far-famed "Cambridge Backs." The common hithe, however, below the Great Bridge still continues in use. It is with certain rights in regard to these hithes that the earliest Royal charter of which we have record deals. It is an undated writ of Henry I. (1100-1135) addressed to Henry, Bishop of Ely (1109-1131), and attested by an unnamed Chancellor and by Miles of Gloucester and by Richard Basset. The main object of the King's writ seems to be to make "his borough of Cambridge" the one "port" and emporium of the shire. "I forbid"--so runs the writ--"that any boat shall ply at any hithe in Cambridgeshire save at the hithe of my borough at Cambridge, nor shall barges be laden save in the borough of Cambridge, nor shall any take toll elsewhere, but only there." Numerous narrow lanes, all now vanished, with the exception of John's Lane, Gareth Hostel Lane, and Silver Street, led down from High Street to the quays. The town was intersected by three main streets. From the Great Bridge ran the streets already mentioned as following the line of the old Roman Way (the Via Devana). From this old roadway, at a point opposite the Round Church, there branched off the High Street--now Trinity Street and King's Parade--leading to Trumpington Gate. Parallel to the High Street, and between it and the river, ran Milne Street, leading from the King's Mill at the south end of the town, and continuing northwards to a point about the site of the existing sun-dial in Trinity Great Court, where it joined a cross-street leading into the High Street. Parts of Milne Street still exist in the lanes which run past the fronts of Queen's College and Trinity Hall. In mediæval times the entrance gateways of six colleges opened into it--King's Hall, Michael House, Trinity Hall, King's College, S. Catharine's Hall, and Queen's College. Of the most ancient church of the town, that of S. Benedict, we have already spoken. Of the possibly contemporary church of S. Peter by the Castle, the only architectural remains of any importance now existing are a rich late Norman doorway and the bowl of an ancient font. The tower and spire belong to the fourteenth century. The rest of the building is entirely modern. Bricks, however, said to be Roman, appear to have been used in the new walls. Similarly of the other two ancient Castle-end churches, All Saints by the Castle, and S. Giles. Of the former nothing now remains and its actual site is doubtful, for the parish attached to it has been united with S. Giles ever since the time when in the fourteenth century the Black Death left it almost without inhabitants. Of the Church of S. Giles there remains the ancient chancel arch of late Saxon or early Norman character (the familiar long-and-short work seems to date it about the middle of the eleventh century), and the doorway of the nave, which have been rebuilt in the large new church opened in 1875. [Illustration: The Abbey House] It was, however, from this old church of S. Giles by the Castle that the first religious house in Cambridge of which we have any record, and quite possibly the most important factor in the early development of the University, the wealthy Augustinian Priory of Barnwell, took its origin. The story of that foundation is this.[9] Roger Picot, Baron of Bourne and Norman Sheriff of Cambridgeshire, of whose hard treatment the Cambridge burgesses complained to the commissioners of the Domesday Survey, had married a noble and pious woman named Hugoline. Hugoline being taken very ill at Cambridge, and on the point, as she thought, of death, vowed a vow, that if she recovered she would build a church in honour of God and S. Giles. "Whereupon," says the legend, "she recovered in three days." And in gratitude to God she built close to the Castle the Church of S. Giles in the year 1092, together with appropriate buildings, and placed therein six canons regular of the order of S. Augustine, under the charge of Canon Geoffrey of Huntingdon, a man of great piety, and prevailed upon her husband to endow the Church and house with half the tithes of his manorial demesnes. Some vestiges of this small house (_veteris coenobioli vestigia_) were still extant in Leland's time. Before, however, this Augustinian house had been thoroughly established, Earl Pigot and his wife Hugoline died, committing the foundation to the care of their son Robert. Robert unfortunately became implicated in a conspiracy against Henry I., was charged with treason, and obliged to fly the country. The estates were confiscated, and the canons reduced to great want and misery. In this extremity a certain Pain Peverel, a valiant young Crusader, who had been standard-bearer to Robert Curthose in the Holy Land, and who had received the confiscated estates of Picot's son, Robert, came to the rescue, declaring that as he had become Picot's heir, so he would succeed him in the care of this foundation, and increase the number of canons to the number of the years of his own age, namely thirty. He determined also to move the house to a more convenient situation, and accordingly, in the year 1112, he transferred it to an excellent site in Barnwell, a mile and a half or so down the river, just off the high-road leading from Cambridge to Newmarket. This transaction is related as follows:-- "Perceiving that the site on which their house stood was not sufficiently large for all the buildings needful for his canons, and was devoid of any spring of fresh water, Pain Peverel besought King Henry to give him a certain site beyond the borough of Cambridge, extending from the highway to the river, and sufficiently agreeable from the pleasantness of its position. Besides, from the midst of that site there bubbled forth springs of clear fresh water, called at that time in English _Barnewelle_, the children's springs, because once a year, on St. John Baptist's Eve, boys and lads met there and amused themselves in the English fashion with wrestling matches and other games, and applauded each other in singing songs and playing on musical instruments. Hence by reason of the crowd of boys and girls who met and played there, a habit grew up that on the same day a crowd of buyers and sellers should meet in the same place to do business. There, too, a man of great sanctity, called Godesone, used to lead a solitary life in a small wooden oratory that he had built in honour of St. Andrew. He had died a short time before, leaving the place without any habitation upon it, and his oratory without a keeper."[10] In this pleasant place accordingly the house was rebuilt on a very large scale, and by the liberality of Peverel and his son William richly endowed. In the year 1112, we read in the Cartulary that Peverel at once set about building "a church of wonderful beauty and massive work in honour of S. Giles." To this church he gave "vestment, ornaments, and relics of undoubted authenticity which he had brought back from Palestine"; but before he could carry out his intention of completing it, he died in London of a fever "barely ten years after the translation of the canons. His body was brought to Barnwell and buried in a becoming manner on the north side of the high altar." By the munificence, however, of a later benefactor, the church was finished and consecrated in 1191, and before the end of the next century the conventual buildings, cloister, chapter house, frater, farmery, guest hall, gate house, were complete, and the Priory of Augustinian canons at Barnwell took its place in the monastic history of Cambridgeshire, a place only second probably to that of the great Benedictine House at Ely.[11] All that now remains of the Priory is a small church or chapel standing near the road, and the fragment of some other building. The whole site, however, was excavated for gravel in the beginning of the last century, so that it is impossible to speak with any certainty of the disposition of the buildings, although Mr. Willis Clark, in his "Customs of Augustinian Canons," has from documentary sources made an ingenious attempt to reconstruct the whole plan of the Priory. The small chapel of S. Andrew the Less, although it has long been known as the Abbey Church, has, of course, strictly no right to that name. Obviously it cannot be the church of "wondrous dimensions" built by Pain Peverel. The chapel, although in all likelihood it did stand within the Priory precincts, was most probably built for the use of the inhabitants of the parish by the canons, in order that they themselves might be left undisturbed in the exclusive use of the Conventual Church. It is a building of the early English style, with long, narrow lancet windows, evidently belonging to the early part of the thirteenth century. [Illustration: Chapel Barnwell Priory] The material remains of the Priory are therefore very meagre, but a most interesting insight into the domestic economy of a monastic house is afforded by the "_Consuetudinarium_; or, Book of Observances of the Austin Canons," which forms the Eighth Book of the Barnwell Cartulary, to which we have already alluded. A comparison of the domestic customs of a monastic house in the thirteenth century, as shown in this book, and of the functions of its various officers, with many of the corresponding customs and functions in the government of a Cambridge college, not only in mediæval but in modern times, throws much light on the origin of some of the most characteristic features of college life to-day.[12] Let us retrace our steps, however, along the Barnwell Road from the suburban monastery to the ancient town. There are still some features, belonging to the Norman structure of Cambridge, which demand our notice before we pass on. At a point where the High Street, now Trinity Street, branches off from Bridge Street stands the church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of the four round churches of England.[13] [Illustration: The Round Church] Presumably it must have been built by some confraternity connected with the newly established Military Order of the Templars, and, to judge by the style of its architecture--the only real evidence we have as to its date, for the conjecture that it owes its foundation to the young crusader, Pain Peverel, is purely fanciful, and of "the Ralph with a Beard," of which we read in the Ramsey cartularies as receiving "a grant of land to build a Minster in honour of God and the Holy Sepulchre," we know nothing--probably between 1120 and 1140. In its original shape, the church must have consisted of its present circular nave with the ambulatory aisle, and in all probability a semi-circular eastern apse. The ambulatory was vaulted, as in all probability was also the central area, while the apse would doubtless be covered with a semi-dome. The chancel and its north aisle, which had apparently been remodelled in early English times, was again reconstructed in the fifteenth century. At about the same time an important alteration was made in the circular nave by carrying up the walls to form a belfry. The additional stage was polygonal and terminated in a battlemented parapet. The Norman corbel table, under the original eaves of what was probably a dwarf spire, was not destroyed, and thus serves to mark the top of the Norman wall. Windows of three lights were not only inserted in the additional stage, but were also substituted for the circular-headed Norman windows of both ambulatory and clerestory. "Such," says Mr. Atkinson, "was the condition of the Church when, in 1841, the Cambridge Camden Society undertook its 'restoration.' The polygonal upper story of the circular nave, containing four bells, was destroyed; sham Norman windows, copied from one remaining old one, replaced those which had been inserted in the 15th century; and new stone vaults and high pitched roofs were constructed over the nave and ambulatory. The chancel, with the exception of one arch and the wall above it, were entirely rebuilt; the north aisle, with the exception of the entrance arch from the west, was rebuilt and extended eastwards to the same length as the chancel; a new south aisle of equal dimensions with the enlarged north aisle was added; and a small turret for two bells was built at the north-west corner of the north aisle; the lower stage of this turret was considered a sufficient substitute for the destroyed vestry. A new chancel arch of less width than the old one was built, and a pierced stone screen was formed above it. In addition to all this, those old parts which were not destroyed were 'repaired and beautified,' or 'dressed and pointed,' or 'thoroughly restored.' What these processes involved is clear from an inspection of the parts to which they were applied; in the west doorway, for instance, there is not one old stone left."[14] Across the road from the Round Church, in the angle of land caused by the branching apart of the High Street and the Bridge Street, was planted one of the earliest Jewries established in England. The coming of the Jews to England was one of the incidental effects of the Norman Conquest. They had followed in the wake of the invading army as in modern times they followed the German hosts into France, assisting the Normans to dispose of their spoil, finding at usurious interest ready-money for the impoverished English landowner, to meet his conqueror's requisitions, and generally meeting the money-broking needs of both King and subject. In a curious diatribe by Richard of Devizes (1190), Canterbury, Rochester, Chichester, Oxford, Exeter, Worcester, Chester, Hereford, York, Ely, Durham, Norwich, Lincoln, Bristol, Winchester, and of course London are all mentioned as harbouring Jewish settlements. The position of the Jew, however, in England was all along anomalous. As the member of an alien race, and still more of an alien religion, he could gain no kind of constitutional status in the kingdom. The common law ignored him. His Jewry, like the royal forest, was outside its domain. He came, indeed, as the King's special man--nay, more, as the King's special chattel. And in this character he lived for the most part secure. The romantic picture of the despised, trembling Jew--the Isaac of York, depicted for us in Scott's "Ivanhoe"--cringing before every Christian that he meets, is, in any age of English history, simply a romantic picture. The attitude of the Jew almost to the last is one of proud and even insolent defiance. In the days of the Red King at any rate, he stood erect before the prince, and seemed to have enjoyed no small share of his favour and personal familiarity. The presence of the unbelieving Hebrew at his court supplied, it is said, William Rufus with many opportunities of mocking at the Christian Church and its bishops. In a well-known story of Eadmer, the Red King actually forbids the conversion of a Jew to the Christian faith. "It was a poor exchange," he said, "which would rob me of a valuable property and give me only a subject." The extortion of the Jew was therefore sheltered from the common law by the protection of the King. The bonds of the Jew were kept, in fact, under the royal seal in the royal archives, a fact of which the memory long remained in the name of "The Star" chamber; a name derived from the Hebrew word (_ishtar_) for a "bond." [Illustration: Oriel Windows from House in Petty-Cury now demolished _To face p. 46_] The late Mr. J. R. Green, in a delightful sketch on the early history of Oxford in his "Stray Studies," afterwards incorporated into the pages of his "History of the English People," seems inclined to give some support to the theory which would connect the origin of the University with the establishment of the Oxford Jewry. This theory, however, can hardly be accepted.[15] It is very probable indeed that the medical school, which we find established at Oxford and in high repute during the twelfth century, is traceable to Jewish origin; and the story is no doubt true also, which tells how Roger Bacon penetrated to the older world of material research by means of the Hebrew instruction and the Hebrew books which he found among the Jewish rabbis of the Oxford Synagogue. It is reasonable also to suppose that the history of Christian Aristotelianism, and of the Scholastic Theology that was based upon it, may have been largely influenced by the philosophers of the Synagogue. It seems, indeed, to be a well-established conclusion, that the philosophy of Aristotle was first made known to the West through the Arabic versions brought from Spain by Jewish scholars and rabbis. But it is undoubtedly "in a more purely material way" that, as Mr. Green truly says, the Jewry most directly influenced academic history. At Oxford, as elsewhere, "the Jew brought with him something more than the art or science which he had gathered at Cordova or Bagdad; he brought with him the new power of wealth. The erection of stately castles, of yet statelier abbeys, which followed the Conquest, the rebuilding of almost every cathedral or conventual church, marks the advent of the Jewish capitalist. No one can study the earlier history of our great monastic houses without finding the secret of that sudden outburst of industrial activity to which we own the noblest of our Minsters in the loans of the Jew." Certainly at Cambridge, though perhaps hardly to the same extent as at Oxford, the material influence on the town of the Jewry is traceable. At Oxford, it is said that nearly all the larger dwelling-houses, which were subsequently converted into hostels, bore traces of their Jewish origin in their names, such as Moysey's Hall, Lombard's Hall, Jacob's Hall, and each of the successive Town Halls of the borough had previously been Jewish houses. We have some evidence of a similar conversion at Cambridge. In the first half of the thirteenth century, before we hear either of Tolbooth or of Guildhall, the enlarged judicial responsibilities of the town authorities made it necessary that they should be in possession of some strong building suitable for a prison. Accordingly, in 1224, we find King Henry III. granting to the burgesses the House of Benjamin, the Jew, for the purposes of a gaol. It is said that either the next house or a part of Benjamin's House had been the Synagogue of the Jewry, and was granted in the first instance to the Franciscan Friars on their arrival in the city. Benjamin's House, although it had been altered from time to time, appears never to have been entirely rebuilt, and some fragments of this, the earliest of Cambridge municipal buildings, are perhaps still to be found embedded in the walls of the old Town Arms public-house--a room in which, as late as the seventeenth century, was still known as "The Star Chamber"--at the western side of Butter Row, in the block of old buildings at the corner of Market Square, adjoining the new frontage of the Guildhall. With this relic of the ancient Jewry we reach the last remaining building in Cambridge that had any existence in Norman times. And with the close of this age--the age of the Crusades--we already find the Cambridge burgess safely in possession, not only of that personal freedom which had descended to him by traditional usage from the communal customs of his early Teutonic forefathers, but also of many privileges which he had bought in hard cash from his Norman conqueror. Before the time of the first charter of King John (1201) Cambridge had passed through most of the earlier steps of emancipation which eventually led to complete self-government. The town-bell ringing out from the old tower of S. Benet's already summoned the Cambridge freemen to a borough mote in which the principles of civic justice, of loyal association, of mutual counsel, of mutual aid, were acknowledged by every member of a free, self-ruling assembly. CHAPTER III THE BEGINNINGS OF UNIVERSITY LIFE "Si tollis libertatem, tollis dignitatem."--S. COLUMBAN. "Record we too with just and faithful pen, That many hooded cænobites there are Who in their private cells have yet a care Of public quiet; unambitious men, Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken; Whose fervent exhortations from afar Move princes to their duty, peace or war; And oft times in the most forbidding den Of solitude, with love of science strong, How patiently the yoke of thought they bear ... By such examples moved to unbought pains The people work like congregated bees; Eager to build the quiet fortresses Where piety, as they believe, obtains From heaven a general blessing; timely rains And sunshine; prosperous enterprise and peace and equity." --WORDSWORTH. Monastic Origins--Continuity of Learning in Early England--The School of York--The Venerable Bede--Alcuin and the Schools of Charles the Great--The Danish Invasions--The Benedictine Revival--The Monkish Chroniclers--The Coming of the Friars--The Franciscan and Dominican Houses at Cambridge--The Franciscan Scholars--Roger Bacon--Bishop Grosseteste--The New Aristotle and the Scientific Spirit--The Scholastic Philosophy--Aquinas--Migration of Scholars from Paris to Cambridge--The term "University"--The Colleges and the Hostels--The Course of Study--Trivium and Quadrivium--The Four Faculties--England a Paradise of Clerks--Parable of the Monk's Pen. In the centuries which preceded the rise of the Universities, the monks had been the great educators of England, and it is to monastic origins that we must first turn to find the beginnings of university and collegiate life at Cambridge. In the library of Trinity College there is preserved a catalogue of the books which Augustine and his monks brought with them into England. "These are the foundation or the beginning of the library of the whole English Church, A.D. 601," are the words with which this brief catalogue closes. A Bible in two volumes, a Psalter and a book of the Gospels, a Martyrology, the Apocryphal Lives of the Apostles, and the exposition of certain Epistles represented at the commencement of the seventh century the sum-total of literature which England then possessed. In little more than fifty years, however, the Latin culture of Augustine and his monks had spread throughout the land, and before the eighth century closed England had become the literary centre of Western Europe. Probably never in the history of any nation had there been so rapid a development of learning. Certainly few things are more remarkable in the history of the intellectual development of Europe than that, in little more than a hundred years after knowledge had first dawned upon this country, an Anglo-Saxon scholar should be producing books upon literature and philosophy second to nothing that had been written by any Greek or Roman author after the third century. But the great writer whom after-ages called "the Venerable Bede," and who was known to his own contemporaries as "the wise Saxon," was not the only scholar that the seventh and the eighth centuries had produced in England. Under the twenty-one years of the Archiepiscopate of Theodore (669-690), schools and monasteries rapidly spread throughout the country. In the school established under the walls of Canterbury, in connection with the Monastery of S. Peter, better known in after-times as S. Augustine's, and over which his friend the Abbot Adrian ruled, were trained not a few of the great scholars of those days--Albinus, the future adviser and assistant of Bede, Tobias of Rochester, Aldhelm of Sherborne, and John of Beverley. The influence of these and other scholars sent out from the school at Canterbury soon made itself felt. In Northumbria, too, the torch of learning had been kept alight by the Irish monks of Lindisfarne, and of Melrose and of Iona, "that nest from which," as an old writer playing on its founder S. Columba's name had said, "the sacred doves had taken their flight to every quarter." While Archbishop Theodore and the Abbot Adrian were organising Anglo-Latin education in the monasteries of the south, Wilfrith, the Archbishop of York, and his friend Benedict Biscop were performing a no less extensive work in the north. The schools of Northumbria gathered in the harvest of Irish learning, and of the Franco-Gallican schools, which still preserved a remnant of classical literature, and of Rome itself, now barbarised. Of Bede, in the book-room of the monastery at Jarrow, we are told by his disciple and biographer, Cuthbert, that in the intervals of the regular monastic discipline the great scholar found time to undertake the direction of the monastic school. "He had many scholars, all of whom he inspired with an extraordinary love of learning." "It was always sweet to me," he writes himself, "to learn to teach." At the conclusion of his "Ecclesiastical History" he has himself given a list of some thirty-eight books which he had written up to that time. Of these not a few are of an educational character. Besides a large body of Scripture commentary, we have from his pen treatises on orthography, grammar, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy. His book on "The Nature of Things" was the science primer of the Anglo-Saxons for many generations. He wrote, in fact, to teach. At the school of York, however, was centred nearly all the wisdom of the West, and its greatest pupil was Alcwyne. He became essentially the representative schoolmaster of his age. For fourteen years, attracted by the fame of his scholarship, students not only from all parts of England and Ireland, but also from France and Germany, flocked to the monastery school at York. In 782 Alcwyne left England to join the Court of Charles the Great and to take charge of the Palatine schools, carrying with him to the Continent the learning which was about to perish for a time in England, as the result of the internal dissensions of its kings and the early ravages of the Norsemen. "Learning," to use the phrase of William of Malmesbury, "was buried in the grave of Bede for four centuries." The Danish invader, carrying his ravages now up the Thames and now up the Humber, devastated the east of England with fire and sword. "Deliver us, O Lord, from the frenzy of the Northmen!" had been a suffrage of a litany of the time, but it was one to which the scholars and the bookmen, no less than the monks and nuns of that age, found no answer. The noble libraries which Theodore and the Abbots Adrian and Benedict had founded were given to the flames. The monasteries of the Benedictines, the chief guardians of learning, were completely broken up. "It is not at all improbable," says Mr. Kemble, "that in the middle of the tenth century there was not a genuine Benedictine left in England." A revival of monastic life--some attempt at a return to the old Benedictine ideal--came, however, with that century. Under the auspices of S. Dunstan, the Benedictine Order--renovated at its sources by the Cluniac reform--was again established, and surviving a second wave of Danish devastation was, under the patronage of King Cnut and Edward the Confessor, further strengthened and extended. The strength of this revival is perhaps best seen in the wonderful galaxy of monastic chroniclers which sheds its light over that century. Florence of Worcester, Henry of Huntingdon, William of Malmesbury, Ingulf, Geoffrey Gaimar, William de Monte, John and Richard of Hexham, Jordan Fantosme, Simeon of Durham, Thomas and Richard of Ely, Gervase, Giraldus Cambrensis, William of Newburgh, Richard of Devizes all follow one another in close succession, while Robert of Gloucester, Roger of Wendover, and Matthew Paris carry on the line into the next age. But apart from the Chroniclers, though the monasteries once more flourished in England, the early Benedictine ideal of learning did not at once revive. Indeed, the tendency of the monastic reformers of the twelfth century was distinctly hostile to the more intellectual side of the monastic ideal. By the end of the century the majority of the Benedictine convents had sunk into rich corporations of landed proprietors, whose chief ambition was the aggrandisement of the house to which they belonged. The new impulse of reform, which in its indirect results was to give the thirteenth century in England so dominant a place in the history of her civilisation, came from a quite different direction. Almost simultaneously, without concert, in different countries, two great minds, S. Francis and S. Dominic, conceived a wholly new ideal of monastic perfection. Unlike the older monastic leaders, deliberately turning their backs upon the haunts of men in town and village, and seeking in the wilderness seclusion from the world which they professed to forsake, these new idealists, the followers of S. Dominic and S. Francis, the mendicant Orders, the Friars' Preachers and the Friars' Minors, turned to the living world of men. Their object was no longer the salvation of the individual monk, but the salvation of others through him. Monastic Christianity was no longer to flee the world; it must conquer it or win it by gentle violence. The work of the new Orders, therefore, was from the first among their fellowmen, in village, in town, in city, in university. "Like the great modern Order (of the Jesuists) which, when their methods had in their turn become antiquated, succeeded to their influence by a still further departure from the old monastic routine, the mendicant Orders early perceived the necessity of getting a hold upon the centres of education. With the Dominicans indeed this was a primary object: the immediate purpose of their foundation was resistance to this Albigensian heresy; they aimed at obtaining influence upon the more educated and more powerful classes. Hence it was natural that Dominic should have looked to the universities as the most suitable recruiting ground for his Order: to secure for his Preachers the highest theological training that the age afforded was an essential element of the new monastic ideal.... The Franciscan ideal was a less intellectual one ... but though the Franciscans laboured largely among the neglected poor of crowded and pestilential cities, they too found it practically necessary to go to the universities for recruits and to secure some theological education for their members."[16] The Black Friars of S. Dominic arrived in England in 1221. The Grey Friars of S. Francis in 1224. The Dominicans met with the least success at first, but this was fully compensated by the rapid progress of the Franciscans. Very soon after the coming of the Grey Friars they had formed a settlement at Oxford, under the auspices of the greatest scholar-bishop of the age, Grosseteste of Lincoln, and had built their first rude chapel at Cambridge. In the early days, however, the followers of S. Francis made a hard fight against the taste for sumptuous buildings and for the greater personal comfort which characterised the time. "I did not enter into religion to build walls," protested an English Provincial of the Order when the brethren begged for a larger convent. But at Cambridge the first humble house of the Grey Friars, which had been founded in 1224 in "the old Synagogue," was shortly removed to a site at the corner of Bridge Street and Jesus Lane--now occupied by Sidney Sussex College--and that noble church commenced, which, three centuries later, at the time of the Dissolution, the University vainly endeavoured to save for itself, having for some time used it for the ceremony of Commencement.[17] But of this we shall have to speak later in our account of the Foundation of Sidney College. But if the Franciscans, in their desire to obey the wishes of their Founder, found a difficulty in combating the passion of the time for sumptuous buildings, they had even less success in struggling against the passion of the time for learning. Their vow of poverty ought to have denied them the possession even of books. "I am your breviary! I am your breviary!" S. Francis had cried passionately to the novice who desired a Psalter. And yet it is a matter of common knowledge that Grosseteste, the great patron of the Franciscans, brought Greek books to England, and in conjunction with two other Franciscans, whose names are known--Nicholas the Greek and John of Basingstoke--gave to the world Latin versions of certain Greek documents. Foremost among these is the famous early apocryphal book, _The Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs_, the Greek manuscript of which is still in the Cambridge University Library. There is no better statement, perhaps, of those gaps in the knowledge of Western Christendom, which the scholars of the Franciscan Order did so much to fill, than a passage in the writings of the greatest of all English Franciscans, Roger Bacon, which runs to this effect:-- "Numberless portions of the wisdom of God are wanting to us. Many books of the Sacred Text remain untranslated, as two books of the Maccabees which I know to exist in Greek: and many other books of divers Prophets, whereto reference is made in the books of Kings and Chronicles. Josephus too, in the books of his _Antiquities_, is altogether falsely rendered as far as concerns the Chronological side, and without him nothing can be known of the history of the Sacred Text. Unless he be corrected in a new translation, he is of no avail, and the Biblical history is lost. Numberless books again of Hebrew and Greek expositors are wanting to the Latins: as those of Origen, Basil, Gregory, Nazianzen, Damascene, Dionysius, Chrysostom, and other most noble Doctors, alike in Hebrew and in Greek. The Church therefore is slumbering. She does nothing in this matter, nor hath done these seventy years: save that my Lord Robert, Bishop of Lincoln, of holy memory did give to the Latins some part of the writings of S. Dionysius and of Damascene, and some other holy Doctors. It is an amazing thing this negligence of the Church; for, from the time of Pope Damasus, there hath not been any Pope, nor any of less rank, who hath busied himself for the advantaging of the Church by translations, except the aforesaid glorious Bishop."[18] The truth to which Roger Bacon in this passage gave expression, the scholars of the Franciscan Order set themselves to realise and act upon. For a considerable time the Franciscan houses at both Oxford and Cambridge kept alive the interest of this "new learning" to which Robert Grosseteste and Roger Bacon opened the way. The work of the Order at Oxford is fairly well known. And in the Cambridge House of the Order there was at least one teacher of divinity, Henry of Costessey, who, in his _Commentary on the Psalms_, set the example of a type of scholarship, which, in its close insistence on the exact meaning of the text, in its constant reference to the original Hebrew, and in its absolute independence of judgment, has, one is proud to think, ever remained a characteristic of the Cambridge school of textual criticism down even to our own day. * * * * * But if the Franciscans, impelled by their desire to illustrate the Sacred Text, had thus become intellectual in spite of the ideal of their Founder, the Dominicans were intellectual from their starting-point. They had, indeed, been called into being by the necessity of combating the intellectual doubts and controversies of the south of France. That they should become a prominent factor in the development of the universities was but the fulfilment of their original design. With their activity also is associated one of the greatest intellectual movements of the thirteenth century--the introduction of the new Philosophy. The numerous houses of the Order planted by them in the East brought about an increased intercourse between those regions and Western Europe, and helped on that knowledge of the new Aristotle, which, as we have said in a previous chapter, England probably owes largely to the philosophers of the Synagogue. It is round the University of Paris, however, that the earlier history, both of the Dominican scholars and of the new Aristotle, mainly revolves. Here the great system of Scholastic Philosophy was elaborated, by which the two great Dominican teachers, Albertus Magnus--"the ape of Aristotle," as he was irreverently and unjustly called by his Franciscan contemporaries--and his greater pupil, Thomas Aquinas, "the seraphic Doctor," vindicated the Christian Creed in terms of Aristotelian logic, and laid at least a solid foundation for the Christian Theology of the future, in the contention that Religion is rational, and that Reason is divine, that all knowledge and all truth, from whatever source they are derived, are capable of being reduced to harmony and unity, because the name of Christianity is both Wisdom and Truth. In the year 1229 there broke out at Paris a feud of more than ordinary gravity between the students and the citizens, undignified enough in its cause of origin, but in the event probably marking a distinct step in the development of Cambridge University. A drunken body of students did some act of great violence to the citizens. Complaint was made to the Bishop of Paris and to the Queen Blanche. The members of the University who had not been guilty of the outrage were violently attacked and ill-treated by the police of the city. The University teachers suspended their classes and demanded satisfaction. The demand was refused, and masters and scholars dispersed. Large numbers, availing themselves of the invitation of King Henry III. to settle where they pleased in this country, migrated to the shores of England; and Cambridge, probably from its proximity to the eastern coast, and as the centre where Prince Louis, in alliance with the English baronage, but a few years before had raised the Royal standard, seems to have attracted a large majority of the students. A Royal writ, issued in the year 1231, for the better regulation of the University, probably makes reference to this migration when it speaks of the large number of students, both within the realm and "from beyond the seas," who had lately settled in Cambridge, and gives power to the Bishop of Ely "to signify rebellious clerks who would not be chastised by the Chancellor and Masters," and if necessary to invoke the aid of the Sheriff in their due punishment. Another Royal writ of the same reign expressly provides that no student shall remain in the University unless under the tuition of some Master of Arts--the earliest trace perhaps of that disciplinary organisation which the motley and turbulent crowd representing the student community of that age demanded.[19] It will be observed that in these Royal writs the term "university" occurs. But it must not be supposed that the word is used in its more modern signification, of a community or corporation devoted to learning and education formally recognised by legal authority. That is a use which appears for the first time towards the end of the fourteenth century. In the age of which we are speaking, and in the writs of Henry III., _universitas magistrorum et discipulorum_ or _scholarium_ simply means a "community of teachers and scholars." The common designation in mediæval times of such a body as we now mean by "university" was _studium generale_, or sometimes _studium_ alone. It is necessary, moreover, to remember that universities in the earliest times had not infrequently a very vigorous life as places of learning, long before they received Royal or legal recognition; and it is equally necessary not to forget that colleges for the lodging and maintenance and education of students are by no means an essential feature of the mediæval conception of a university. "The University of the Middle Ages was a corporation of learned men, associated for the purposes of teaching, and possessing the privilege that no one should be allowed to teach within their dominions unless he had received their sanction, which could only be granted after trial of his ability. The test applied consisted of examinations and public disputations; the sanction assumed the form of a public ceremony and the name of a degree; and the teachers or doctors so elected or created carried out their office of instruction by lecturing in the public schools to the students, who, desirous of hearing them, took up their residence in the place wherein the University was located. The degree was, in fact, merely a license to teach. The teacher so licensed became a member of the ruling body. The University, as a body, does not concern itself with the food and lodging of the students, beyond the exercise of a superintending power over the rents and regulations of the houses in which they are lodged, in order to protect them from exaction; and it also assumes the care of public morals. The only buildings required by such a corporation in the first instance were a place to hold meetings and ceremonies, a library, and schools for teaching, or, as we should call them, lecture rooms. A college, on the other hand, in its primitive form, is a foundation erected and endowed by private munificence solely for the lodging and maintenance of deserving students, whose lack of means rendered them unable to pursue the university course without some extraneous assistance."[20] It must be remembered, moreover, that when a mediæval benefactor founded a college his intentions were very different from those which would actuate a similar person at the present day. His object was to provide board and lodging and a small stipend, _not for students, but for teachers_. As for the taught, they lodged where they could, like students at a Scottish or a Continental university to-day; and it was not until the sixteenth century was well advanced that they were admitted within the precincts of the colleges on the payment of a small annual rent or "pension"--whence the modern name of "pensioner" for the undergraduate or pupil members of the college. Indeed, the term "college" (_collegium_), as applied to a building, is a modern use of the word. In the old days the term "college" was strictly and accurately applied to the persons who formed the community of scholars, not to the building which housed them. For that building the correct term always used in mediæval times was "domus" (house), or "aula" (hall). Sometimes, indeed, the two names were combined. Thus, in an old document we find the earliest of the colleges--Peterhouse--entitled, _Domus Sancti Petri, sive Aula Scholarium Episcopi Eliensis_--The House of S. Peter, or the Hall of the Scholars of the Bishop of Ely. In all probability the University in early days took no cognisance whatever of the way in which students obtained lodgings. It was the inconvenience and discomfort of this system, no doubt, which led to the establishment of what were afterwards termed "Hostels," apparently by voluntary action on the part of the students themselves. In the first half of the sixteenth century there seem to have been about twenty of these hostels,[21] but at the end of the century there appears to have been only about nine left. There is an interesting passage in a sermon by Lever at Paul's Cross, preached in 1550, which throws light upon this desertion of the hostels, where he speaks of those scholars who, "havyng rych frendes or beyng benefyced men dyd lyve of themselves in Ostles and Inns, be eyther gon awaye, or elles fayne to crepe into colleges, and put poore men from bare lyvynges." The University then, or, more strictly speaking, the _Studium Generale_, existed as an institution long before the organisation of the residential college or hall; and as a consequence, for many a year it had an organisation quite independent of its colleges. The University of Cambridge, like the University of Oxford, was modelled mainly on the University of Paris. Its course of study followed the old classical tradition of the division of the seven liberal sciences--grammar, logic, rhetoric, music, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy--into two classes, the _Trivium_ and _Quadrivium_, a system of teaching which had been handed down by the monastic schools in a series of text-books, jejune and meagre, which were mainly compilations and abridgments from the older classical sources. One such treatise, perhaps the most popular in the monastery schools, was a book by Martianus Capella, a teacher of rhetoric at Carthage, in the fifth century. The treatise is cast in allegorical form, and represents the espousals of Mercury and Philology, in which Philology is represented as a goddess, and the seven liberal arts as handmaidens presented by Mercury to his bride. The humour of this allegory is not altogether spiritless, if at times somewhat coarse. Here is a specimen. The plaudits that follow upon the discourse delivered by Arithmetica are supposed to be interrupted by laughter, occasioned by the loud snores of Silenus asleep under the influence of his deep potations. The kiss wherewith Rhetorica salutes Philologia is heard throughout the assembly--_nihil enim silens, ac si cuperet, faciebat_. So popular did this mythological medley become, that in the tenth century we find certain learned monks embroidering the subject of the poem on their Church vestments. A _memoria technica_ in hexameter lines has also come down to us, showing how the monastic scholar was assisted to remember that grammar, dialectics, and rhetoric belonged to the first division of the sciences called the _Trivium_, and that the four other sciences belonged to the _Quadrivium_:-- "_Gram._: loquitur; _Dia._: vera docet; _Rhet._: verba colorat, _Mus._: canit; _Ar._: numerat; _Geo._: ponderat; _Ast._: colit astra." In a further classification given by another scholar of the end of the twelfth century, Alexander Neckham, we have enumerated the four Faculties recognised by the mediæval University: Arts, Theology, Law, Medicine. "Hic florent Artes, Coelestis Pagina regnat, Stant Leges, lucet Jus: Medicina viget." Such, then, was the cycle of mediæval study. And the student whose ambition it was to become a master of this cycle--a _magister_ or _doctor_ (for in early days the two titles were synonymous) _facultatis_--must attain to it through a seven years' course. In the school attached to a monastery or a cathedral, or from the priest of his native parish, we may suppose that the student has learnt some modicum of Latin, "the scholar's vernacular," or failing that, that the first stage of the _Trivium_--_Grammatica_--has been learnt on his arrival at the University. For this purpose, if he is a Cambridge student at least, he is placed under the charge of a special teacher, called by a mysterious name, _Magister Glomeriæ_, and he himself becomes a "glomerel," giving allegiance oddly enough during this state of pupilage, not to the Chancellor, the head of his University, but to the Archdeacon of Ely. Of the actual books read in the grammar course it is difficult to give an account. They may have been few or many. Indeed, at this period when the works of Aristotle were coming so much into vogue, it would seem as if the old Grammar course gave way at an early period to Philosophy. In a curious old French fabliau of the thirteenth century, entitled "The Battle of the Seven Arts,"[22] there is evidence of this innovation; incidentally also, a list of the books more properly belonging to the Grammar course is also given. "Savez por qui est la descorde? Qu'il ne sont pas d'une science: Car Logique, qui toz jors tence, Claime les auctors autoriaus Et les clers d'Orliens _glomeriaus_. Si vaut bien chascuns iiii Omers, Quar il boivent à granz gomers, Et sevent bien versefier Que d'une fueille d'un figuier Vous ferent-il le vers. * * * * * Aristote, qui fu à pié, Si fist chéoir Gramaire enverse, Lors i a point Mesire Perse Dant Juvénal et dant Orasce, Virgile, Lucain, et Elasce, Et Sedule, Propre, Prudence, Arator, Omer, et Térence: Tuit chaplèrent sor Aristote, Qui fu fers com chastel sor mote." "Do you know the reason of the discord? 'Tis because they are not for the same science, For Logic, who is always disputing, Claims the ancient authors, And the glomerel clerks of Orleans, Each of them is quite equal to four Homers, For they drink by great draughts And know so well how to make verse, That about a single fig leaf They would make you fifty verses. * * * * * Aristotle who was on foot Knocked Grammar down flat. Then there rode up Master Persius, Dan Juvenal and Dan Horace, Virgil, Lucan, and Statius, And Sedulius, Prosper, Prudentius, Arator, Homer, and Terence: They all fell upon Aristotle Who was as bold as a castle upon a hill." And so for the Cambridge "glomerel," if Aristotle held his own against the classics, Dan Homer, and the rest, in the second year of his university course the student would find himself a "sophister," or disputant in the Logic school. To Logic succeeded Rhetoric, which also meant Aristotle, and so the "trivial" arts were at an end, and the "incepting" or "commencing" bachelor of arts began his apprenticeship to a "Master of Faculty." In the next four years he passed through the successive stages of the _Quadrivium_, and at the end received the certificate of his professor, was admitted to the degree of Master of Arts, and thereby was admitted also to the brotherhood of teachers, and himself became an authorised lecturer. A post-graduate course might follow in Theology or Canon or Civil Law, involving another five or six years of university life. In the course for the Canon Law the candidate for a doctor's degree was required to have heard lectures on the civil law for three years, and on the Decretals for another three years; he must, too, have attended cursory lectures on the Bible for at least two years, and must himself have lectured "cursorily" on one of four treatises, and on some one book of the Decretals. Obviously, if this statutory course was strictly observed in those days, the scarlet hood could never grace the shoulders of one who was nothing more than a dexterous logician, or the honoured title of Doctor be conferred on one who had never taught. _Disce docendo_ was indeed the motto of the University of Cambridge in the thirteenth century. The great constitutional historian of our country, the late Bishop Stubbs, in one of the wisest and wittiest of his statutable lectures at Oxford,[23] speaks of England in this age as "the paradise of clerks." He illustrates the truth of his characterisation by drawing an imaginary picture of a foreign scholar making an _Iter Anglicum_ with the object of collecting materials for a history of the learning and literature of England. The Bishop is able readily to crowd his canvas with the figures of eminent Englishmen drawn from centres of learning in every part of the land, from Dover, from Canterbury, from London, from Rochester, from Chichester, from Winchester, from Devizes, from Salisbury, from Exeter, from S. Albans, from Ely, from Peterborough, from Lincoln, from Howden, from York, from Durham, from Hexham, from Melrose; scholars, historians, chroniclers, poets, philosophers, logicians, theologians, canonists, lawyers, all going to prove by the glimpse they give us into circles of scholastic activity, monastic for the most part, how comparatively wide was the extent of English learning and English education in the thirteenth century--an age which it has usually been the fashion to regard as barbarous and obscure--and how germinant of institutions, intellectual as well as political, which have since become vital portions of our national existence. From the point of view of a later age there is doubtless something to be said on the other side. _Disce docendo_ remained perhaps the academic motto, but the learning and the teaching was still under the domination of monasticism, and the monastic scholar, however patient and laborious he might be and certainly was, was also for the most part absolutely uncritical. He cultivated formal logic to perfection; he reasoned from his premise with most admirable subtlety, but he had usually commenced by assuming his premise with unfaltering, because unreasoning, faith. We shall see, however, as we proceed with our history of the collegiate life of the University, in the succeeding centuries, that the critical spirit which gave force to the genius of the great Franciscan teachers, Roger Bacon and Bishop Grosseteste, in resisting the tendencies of their age, which found practical application also in the textual interpretation of Holy Writ in such writings as those of Henry of Costessey, or in the sagacious "Treatise on the Laws and Customs of England"--the oldest of our legal classics--by Ranulf Glanville, or in the "Historia Rerum Anglicanum," of the inquisitive and independent-minded Yorkshire scholar, William of Newburgh, was a factor not to be ignored in the heritage of learning bequeathed by the great men of the thirteenth century to their more enlightened and liberal successors, the theologians, the lawyers, and the historians of the future. There is a mediæval legend of a certain monkish writer, whose tomb was opened twenty years or so after his death, to reveal the fact, that although the remainder of his body had crumbled to dust the hand that had held the pen remained flexible and undecayed. The legend is a parable. Some of the lessons of that parable we may expect to find interpreted in the academic history of Cambridge in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. CHAPTER IV THE EARLIEST COLLEGE FOUNDATION: PETERHOUSE "Re unius Exemplo omnium quoquot extant Collegiorum, fundatori."--_Epitaph of Walter de Merton._ The Early Monastic Houses in Cambridge--Student Proselytising by the Friars--The Oxford College of Merton a Protest against this Tendency--The Rule of Merton taken as a Model by Hugh de Balsham, Founder of Peterhouse--The Hospital of S. John--The Scholars of Ely--Domestic Economy of the College--The Dress of the Mediæval Student--Peterhouse Buildings--Little S. Mary's Church--The Perne Library--The College Chapel. The first beginnings of the University of Cambridge are, as we have seen in the preceding chapters, largely traceable to a monastic inspiration. The first beginnings of the Cambridge Colleges, on the other hand, are as certainly traceable to the protest which, as early as the middle of the thirteenth century, it became necessary to make against the proselytising tendencies of the monastic Orders. At a time when, as we have seen, the University authorities took no cognisance whatever of the way in which the student was lodged, and when even the unsatisfactory hostel system--eventually organised, as it would appear, by voluntary action on the part of the students themselves--did not exist, the houses of the monastic Orders were already well established. We have described the fully-equipped house of the Augustinian Canons at Barnwell. Within the town the Franciscans had established themselves, as early as 1224, in the old synagogue, and fifty years later had erected, on the present site of Sydney College, a spacious house, which Ascham long afterwards described as an ornament to the University, and the precincts of which were still, in the time of Fuller, to be traced in the College grounds. In 1274 the Dominicans had settled where Emmanuel now stands. About the middle of the century the Carmelites, who had originally occupied an extensive foundation at Newnham, but were driven from thence by the winter floods, settled near the present site of Queens. Towards the close of the century the Augustinian Friars took up their residence near the site of the old Botanic Gardens. Opposite to the south part of the present gardens of Peterhouse, on the east side of Trumpington Street, were the Gilbertines, or the Canons of S. Gilbert of Sempringham, the one purely English foundation. In 1257 the Friars of the Order of Bethlehem settled also in Trumpington Street, and in 1258 the Friars of the Sack, or of the Penitence of Jesus Christ, settled in the parish of S. Mary the Great, removed soon afterwards to the parish of S. Peter without the Trumpington Gate. It was natural, therefore, that these well-equipped houses should hold out great attractions and opportunities to the needy and houseless student, and that complaint should shortly be made that many young and unsuspicious boys were induced to enrol themselves as members of Franciscan, or Dominican, or other Friars' houses long before they were capable of judging the full importance of their action. One cannot read the biographies of even such strong personalities as those of Roger Bacon or William of Occam without surmising that their adoption of the Franciscan vow was the result rather of the exigency of the student and the proselytising activity to which they were exposed, than of any distinct vocation for the monastic life, or of their own deliberate choice. "Minors and children," as Fuller says in his usual quaint vein, "agree very well together." To such an extent at any rate had the evil spread at Oxford that, in a preamble of a statute passed in 1358, it is asserted, as a notorious fact, that "the nobility and commoners alike were deterred from sending their sons to the University by this very cause; and it was enacted that if any mendicant should induce, or cause to be induced, any member of the University under eighteen years of age to join the said Friars, or should in any way assist in his abduction, no graduate belonging to the cloister or society of which such friar was a member should be permitted to give or attend lectures in Oxford or elsewhere for the year ensuing."[24] It is not perhaps, therefore, surprising to find that the earliest English Collegiate foundation--that of Walter de Merton at Oxford in 1264--should have expressly excluded all members of the religious Orders. The dangers involved in the ascendency of the monks and friars were already patent to many sagacious minds, and Bishop Walter de Merton, who had filled the high office of Chancellor of England, and was already by his position an adversary of the Franciscan interest, was evidently desirous of establishing an institution which should not only baffle that encroaching spirit of Rome which had startled Grosseteste from his allegiance, but should also give an impulse to a system of education which should not be subservient to purely ecclesiastical ideas. This is obviously the principle which underlies the provisions of the statutes of his foundation of Merton College. Bishop Hobhouse in his _Life of Walter de Merton_ has thus carefully interpreted this principle:-- "Our founder's object I conceive to have been to secure for his own order in the Church, for the secular priesthood, the academical benefit which the religious orders were so largely enjoying, and to this end I think all his provisions are found to be consistently framed. He borrowed from the monastic institutions the idea of an aggregate body living by common rule, under a common head, provided with all things needful for a corporate and perpetual life, fed by its secured endowments, fenced from all external interference, except that of its lawful patron; but after borrowing thus much, he differenced his institution by giving his beneficiaries quite a distinct employment, and keeping them free from all those perpetual obligations which constituted the essence of the religious life.... His beneficiaries are from the first designated as _Scholares in scholis degentes_; their employment was study, not what was technically called "the religious life" (_i.e._ the life of a monk).... He forbade his scholars even to take vows, they were to keep themselves free of every other institution, to render no one else's _obsequium_. He looked forward to their going forth to labour _in seculo_, and acquiring preferment and property.... Study being the function of the inmates of his house, their time was not to be taken up by ritual or ceremonial duties, for which special chaplains were appointed; neither was it to be bestowed on any handicrafts, as in some monastic orders. Voluntary poverty was not enjoined, though poor circumstances were a qualification for a fellowship. No austerity was required, though contentment with simple fare was enforced as a duty, and the system of enlarging the number of inmates according to the means of the house was framed to keep the allowance to each at the very moderate rate which the founder fixed. The proofs of his design to benefit the Church through a better educated secular priesthood are to be found, not in the letter of their statutes, but in the tenour of their provisions, especially as to studies, in the direct averments of some of the subsidiary documents, in the fact of his providing Church patronage as part of his system, and in the readiness of prelates and chapters to grant him impropriation of the rectorial endowments of the Church." Such was the _Regula Mertonensis_, the Rule of Merton, as it came to be called, which served as the model for so many subsequent statutes. This _Regula_ Hugh de Balsham, Bishop of Ely (1257-1286), evidently had before him, when some twenty years after his consecration to the bishopric, he proceeded, by giving a new form to an earlier benefaction of his own, to open a new chapter in the history of the University of Cambridge. Hugh de Balsham, before his elevation to the bishopric, had been sub-prior of the Ely monastery, and at first sight therefore it might seem a little surprising that he should have thought of encouraging a system of education which was not to be subject to the monastic rule. But Hugh de Balsham was a Benedictine monk, and the Benedictines in England at this time were the upholders of a less stringent and ascetic discipline than that of the mendicant orders, and were, in fact, endeavouring in every way to counteract their influence. It had been the aim of Bishop Balsham, in the first instance, to endeavour to bring about a kind of fusion between the old and the new elements in university life, between the Regulars and the Seculars. But this first effort was not fortunate. About the year 1280 he introduced a body of secular scholars into the ancient Hospital of S. John. This Hospital of the Brethren of S. John the Evangelist had been founded, in the year of 1135, by Henry Frost, a wealthy and charitable burgess of the city, and placed under the management of a body of regular canons of the Augustinian Order. At a somewhat later time, Bishop Eustace, the fifth Bishop of Ely, added largely by his benefactions to the importance of the house. It was he who appropriated to the hospital the Church of S. Peter, without the Trumpington Gate. Hugh of Northwold, the eighth bishop, is said, at least by one authority, to have placed some secular scholars there, who devoted themselves to academical study rather than to the services of the Church, and he certainly obtained for the Hospital certain exemptions from taxation in connection with their two hostels near S. Peter's Church. The endowment of the secular students was still further cared for by Bishop Hugh de Balsham. In the preamble to certain letters patent of Edward I. (1280) authorising the settlement, the Bishop, after a wordy comparison, in mediæval phrase, of King Edward's wisdom with that of King Solomon, is credited with the intention of introducing "into the dwelling place of the secular brethren of his Hospital of S. John studious scholars who shall in everything live together as students in the University of Cambridge, according to the rule of the scholars of Oxford who are called of Merton."[25] This document fixes the date of the royal license, on which there can be little doubt that action was immediately taken. The change of system was most unpalatable to the original foundationers and led to unappeasable dissension. The regulars, it may be conjectured, were absorbed in their religious services and in the performance of the special charitable offices of the Hospital; while the scholars were, doubtless, eager to be instructed in the Latin authors, in the new Theology, in the civil and the canon law, perhaps in the "new Aristotle," which at this time was beginning to excite so much enthusiasm among western scholars. Anyhow, the two elements were too dissimilar to combine. Differences arose, feuds and jealousies sprang up, and eventually the good bishop found himself under the necessity of separating the Ely scholars from the Brethren of the Hospital. This he did by transplanting the scholars to the two hostels (_hospicia_) adjoining the Church of S. Peter, without the Trumpington Gate, assigning to them the Church itself and certain revenues belonging to it, inclusive of the tithes of the church mills. This was in the year 1284, and marks the foundation of Peterhouse as the earliest of Cambridge colleges. The Hospital of S. John, thus freed from the scholarly element, went quietly on its career, to become, as we shall see later, the nucleus of the great foundation of S. John's College. It may have been a disappointment to Bishop Hugh that he had not been able to fuse together the two dissimilar elements--"the scholars too wise, and the brethren possibly over-good"--in one corporation. But, as Baker, the historian of S. John's College, has said: "Could he but have foreseen that this broken and imperfect society was to give birth to two great and lasting foundations, he would have had much joy in his disappointment." In the year 1309 the new foundation of "the Scholars of the Bishops of Ely" obtained certain adjoining property hitherto occupied by the Friars of the Sack (_De Penetentia Jesu_), an Order doomed to extinction by the Council of Lyons in 1274. Its slender resources were further added to on the death of its founder by his bequest of 300 marks for the erection of new buildings. With this sum a considerable area to the west and south of the original hostels was acquired, and a handsome hall (_aulam perpulchram_) was built. This hall is substantially the building still in use. It was left, however, to his successor in the Bishopric of Ely, Simon Montagu (1337-1345), to give to the new college its first code of statutes. Bishop Simon, one is glad to think, did not forget the good intentions of Bishop Hugh, for in his code of statutes, dated April 1344, he thus speaks of his predecessor:-- "Desirous for the weal of his soul while he dwelt in this vale of tears, and to provide wholesomely, as far as in him lay, for poor persons wishing to make themselves proficient in the knowledge of letters, by securing to them a proper maintenance, he founded a house or College for the public good in our University of Cambridge, with the consent of King Edward and his beloved sons, the prior and chapter of our Cathedral, all due requirements of law being observed; which House he desired to be called the House of S. Peter or the Hall (_aula_) of the scholars of the Bishops of Ely at Cambridge; and he endowed it and made ordinances for it (_in aliquibus ordinavit_) so far as he was then able; but not as he intended and wished to do, as we hear, had not death frustrated his intention. In this House he willed that there should be one master and as many scholars as could be suitably maintained for the possessions of the house itself in a lawful manner."[26] There can be little doubt that the statutes which Bishop Montagu gave to the college represent the wishes of his predecessor, for the Peterhouse statutes are actually modelled on the fourth of the codes of statutes given by Merton to his college, and dated 1274. The formula "_ad instar Aulæ de Merton_" is a constantly recurring phrase in Montagu's statutes. The true principle of collegiate endowments could not be more plainly stated, and certainly these statutes may be regarded as the embodiment of the earliest conception of college life and discipline at Cambridge. A master and fourteen perpetual fellows,[27] "studiously engaged in the pursuit of literature," represent the body supported on the foundation; the "pensioner" of later times being, of course, at this period provided for already by the hostel. In case of a vacancy among the Fellows "the most able bachelor in logic" is designated as the one on whom, _cæteris paribus_, the election is to fall, the other requirement being that, "so far as human frailty admit, he be honourable, chaste, peaceable, humble, and modest." "The Scholars of Ely" were bound to devote themselves to the "study of Arts, Aristotle, Canon Law, Theology," but, as at Merton, the basis of a sound Liberal Education was to be laid before the study of theology was to be entered upon; two were to be admitted to the study of the civil and the canon law, and one to that of medicine. When any Fellow was about to "incept" in any faculty, it devolved upon the master with the rest of the Fellows to inquire in what manner he had conducted himself and gone through his exercises in the schools, how long he had heard lectures in the faculty in which he was about to incept, and whether he had gone through the forms according to the statutes of the university. The sizar of later times is recognised in the provision, that if the funds of the Foundation permit, the master and the two deacons shall select two or three youths, "indigent scholars well grounded in Latin"--_juvenes indigentes scholares in grammatica notabiliter fundatos_--to be maintained, "as long as may seem fit," by the college alms, such poor scholars being bound to attend upon the master and fellows in church, on feast days and other ceremonial occasions, to serve the master and fellows at seasonable times at table and in their rooms. All meals were to be partaken in common; but it would seem that this regulation was intended rather to conduce towards an economical management than enacted in any spirit of studied conformity to monastic life, for, adds the statute, "the scholars shall patiently support this manner of living until their means shall, under God's favour, have received more plentiful increase."[28] An interesting feature in these statutes is the regulation with regard to the distinctive dress of the student, showing how little regard was paid at this period, even when the student was a priest, to the wearing of a costume which might have been considered appropriate to the staid character of his profession. "The Students," writes Mr. Cooper,[29] "disdaining the tonsure, the distinctive mark of their order, wore their hair either hanging down on their shoulders in an effeminate manner, or curled and powdered: they had long beards, and their apparel more resembled that of soldiers than of priests; they were attired in cloaks with furred edges, long hanging sleeves not covering their elbows, shoes chequered with red and green and tippets of an unusual length; their fingers were decorated with rings, and at their waists they wore large and costly girdles, enamelled with figures and gilt; to the girdles hung knives like swords." In order to repress this laxity and want of discipline, Archbishop Stratford, at a later period in the year 1342, issued an order that no student of the university, unless he should reform his "person and apparel" should receive any ecclesiastical degree or honour. It was doubtless in reference to some such order as this that one of the statutes of Peterhouse ran to this effect:-- "Inasmuch as the dress, demeanour, and carriage of scholars are evidences of themselves, and by such means it is seen more clearly, or may be presumed what they themselves are internally, we enact and ordain, that the master and all and each of the scholars of our house shall _adopt the clerical dress and tonsure_, as becomes the condition of each, and wear it conformally in respect, as far as they conveniently can, and not allow their beard or their hair to grow contrary to canonical prohibition, nor wear rings upon their fingers for their own vain glory and boasting, and to the pernicious example and scandal of others."[30] [Illustration: Peterhouse College] "The Philosophy of Clothes," especially in its application to the mediæval universities, is no doubt an interesting one, and may even--so, at least, it is said by some authorities--throw much light upon the relations of the universities to the Church. The whole subject is discussed in some detail in the chapter on "Student Life in the Middle Ages," in Mr. Rashdall's "History of the Universities of Europe," to which, perhaps, it may be best to refer those of our readers who are desirous of tracing the various steps in the gradual evolution of modern academic dress from the antique forms. There it will be seen how the present doctor's scarlet gown was developed from the magisterial "cappa" or "cope," a sleeveless scarlet cloak, lined with miniver, with tippet and hood attached of the same material--a dress which, in its original shape, is now only to be seen in the Senate House at Cambridge, worn by the Vice-Chancellor on Degree days; how the present gown and hood of the Master of Arts and Bachelor is merely a development of the ordinary clerical dress or "tabard" of the thirteenth century, which, however, was not even exclusively clerical, and certainly not distinguished by that sobriety of hue characteristic of modern clerical tailordom--clerkly prejudice in the matter of the "tabard" running in favour of green, blue, or blood red; and how the modern "mortar-board," or square college cap,--now usurped by undergraduates, and even choristers and schoolboys--was originally the distinctive badge of a Master of Faculty, being either a square cap or "biretta," with a tuft on the top, in lieu of the very modern tassel, or a round cap or "pileum," more or less resembling the velvet caps still worn by the Yeomen of the Guard, or on very state occasions by the Cambridge or Oxford doctors in medicine or law. The picturesque dress of university students of the thirteenth century, still surviving in the long blue coat and yellow stockings, and red leather girdle and white bands of the boys of Christ's Hospital, is sufficient to show how much we have lost of the warmth and colour of mediæval life by the almost universal change to sombre black in clerical or student costume, brought about by the Puritan austerity of the sixteenth century. To return to the fabric of Bishop Hugh de Balsham's College. We have seen how a handsome hall (_aulam perpulchram_) was built with the 300 marks of the Bishop's legacy. This is substantially the building of five bays, which still exists, forming the westernmost part of the south side of the Great Court of the College. The three easternmost bays are taken up by the dining-hall or refectory, the westernmost is devoted to the buttery, the intervening bay is occupied by the screens and passage, at either end of which there still remain the original north and south doorways, interesting as being the earliest example of collegiate architecture in Cambridge. The windows of this hall on the south side date from the end of the fifteenth century. The north-east oriel window and the buttresses on the north side of the hall were added by Sir Gilbert Scott in 1870, who also built the new screen, panelling, and roof. At about the same time the hall was decorated and the windows filled with stained glass of very great beauty by William Morris. The figures represented in the windows are as follows (beginning from the west on the north side): John Whitgift, John Cosin, Rd. Tresham, Thos. Gray, Duke of Grafton, Henry Cavendish; in the oriel--Homer, Aristotle, Cicero, Hugh de Balsham, Roger Bacon, Francis Bacon, Isaac Newton; on the south side--Edward I., Queen Eleanor, Hugh de Balsham, S. George, S. Peter, S. Etheldreda, John Holbroke, Henry Beaufort, John Warkworth. After the building of this hall the College evidently languished for want of funds for more than a century. But in the fifteenth century the College began to prosper, and a good deal of building was done. The character of the work is not expressly stated in the Bursar's Rolls--of which there are some thirty-one still existing of the fifteenth century, and a fairly complete set of the subsequent centuries--but the earliest buildings of this date are probably the range of chambers forming the north and west side of the great court. The kitchen, which is immediately to the west of the hall, dates from 1450. The Fellows' parlour or combination room, completing the third side of the quadrangle, and immediately east of the dining-hall, was built some ten years later. Cole has given the following precise description of this room:-- "This curious old room joins immediately to the east end of the dining-hall or refectory, and is a ground floor called The Stone Parlour, on the south side of the Quadrangle, between the said hall and the master's own lodge. It is a large room and wainscotted with small oblong Panels. The two upper rows of which are filled with paintings on board of several of the older Masters and Benefactors to the College. Each picture has an Inscription in the corner, and on a separate long Panel under each, much ornamented with painting, is a Latin Distic." ...[31] Then follows a description of each portrait--there are thirty in all--with its accompanying distich. As an example, we may give that belonging to the portrait of Dr. Andrew Perne: Bibliothecæ Libri Redditus pulcherrima Dona Perne, pium Musiste, Philomuse, probant. _Andreas Perne, Doctor Theol. Decanus Ecclesiæ Eliensis, Magister Collegii, obiit 26 Aprilis, Anno Dom. 1573._ These panel portraits were removed from their framework in the eighteenth century, and framed and hung in the master's lodge, but have since been re-hung for the most part in the college hall, and their Latin distichs restored according to Cole's record of them. The windows of the Combination Room have been filled with stained glass by William Morris, representing ten ideal women from Chaucer's "Legend of Good Women." On the upper storey of the combination room was the master's lodge. The situation of these rooms at the upper end of the hall is almost as invariable in collegiate plans as that of the buttery and kitchen at the other end. The same may be said of that most picturesque feature of the turret staircase leading from the master's rooms to the hall, parlour, and garden, which we shall find repeated in the plans of S. John's, Christ's, Queen's, and Pembroke Colleges. About the same period (1450) the range of chambers on the north side of the court was at its easternmost end connected by a gallery with the Church of S. Mary, which remained in use as the College chapel down to the seventeenth century. This gallery, on the level of the upper floor of the College chambers, was carried on arches so as not to obstruct the entrance to the churchyard and south porch from the High Street, by a similar arrangement to that which from the first existed between Corpus Christi College and the ancient Church of S. Benedict. The Parish Church of S. Peter, without the Trumpington Gate, had from the first been used as the College Chapel of Peterhouse. Indeed, the earliest college in Cambridge was the latest to possess a private chapel of its own, which was not built until 1628. All that remains, however, of the old Church of S. Peter is a fragment of the tower, standing at the north-west corner of the present building and the arch which led from it into the church. This probably marks the west end of the old church, which, no doubt, was much shorter than the present one. It is said that this old church fell down in part about 1340, and a new church was at once begun in its place. This was finished in 1352 and dedicated to the honour of the blessed Virgin Mary. The church is a very beautiful one, though of an unusual simplicity of design. It is without aisles or any structural division between nave and chancel. It is lighted by lofty windows and deep buttresses. On the south side and at the eastern gable are rich flowing decorated windows, the tracery of which is designed in the same style, and in many respects with the same patterns, as those of Alan de Walsingham's Lady Chapel at Ely. Indeed, a comparison of the Church of Little S. Mary with the Ely Lady Chapel, not only in its general conception, but in many of its details, such as that of the stone tabernacles on the outer face of the eastern gable curiously connected with the tracery of the window, would lead a careful observer to the conclusion that both churches had been planned by the same architect. The change of the old name of the church from S. Peter to that of S. Mary the Virgin is also, in this relation, suggestive. For we must remember that it was built at a time--the age of Dante and Chaucer--when Catholic purity, in the best natures, united to the tenderness of chivalry was casting its glamour over poetic and artistic minds, and had already led to the establishment in Italy of an Order--the _Cavalieri Godenti_--pledged to defend the existence, or, more accurately perhaps, the dignity of the Virgin Mary, by the establishment everywhere throughout western Europe of Lady Chapels in her honour. Whether Alan de Walsingham, the builder of the Ely Lady Chapel, and the builder of the Church of Little S. Mary at Cambridge--if he was not Alan--belonged to this Order of the Cavaliers of S. Mary, we cannot say; but at least it seems probable that the Cambridge Church sprang from the same impulse which inspired the magnificent stone poem in praise of S. Mary, built by the sacrist of Ely. At this period Peterhouse consisted of two courts, separated by a wall occupying the position of the present arcade at the west end of the chapel. The westernmost or principal court is, save in some small details, that which we see to-day. The small eastern court next to the street has undergone great alteration by the removal of certain old dwelling-houses--possibly relics of the original hostels--fronting the street, which left an open space, occupied at a later period partly by the chapel and by the extension eastward of the buildings on the south side of the great court to form a new library, and subsequently by a similar flanking extension on the north. The earliest of these buildings was the library, due to a bequest of Dr. Andrew Perne, Dean of Ely, who was master of the College from 1553 to 1589, and who not only left to the society his own library, "supposed to be the worthiest in all England," but sufficient property for the erection of a building to contain it. Perne had gained in early life a position of importance in the University--he had been a fellow of both S. John's and of Queen's, bursar of the latter College and five times vice-chancellor of the University--but his success in life was mainly due to his pliancy in matters of religion. In Henry's reign he had publicly maintained the Roman doctrine of the adoration of pictures of Christ and the Saints; in Edward VI.'s he had argued in the University pulpit against transubstantiation; in Queen Mary's, on his appointment to the mastership of Peterhouse, he had formally subscribed to the fully defined Roman articles then promulgated; in Queen Elizabeth's he had preached a Latin sermon in denunciation of the Pope, and had been complimented for his eloquence by the Queen herself. No wonder that immediately after his death in 1589 he should be hotly denounced in the Martin Marprelate tracts as the friend of Archbishop Whitgift, and as the type of fickleness and lack of principle which the authors considered characteristic of the Established Church. Other writers of the same school referred to him as "Old Andrew Turncoat," "Old Father Palinode," and "Judas." The undergraduates of Cambridge, it is said, invented in his honour a new Latin verb, _pernare_, which they translated "to turn, to rat, to change often." It became proverbial in the University to speak of a cloak or a coat which had been turned as "perned," and finally the letters on the weathercock of S. Peter's, A.P.A.P., might, said the satirists, be interpreted as Andrew Perne, a Protestant, or Papist, or Puritan. However, it is much to be able to say that he was the tutor and friend of Whitgift, protecting him in early days from the persecution of Cardinal Pole; it is something also to remember that he was uniformly steadfast in his allegiance to his College, bequeathing to it his books, with minute directions for their chaining and safe custody, providing for their housing, and moreover, endowing two college fellowships and six scholarships; and perhaps charity might prompt us to add, that at a time when the public religion of the country changed four times in ten years, Perne probably trimmed in matters of outward form that he might be at hand to help in matters which he truly thought were really essential. The Perne Library at Peterhouse has no special architectural features of any value; its main interest in that respect is to be found in the picturesque gable-end with oriel window overhanging the street, bearing above it the date 1633, which belongs to the brickwork extension westward at that date of the original stone building. The building of the library, however, preluded a period of considerable architectural activity in the college, due largely to the energy of Dr. Matthew Wren, who was master from 1625 to 1634. It is recorded of him that "seeing the public offices of religion less decently performed, and the services of God depending upon the services of others, for want of a convenient oratory within the walls of the college," he began in 1629 to build the present chapel. It was consecrated in 1632. The name of the architect is not recorded. The chapel was connected as at present with the buildings on either side by galleries carried on open arcades. Dr. Cosin, who succeeded Wren in the mastership, continued the work, facing the chapel walls, which had been built roughly in brick, with stone. An elaborate ritual was introduced into the chapel by Cosin, who, it will be remembered, was a friend and follower of Archbishop Laud. A Puritan opponent of Cosin has written bitterly that "in Peter House Chappell there was a glorious new altar set up and mounted on steps, to which the master, fellows, and schollers bowed, and were enjoyned to bow by Dr. Cosens, the master, who set it up; that there were basons, candlesticks, tapers standing on it, and a great crucifix hanging over it ... and on the altar a pot, which they usually call the incense pot.... And the common report both among the schollers of that House and others, was that none might approach to the altar in Peter House but in sandalls."[32] It is not surprising, therefore, to read at a little later date in the diary of the Puritan iconoclast, William Dowsing:-- "We went to Peterhouse, 1643, Decemb. 21, with officers and souldiers and ... we pulled down 2 mighty great Angells with wings and divers others Angells and the 4 Evangelists and Peter, with his keies, over the Chapell dore and about a hundred chirubims and Angells and divers superstitious Letters...." These to-day are all things of the past. The interior of the Chapel is fitted partly with the genuine old mediæval panelling, possibly brought from the parochial chancel of Little S. Mary's, or from its disused chantries, now placed at the back of the stalls and in front of the organ gallery, partly with oakwork, stalls and substalls, in the Jacobæan style. The present altar-piece is of handsome modern wainscot. The entrance door is mediæval, probably removed from elsewhere to replace the doorway defaced by Dowsing. The only feature in the chapel which can to-day be called--and that only by a somewhat doubtful taste--"very magnifical," is the gaudy Munich stained-glass work inserted in the lateral windows, as a memorial to Professor Smythe, in 1855 and 1858. The subjects are, on the north side, "The Sacrifice of Isaac," "The Preaching of S. John the Baptist," "The Nativity"; and on the south side, "The Resurrection," "The Healing of a Cripple by SS. Peter and John," "S. Paul before Agrippa and Festus." The east window, containing "The History of Christ's Passion," is said by Blomefield to have been "hid in the late troublesome times in the very boxes which now stand round the altar instead of rails." CHAPTER V THE COLLEGES OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY "High potentates and dames of royal birth And mitred fathers in long order go."--GRAY. The Fourteenth Century an Age of Great Men and Great Events but not of Great Scholars--Petrarch and Richard of Bury--Michael House--The King's Scholars--King's Hall--Clare Hall--Pembroke College--Gonville Hall--Dr. John Caius--His Three Gates of Humility, Virtue, and Honour. The dates of the foundation of the two Colleges, Clare and Pembroke, which, after an interval of some fifty and seventy years respectively, followed that of Peterhouse, and the names of Lady Elizabeth, Countess of Clare, and of Marie de Valence, Countess of Pembroke, who are associated with them, remind us that we have reached that troublous and romantic time which marked the close of the long and varied reign of the Great Edward, and was the seed-time of those influences which ripened during the longer and still more varied reign of Edward III. Between the year 1326, which was the date of the first foundation of Clare College, the date also of the deposition and murder of Edward II., and the year 1348, which is the date of the foundation of Pembroke and the twenty-first year of Edward III., the distracted country had passed through many vicissitudes. It had seen the great conflict of parties under the leadership of the great houses of Lancaster, Gloucester, and Pembroke, culminating in the king's deposition and in the rise of the power of the English Parliament, and in its division into the two Houses of Lords and Commons. It had seen the growth of the new class of landed gentry, whose close social connection with the baronage on the one hand, and of equally close political connection with the burgesses on the other, had welded the three orders together, and had given to the Parliament that unity of action and feeling on which its powers have ever since mainly depended. It had seen the Common Law rise into the dignity of a science and rapidly become a not unworthy rival of Imperial Jurisprudence. It had seen the close of the great interest of Scottish warfare, and the northern frontier of England carried back to the old line of the Northumbrian kings. It had seen the strife with France brought to what at the moment seemed to be an end, for the battle of Crecy, at which the power of the English chivalry was to teach the world the lesson which they had learned from Robert Bruce thirty years before at Bannockburn, was still in the future, as also was the Hundred Years' War of which that battle was the prelude. It had seen the scandalous schism of the Western Church, and the vision of a Pope at Rome, and another Pope at Avignon, awakening in the mind of the nations an entirely new set of thoughts and feelings with regard to the position of both the Papacy and the Church. The early fourteenth century was indeed an age of great events and of great men; but it was not an age, at least as far as England was concerned, of great scholars. There was no Grosseteste in the fourteenth century. Petrarch, the typical man of letters, the true inspirer of the classical Renaissance, and in a sense the founder of really modern literature, was a great scholar and humanist, but he had no contemporary in England who could be called an equal or a rival. His one English friend, Richard of Bury, Bishop of Durham, book lover as he was--for his _Philobiblon_ we all owe him a debt of gratitude--was after all only an ardent amateur and no scholar. When Petrarch had applied to Richard for some information as to the geography of the Thule of the ancients, the Bishop had put him off with the statement that he had not his books with him, but would write fully on his return home. Though more than once reminded of his promise, he left the disappointed poet without an answer. The fact was, that Richard was not so learned that he could afford to confess his ignorance. He corresponds, in fact, to the earlier humanists of Italy--men who collected manuscripts and saw the possibilities of learning, though they were unable to attain to it themselves. There is much in his _Philobiblon_ of the greatest interest, as, for example, his description of the means by which he had collected his library at Durham College, and his directions to students for its careful use, but despite his own fervid love and somewhat rhetorical praise of learning, there is still a certain personal pathos in the expression of his own impatience with the ignorance and superficiality of the younger students of his day. Writing in the _Philobiblon_ of the prevalent characteristics of Oxford at this time, he writes:-- "Forasmuch as (the students) are not grounded in their first rudiment at the proper time, they build a tottering edifice on an insecure foundation, and then when grown up they are ashamed to learn that which they should have acquired when of tender years, and thus must needs even pay the penalty of having too hastily vaulted into the possession of authority to which they had no claim. For these and like reasons, our young students fail to gain by their scanty lucubrations that sound learning to which the ancients attained, however they may occupy honourable posts, be called by titles, be invested with the garb of office, or be solemnly inducted into the seats of their seniors. Snatched from their cradle and hastily weaned, they get a smattering of the rules of Priscian and Donatus; in their teens and beardless they chatter childishly concerning the Categories and the Perihermenias in the composition of which Aristotle spent his whole soul."[33] It is to be feared that the decline of learning, which at this period was characteristic, as we thus see, of Oxford, was equally characteristic of Cambridge. Certainly there was no scholar there of the calibre of William of Ockham, or even of Richard of Bury, or of the Merton Realist, Bradwardine, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. It is not indeed until more than a century later when we have reached the age of Wycliffe, the first of the reformers and the last of the schoolmen, that the name of any Cambridge scholar emerges upon the page of history. [Illustration: Clare College and Bridge] But meanwhile the collegiate system of the University was slowly being developed. Some forty years after the foundation of Peterhouse, in the year 1324, Hervey de Stanton, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Canon of Bath and Wells, obtained from Edward II. permission to found at Cambridge the College of "the Scholars of St. Michael." The college itself, Michaelhouse, has long been merged in the great foundation of Trinity, but its original statutes still exist and show that they were conceived in a somewhat less liberal spirit than that of the code of Hugh de Balsham. The monk and the friar are excluded from the society, but the Rule of Merton is not mentioned. Two years afterwards, in 1326, we find thirty-two scholars known as the "King's Scholars" maintained at the University by Edward II. It seems probable that it had been the intention of the King in this way to encourage the study of the civil and the canon law, for books on these subjects were presented by him, presumably for the use of the scholars, to Simon de Bury their warden, and were subsequently taken away at the command of Queen Isabella. The King had also intended to provide a hall of residence for these "children of our chapel," but the execution of this design of establishing a "King's Hall" was left to his son Edward III. The poet Gray, in his "Installation Ode," has represented Edward III.-- "Great Edward with the lilies on his brow, From haughty Gallia torn," in virtue of his foundation of King's Hall, which was subsequently absorbed in the greater society, as the founder of Trinity College. But the honour evidently belongs with more justice to his father. It was, however, by Edward III. that the Hall was built near the Hospital of S. John, "to the honour of God, the Blessed Virgin, and all the Saints, and for the soul of the Lord Edward his father, late King of England, of famous memory, and the souls of Philippa, Queen of England, his most dear consort, and of his children and progenitors."[34] The statutes of King's Hall give an interesting contemporary picture of collegiate life. The preamble moralises upon "the unbridled weakness of humanity, prone by nature and from youth to evil, ignorant how to abstain from things unlawful, easily falling into crime." It is required that each scholar on his admission be proved to be of "good and reputable conversation." He is not to be admitted under fourteen years of age. His knowledge of Latin must be such as to qualify him for the study of logic, or of whatever other branch of learning the master shall decide, upon examination of his capacity, he is best fitted to follow. The scholars were provided with lodging, food, and clothing. The sum allowed for the weekly maintenance of a King's scholar was fourteen pence, an unusually liberal allowance for weekly commons, suggesting the idea that the foundation was probably designed for students of the wealthier class, an indication which is further borne out by the prohibitions with respect to the frequenting of taverns, the introduction of dogs within the College precincts, the wearing of short swords and peaked shoes (_contra honestatem clericalem_), the use of bows, flutes, catapults, and the oft-repeated exhortation to orderly conduct. Following upon the establishment of Michaelhouse and King's Hall, in the year 1326 the University in its corporate capacity obtained a royal licence to settle a body of scholars in two houses in Milne Street. This college was called University Hall, a title already adopted by a similar foundation at Oxford. The Chancellor of the University at the time was a certain Richard de Badew. The foundation, however, did not at first meet with much success. In 1336 its revenues were found insufficient to support more than ten scholars. In 1338, however, we find Elizabeth de Burgh, Countess of Clare and granddaughter of Edward I., coming to the help of the struggling society. By the death of her brother, the Earl of Gloucester, at the battle of Bannockburn, leaving no issue, the whole of a very princely estate came into the possession of the Lady Clare and her two sisters. Having, by a deed dated 6th April 1338, received from Richard de Badew, who therein calls himself "Founder, Patron, and Advocate of the House called the Hall of the University of Cambridge," all the rights and titles of University Hall, the Lady Clare refounded it, and supplied the endowments which hitherto it had lacked. The name of the Hall was changed to Clare House (_Domus de Clare_). As early, however, as 1346 we find it styled Clare Hall, a name which it bore down to our own times, when, by resolution of the master and fellows in 1856, it was changed to Clare College. The following preamble to the statutes of the College, which were granted in 1359, are perhaps worthy of quotation as exhibiting, in spite of its quaint confusion of the "Pearl of Great Price" with "the Candle set upon a Candlestick," the pious and withal businesslike and sensible spirit of the foundress:-- "To all the sons of our Holy Mother Church, who shall look into these pages, Elizabeth de Burgh, Lady de Clare, wishes health and remembrance of this transaction. Experience, which is the mistress of all things, clearly teaches that in every rank of life, as well temporal as ecclesiastical, a knowledge of literature is of no small advantage; which though it is searched into by many persons in many different ways, yet in a University, a place that is distinguished for the flourishing of general study, it is more completely acquired; and after it has been obtained, she sends forth her scholars who have tasted its sweets, apt and suitable men in the Church of God and in the State, men who will rise to various ranks according to the measure of their deserts. Desiring therefore, since this consideration has come over us, to extend as far as God has allowed us, for the furtherance of Divine worship, and for the advance and good of the State, this kind of knowledge which in consequence of a great number of men having been taken away by the fangs of pestilence, is now beginning lamentably to fail; we have turned the attention of our mind to the University of Cambridge, in the Diocese of Ely; where there is a body of students, and to a Hall therein, hitherto commonly called University Hall, which already exists of our foundation, and which we would have to bear the name of the House of Clare and no other, for ever, and have caused it to be enlarged in its resources out of the wealth given us by God and in the number of students; in order that the Pearl of Great Price, Knowledge, found and acquired by them by means of study and learning in the said University, may not lie hid beneath a bushel, but be published abroad; and by being published give light to those who walk in the dark paths of ignorance. And in order that the Scholars residing in our aforesaid House of Clare, under the protection of a more steadfast peace and with the advantage of concord, may choose to engage with more free will in study, we have carefully made certain statutes and ordinances to last for ever."[35] [Illustration: Clare College and Bridge.] The distinguishing characteristic of these statutes is the great liberality they show in the requirements with respect to the professedly clerical element. This, as the preamble, in fact, suggests, was the result of a desire to fill up the terrible gap caused in the ranks of the clergy by the outbreak of the Black Death, which first made its appearance in England in the year 1348, and caused the destruction of two and a half millions of the population in a single year.[36] The Scholars or Fellows are to be twenty in number, of whom six are to be in priest's orders at the time of their admission. The remaining fellows are to be selected from bachelors or sophisters in arts, or from "skilful and well-conducted" civilians and canonists, but only two fellows may be civilians, and only one a canonist. The clauses relating to the scheme of studies are, moreover, apparently intended to discourage both these branches of law. Of the further progress of the College in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries we have no record, for the archives perished in the fire which almost totally destroyed the early buildings in the year 1521. In the seventeenth century, shortly before the outbreak of the Civil War, it was proposed to rebuild the whole College, but owing to the troubles of that time it was not until the beginning of the eighteenth century, in the year 1715, that the work was finished. "The buildings are," said the late Professor Willis, "among the most beautiful, from their situation and general outline, that he could point out in the University." There is extant an amusing account of the controversy between Clare Hall and King's College, caused by the desire of the former to procure a certain piece of land for purposes of recreation on the east side of the Cam, called Butt Close, belonging to King's. Here are two of the letters which passed between the rival litigants. "_The Answer of Clare-Hall to Certaine Reasons of King's College touching Butt-Close._ "1. To the first we answer:--Iº. That y{e} annoyance of y{e} windes gathering betweene y^{e} Chappell and our Colledge is farre greater and more detriment to y^{t} Chappell, then any benefitt which they can imagine to receiue by y{e} shelter of our Colledge from wind and sunne. "2º. That y^{e} Colledge of Clare-hall being sett so neare as now it is, they will not only be sheltered from wind and sunne, but much deprived both of ayre and light. "3º. That y^{e} remove all of Clare Hall 70 feet westward will take away little or no considerable privacy from their gardens and walkes; for y{t} one of their gardens is farre remote, and y^{e} nearer fenced with a very high wall, and a vine spread upon a long frame, under which they doe and may privately walke." "_A Reply of King's Colledge to y^{e} Answer of Clare-Hall._ "1. The wind so gathering breeds no detriment to our Chappell, nor did ever putt us to any reparacions there. The upper battlements at the west end haue sometimes suffered from y^{e} wind, but y^{e} wind could not there be straightned by Clare-hall, w^{ch} scarce reacheth to y^{e} fourth part of y^{e} height. "2º. No whit at all, for our lower story hath fewer windowes y^{t} way: the other are so high y^{t} Clare-Hall darkens them not, and hath windows so large y^{t} both for light and ayre no chambers in any Coll. exceed them. "3º. The farther garden is not farre remote, being scarce 25 yards distant from their intended building; y^{e} nearer is on one side fenced with a high wall indeed, but y^{t} wall is fraudulently alleaged by them, and beside y^{e} purpose: for y^{t} wall y^{t} stands between their view and y^{e} garden is not much aboue 6 feet in height: and y^{t} we haue any vine or frame there to walke under is manifestly untrue."[37] However, the controversy was settled in favour of Clare-Hall by a letter from the King. A tradition has long prevailed that Clare-Hall was the College mentioned by the poet Chaucer in his "Reeve's Tale," in the lines-- "And nameliche ther was a greet collegge, Men clepen the Soler-Halle at Cantebregge." There appears, however, to be good reason for thinking that the Soler Hall was in reality Garrett Hostel, a _soler_ or sun-chamber being the equivalent of a garret. For the tradition also that Chaucer himself was a Clare man there is no authority. The College may well be satisfied with the list of authentic names of great men which give lustre to the roll of its scholars--Hugh Latimer, the reformer and fellow-martyr of Ridley; Nicholas Ferrar, the founder of the religious community of Little Gidding; Wheelock, the great Saxon and oriental scholar; Ralph Cudworth, leader of the Cambridge Platonists; Archbishop Tillotson and his pupil the philosopher, Thomas Burnett; Whiston, the translator of "Josephus"; Cole, the antiquary; Maseres, the lawyer and mathematician. The foundation of Pembroke College, like that of Clare Hall, was also due to the private sorrow of a noble lady. The poet Gray, himself a Pembroke man, in the lines of his "Installation Ode," where he commemorates the founders of the University-- "All that on Granta's fruitful plain Rich streams of royal bounty poured," speaks of this lady as "...sad Chatillon on her bridal morn, That wept her bleeding love." [Illustration: Pembroke College.] This is in allusion to the somewhat doubtful story thus told by Fuller-- "Mary de Saint Paul, daughter to Guido Castillion, Earl of S. Paul in France, third wife to Audomare de Valentia, Earl of Pembroke, maid, wife, and widow all in a day (her husband being unhappily slain at a tilting at her nuptials), sequestered herself on that sad accident from all worldly delights, bequeathed her soul to God, and her estate to pious uses, amongst which this is principal, that she founded in Cambridge the College of Mary de Valentia, commonly called Pembroke Hall." [Illustration: Pembroke College] All that authentic history records is that the Earl of Pembroke died suddenly whilst on a mission to the Court of France in June 1324. His widow expended a large part of her very considerable fortune both in France and England on works of piety. In 1342 she founded the Abbey of Denny in Cambridgeshire for nuns of the Order of S. Clare. The Charter of Foundation of Pembroke College is dated 9th June 1348. It is to be regretted that the earliest Rule given to the College, or to the _Aula seu Domus de Valence Marie_, the Hall of Valence Marie, as it was at first called, is not extant. A revised rule of the conjectural date of 1366, and another of perhaps not more than ten years later, furnished, however, the data upon which Dr. Ainslie, Master of the College from 1828 to 1870, drew up an abstract of its constitution and early history.[38] The most interesting feature of this constitution is the provision made in the first instance for the management of the College by the Franciscans, and its abolition on a later revision. According to the first code--"the head of the College was to be elected by the fellows, and to be distinguished by the title of the Keeper of the House." There were to be annually elected two rectors, _the one a Friar Minor_, the other a secular. This provision of the two rectors was abolished in the later code, and with it apparently all official connection between the College and the Franciscan Order, and it may be perhaps conjectured all association also with the sister foundation at Denny, concerning which the foundress, in her final _Vale_ of the earlier code, had given to the fellows of the House of Valence Marie the following quaint direction, that "on all occasions they should give their best counsel and aid to the Abbess and Sisters of Denny, who had from her a common origin with them." [Illustration: Pembroke College Oriels & Entrance] The exact date at which the building of the College was begun is not known, but it was probably not long after the purchase of the site in 1346. Many of the original buildings which remained down to 1874 were destroyed in the reconstruction of the College at that time. It is now only possible to imagine many of the most picturesque features of that building, of which Queen Elizabeth, on her visit to Cambridge in 1564, enthusiastically exclaimed in passing, "_O domus antiqua et religiosa!_" by consulting the print of the College published by Loggan about 1688. Of the interesting old features still left, we have the chapel at the corner of Trumpington Street and Pembroke Street, built in 1360 and refaced in 1663, and the line of buildings extending down Pembroke Street to the new master's lodge and the Scott building of modern date. The old chapel has been used as a library since 1663, when the new chapel, whose west end abuts on Trumpington Street, was built by Sir Christopher Wren. The cloister, called Hitcham's Cloister, which joins the Wren Chapel to the fine old entrance gateway, and the Hitcham building[39] on the south side of the inner court, are dated 1666 and 1659 respectively. All the rest of the College is modern. The early foundation of Pembroke College had some connection, as we have seen, with the Franciscan Order. The early foundation of Gonville Hall, which followed that of Pembroke in 1348, had a somewhat similar connection with the Dominicans. Edward Gonville, its founder, was vicar-general of the diocese of Ely, and rector of Ferrington and Rushworth in Norfolk. In that county he had been instrumental in causing the foundation of a Dominican house at Thetford. Two years before his death he settled a master and two fellows in some tenements he had bought in Luteburgh Lane, now called Free School Lane, on a site almost coinciding with the present master's garden of Corpus, and gave to his college the name of "the Hall of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin." But he died in 1351, and left the completion of his design to his executor, Bishop Bateman of Norwich. Bateman removed Gonville Hall to the north-west corner of its present site, adjoining the "Hall of the Holy Trinity," which he was himself endowing at the same period. However, he too died within a few years, leaving both foundations immature. The statutes of both halls are extant, and exhibit an interesting contrast of ideal--the one that of a country parson of the fourteenth century, moved by the simple desire to do something for the encouragement of learning, and especially of theology, in the men of his own profession--the other that of a Bishop, a learned canonist and busy man of state, long resident at the Papal court at Avignon, regarded by the Pope as "the flower of civilians and canonists," desirous above all things by his College foundation of recruiting the ranks of his clergy, thinned by the Black Death, with men trained, as he himself had been, in the canon and civil law. It was the Bishop's ideal that triumphed. Gonville's statutes requiring an almost exclusively theological training for his scholars were abolished, and the course of study in the two halls assimilated, Bateman, as founder of the two societies, by a deed dated 1353, ratifying an agreement of fraternal affection and mutual help between the two societies, as "scions of the same stock"; assigning, however, the precedence to the members of Trinity Hall, "_tanquam fratres primo geniti_."[40] The fellows were by this agreement bound to live together in amity like brothers, to take counsel together in legal and other difficulties, to wear robes or cloaks of the same pattern, and to consort together at academic ceremonies. Thus Gonville Hall was fairly started on its way. It ranked from the first as a small foundation, and though it gradually added to its buildings and acquired various endowments, it did not materially increase its area for two centuries. The ancient walls of its early buildings--its chapel, hall, library, and master's lodge--are all doubtless still standing, though coated over with the ashlar placed on them in 1754. The ancient beams of the roof of the old hall are still to be seen in the attics of the present tutor's house. The upper room over the passage which leads from Gonville to Caius Court is the ancient chamber of the lodge where the early masters used to sleep, very little changed. The old main entrance to the College was in Trinity Lane, a thoroughfare so filthy in the reign of Richard II. that the King himself was appealed to, in order to check the "_horror abominabilis_" through which students had to plunge on their way to the schools. From time to time new benefactors of the College came, though for the most part of a minor sort; some of whom, however, have left quaint traces behind them. Of such was a certain Cluniac monk, John Household by name, a student in 1513, who in his will dated 1543 thus bequeaths--"To the College in Cambrydge called Gunvyle Hall, my longer table-clothe, my two awter (altar) pillows, with their bears of black satten bordered with velvet pirled with goulde: also a frontelet with the salutation of Our Lady curely wroughte with goulde; and besides two suts of vestements having everythinge belonging to the adorning of a preste to say masse: the one is a light greene having white ends, and the other a duned Taphada," whatever that may be. He also leaves his books, "protesting that whatsoever be founde in my bookes I intend to dye a veray Catholical Christen man, and the King's letheman and trewe subjecte." This might seem to speak well, perhaps, for the catholicity of the College in the thirty-fourth year of Henry VIII., and yet thirteen years earlier Bishop Nix of Norwich had written to Archbishop Warham: "I hear no clerk that hath come out lately of Gunwel Haule but saverith of the frying panne, though he speak never so holely." Anyhow about this time the College became notorious as a hotbed of reformed opinions. It was, however, at this time also that a young student was trained within its walls, who, after a distinguished career at Cambridge--it would be an anachronism to call him senior wrangler, but his name stands first in that list which afterwards developed into the Mathematical Tripos--passed to the university of Padua to study medicine under the great anatomist, Vesalius, ultimately becoming a professor there, and returning to England, and to medical practice in London, and having presumably amassed a fortune in the process, formed the design of enlarging what he pathetically describes as "that pore house now called Gonville Hall." On September 4, 1557, John Caius obtained the charter for his new foundation, and the ancient name of Gonville Hall was changed to that of Gonville and Caius College. In the following year the new benefactor was elected Master, and the remaining years of his life were spent, on the one hand, in quarrelling with Fellows about "College copes, vestments, albes, crosses, tapers ... and all massynge abominations;" and, on the other, in designing and carrying out those noble architectural additions to the College which give to the buildings of Caius College their chief interest. [Illustration: Gate of Honour & Gate of Virtue Caius College] "In his architectural works," says Mr. Atkinson, "Caius shews practical common sense combined with the love of symbolism. His court is formed by two ranges of building on the east and west, and on the north by the old chapel and lodge. To the south the court is purposely left open, and the erection of buildings on this side is expressly forbidden by one of his statutes, lest the air from being confined within a narrow space should become foul. The same care is shewn in another statute which imposes on any one who throws dirt or offal into the court, or who airs beds or bedlinen there, a fine of three shillings and fourpence. In his will also he requires that 'there be mayntayned a lustie and healthie, honest, true, and unmarried man of fortie years of age and upwardes to kepe cleane and swete the pavementes.'"[41] The love of Dr. Caius for symbolism is shown most conspicuously in his design of the famous three Gates of Humility, of Virtue, and of Honour, which were intended to typify, by the increasing richness of their design, the path of the student from the time of his entrance to the College, to the day when he passed to the schools to take his Degree in Arts. The Gate of Humility was a simple archway with an entablature supported by pilasters, forming the new entrance to the College from Trinity Street, or as it was then called, High Street, immediately opposite St. Michael's Church. On the inside of this gate there was a frieze on which was carved the word HUMILITATIS. From this gate there led a broad walk, bordered by trees, much in the fashion of the present avenue entrance to Jesus College, to the Gate of Virtue, a simple and admirable gateway tower in the range of the new buildings, forming the eastern side of the court, still known as Caius Court. "The word VIRTUTIS is inscribed on the frieze above the arch on the eastern side, in the spandrils of which are two female figures leaning forwards. That on the left holds a leaf in her left hand, and a palm branch in her right; that on the right a purse in her right hand, and a cornucopia in her left. The western side of this gate has on its frieze, 'IO. CAIUS POSUIT SAPIENTIÆ, 1567,' an inscription manifestly derived from that on the foundation stone laid by Dr. Caius. Hence this gate is sometimes described as the Gate of Wisdom, a name which has however no authority. In the spandrils on this side are the arms of Dr. Caius."[42] In the centre of the south wall, forming the frontage to Schools Street, stands the Gate of Honour. It is a singularly beautiful and picturesque composition, "built of squared hard stone wrought according to the very form and figure which Dr. Caius in his lifetime had himself traced out for the architect."[43] It was not built until two years after Caius' death, that is about the year 1575. It is considered probable that the architect was Theodore Havens of Cleves, who was undoubtedly the designer of "the great murall diall" over the archway leading into Gonville Court, and of the column "wrought with wondrous skill containing 60 sun-dialls ... and the coat armour of those who were of gentle birth at that time in the College," standing in the centre of Caius Court, and of the "Sacred Tower," on the south side of the Chapel, all since destroyed. Beautiful as the Gate of Honour still remains, it must have had a very different appearance when it left the architect's hand. Many of its most interesting features have wholly vanished. Among the illustrations to Willis and Clark's "History" there is an interesting attempt to restore the gateway with all its original details. At each angle, immediately above the lowest cornice, there was a tall pinnacle. Another group of pinnacles surrounded the middle stage, one at each corner of the hexagonal tower. On each face of the hexagon there was a sun-dial, and "at its apex a weathercock in the form of a serpent and dove." In the spandrils of the arch next the court are the arms of Dr. Caius, on an oval shield, "two serpents erect, their tails nowed together," and "between them a book." On the frieze is carved the word HONORIS. The whole of the stonework was originally painted white, and some parts, such as the sun-dials, the roses in the circular panels, and the coats-of-arms, were brilliant with colour and gold. The last payment for this "painting and gilding" bears date 1696 in the Bursar's book. Dr. Caius died in 1573, and was buried in the Chapel. On his monument are inscribed two short sentences--_Vivit post funera virtus_ and _Fui Caius_. [Illustration: Caius College The Gate of Honour] And so we may leave him and his College, and also perhaps fitly end this chapter with the kindly words with which Fuller commends to posterity the memory of this great College benefactor:-- "Some since have sought to blast his memory by reporting him a papist; no great crime to such who consider the time when he was born, and foreign places wherein he was bred: however, this I dare say in his just defence, he never mentioneth protestants but with due respect, and sometimes occasionally doth condemn the superstitious credulity of popish miracles. Besides, after he had resigned his mastership to Dr. Legg, he lived fellow-commoner in the College, and having built himself a little seat in the chapel, was constantly present at protestant prayers. If any say all this amounts but to a lukewarm religion, we leave the heat of his faith to God's sole judgment, and the light of his good works to men's imitation."[44] CHAPTER VI THE COLLEGE OF THE CAMBRIDGE GUILDS "The noblest memorial of the Cambridge gilds consists of the College which was endowed by the munificence of St. Mary's Gild and the Corpus Christi Gild: it perpetuates their names in its own.... In other towns the gilds devoted their energies to public works of many kinds--to maintaining the sea-banks at Lynn, to sustaining the aged at Coventry, and to educating the children at Ludlow. In embarking on the enterprise of founding a College, the Cambridge men seem, however, to stand alone; we can at least be sure that the presence of the University here afforded the conditions which rendered it possible for their liberality to take this form."--CUNNINGHAM. Unique Foundation of Corpus Christi College--The Cambridge Guilds--The influence of "the Good Duke"--The Peasant Revolt--Destruction of Charters--"Perish the skill of the Clerks!"--The Black Death--Lollardism at the Universities--The Poore Priestes of Wycliffe. "Here at this time were two eminent guilds or fraternities of towns-folk in Cambridge, consisting of brothers and sisters, under a _chief_ annually chosen, called an alderman. "The Guild of Corpus Christi, keeping their prayers in St. Benedict's Church. "The Guild of the Blessed _Virgin_, observing their offices in St. Mary's Church. "Betwixt these there was a zealous emulation, which of them should amortize and settle best maintenance for such chaplains to pray for the souls of those of their brotherhood. Now, though generally in those days the stars outshined the sun; I mean more honour (and consequently more wealth) was given to saints than to Christ himself; yet here the Guild of Corpus Christi so outstript that of the Virgin Mary in endowments, that the latter (leaving off any further thoughts of contesting) desired an union, which, being embraced, they both were incorporated together. 2. Thus being happily married, they were not long issueless, but a small college was erected by their united interest, which, bearing the name of both parents, was called the College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Mary. However, it hath another working-day name, commonly called (from the adjoined church) Benet College; yet so, that on festival solemnities (when written in Latin, in public instruments) it is termed by the foundation name thereof."[45] So picturesquely writes Thomas Fuller of the Foundation of Corpus Christi College. The colleges of Cambridge owe their foundation to many and various sources. We have already seen two of the most ancient tracing their origin to the liberality and foresight of wise bishops, two others to the widowed piety of noble ladies, one to the unselfish goodness of a parish priest. Later we shall find the stately patronage of kings and queens given to great foundations, and on the long roll of university benefactors we shall have to commemorate the names of great statesmen and great churchmen, philosophers, scholars, poets, doctors, soldiers, "honoured in their generation and the glory of their days." One college, however, there is which has a unique foundation, for it sprang, in the first instance, from that purest fount of true democracy, the spirit of fraternal association for the protection of common rights and of mutual responsibility for the religious consecration of common duties, by which the Cambridge aldermen and burgesses in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were striving by their guild life, to cherish those essential qualities of the English character--personal independence and faith in law-abidingness--which lie at the root of all that is best in our modern civilisation, and were undoubtedly characteristic of the English people in the earliest times of which history has anything to tell us. The history of the guild life of Cambridge is one of unusual interest. The story breaks off far oftener than we could wish, but in the continuity of its religious guild history Cambridge holds a very important place, second only perhaps to that of Exeter. All the Cambridge guilds of which we know anything seem to have been essentially religious guilds, so prominent throughout their history remained their religious object. It is only indeed in connection with one of the earliest of which we have any record, the guild of Cambridge Thegns in the eleventh century, associated in devotion to S. Etheldreda, the foundress saint of Ely, that we find any secular element. That Guild does indeed offer to its members a secular protection of which the later guilds of the thirteenth century knew nothing, for they were religious guilds pure and simple. It is true that in the first charter of King John, dated 8th Jan. 1201, there appears to be a confirmation to the burgesses of Cambridge of a _guild merchant_ granting to them certain secular rights of toll. But there does not appear to be any historical evidence to show that the Guild Merchant of Cambridge ever took definite shape, or stood apart in any way from the general body of burgesses. King John's charter simply secured to the town those liberties and franchises which all the chief boroughs of England enjoyed at the beginning of the thirteenth century.[46] [Illustration: The Churches of S. Edward & St. Mary--the Great from Peas Hill] The first religious guild of which we have any record is the Guild of the Holy Sepulchre, known to us only by an isolated reference in the history of Ramsey Abbey, which tells us of a fraternity existing in 1114-36, whose purpose was the building of a Minster in honour of God and the Holy Sepulchre, and which resulted in the erection of the Cambridge Round Church. Of Cambridge guild life we hear nothing more until the reign of Edward I., when we find record of certain conveyances of land being made to the Guild of S. Mary. From the first this guild is closely associated with Great S. Mary's Church, the University Church of to-day, the Church of S. Mary at Market, as it was called in the early days. The members of it were called the alderman, brethren and sisters of S. Mary's Guild belonging to the Church of the Virgin. Its benefactors direct that should the guild cease, the benefaction shall go to the celebration of Our Lady Mass in her Church. The underlying spirit, however, whatever may have been the superstitious ritual connected with the organisation, was very much the same as that of the English Friendly Society of to-day. "Let all share the same lot," ran one of the statutes; "if any misdo, let all bear it." "For the nourishing of brotherly love,"--so the members of another society took the oath of loyalty--"they would be good and true loving brothers to the fraternity, helping and counselling with all their power if any brother that hath done his duties well and truly come or fall to poverty, as God them help." "The purpose of S. Mary's Gild was primarily the provision of prayers for the members. The 'congregation' of brethren, sometimes brethren and sisters, met at irregular intervals, to pass ordinances and to elect officers. In 1300 they agree to attend S. Mary's Church on Jan. 2, to celebrate solemn mass for dead members. The penalty for absence was half a pound of wax, consumed no doubt in the provision of gild lights before the altar of Our Lady. Richard Bateman and his wife, in their undated grant, made the express condition that in return they should receive daily prayers for the health of their souls.... In the year 1307 ... the gild passed an ordinance directing the gild chaplains to celebrate two trentals of masses (60 in all) for each dead brother. If the deceased left anything in his will to the gild, then as the alderman might appoint, the chaplains should do more or less celebration according to the amount bequeathed to the gild. The rule is naïve, but its spirit is unpleasing. Individualism has thrust itself in where it seems very much out of place. The enrolment of the souls of the dead further witnesses to the purely religious character of the gild, and the purchase of a missal should also be noticed."[47] The minutes and bede roll of the guild, which have lately been published by the Cambridge Antiquarian Society, show that the association continued to flourish down to the time of the Great Plague. On its bede roll we find such names as those of Richard Hokyton, vicar of the Round Church; of "Alan Parson of Seint Beneytis Chirche"; of Warinus Bassingborn, High Sheriff of Cambridgeshire in 1341; of Walter Reynald, Chancellor of the University and Archbishop of Canterbury, who died in 1327; and of Richard of Bury, Bishop of Durham, and author of the _Philobiblon_, who died in 1345. In 1352, on "account of poverty," the Guild, by Royal Charter, was allowed to coalesce with the Guild of Corpus Christi, for the purpose of founding a college. Of this latter guild we have no earlier record than 1349, three years only before the date of union with S. Mary's. Its minute-book, however, which begins in 1350, shows it to have been at that time a flourishing institution. It had probably been founded, like that which bore the same dedication at York, for the purpose of conducting the procession on the Feast of Corpus Christi on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, a festival instituted about 1264. There are no existing bede rolls of the guild, and therefore no means of knowing the names of any members who entered before 1350. It appears to have been attached from the first to the ancient Church of S. Benet. The reversion of the advowson of that Church was in 1350 held by a group of men, several of whom were leading members of the guild. In 1353 the then Rector entered the guild, and "by the ordinance of his friends" resigned the Church to the Bishop "gratis," that "_the brethren_ and those who had acquired the advowson" might enter upon their possession. It is disappointing to find that there are no guild records telling of the union of S. Mary's guild with that of Corpus Christi, or of the circumstances which led to the creation of the college bearing the joint names of the two guilds. Such foundation was, as we have said, a remarkable event in the history of Cambridge collegiate life. Not that these guilds were the first or the last to take part in the endowment of education; for many of the ancient grammar schools of the country owe their origin to, or were greatly assisted by, the benefactions of religious guilds. For example, Mr. Leach in his "English Schools at the Reformation" has noted, that out of thirty-three guilds, of whose returns he treats, no less than twenty-eight were supporting grammar schools. But the foundation of a college was a more ambitious task. It has a peculiar interest also, as that of an effort towards the healing of what was, even at this time, an outstanding feud between town and gown, between city and university. The principal authority for the history of the site and buildings of the college is the _Historiola_ of Josselin, a fellow of Queen's College, and Latin secretary to Archbishop Parker. According to his narrative, the guild of Corpus Christi had begun seriously to entertain the idea of building a college as early as 1342, for about that date, he says:-- "Those brethren who lived in the parishes of S. Benedict and S. Botolph, and happened to have tenements and dwelling-houses close together in the street called Leithburne Lane, pulled them down, and with one accord set about the task of establishing a college there: having also acquired certain other tenements in the same street from the University. By this means they cleared a site for their college, square in form and as broad as the space between the present gate of entrance (_i.e._ by S. Benet's Church) and the Master's Garden."[48] The original mover in the scheme for a guild college may well have been the future master, Thomas of Eltisley, chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury and rector of Lambeth. Among the Cambridge burgesses William Horwood, the mayor, was treasurer of the Guild in 1352, and used the mayoral seal for guild purposes, because the seals of the alderman and brethren of the Guild "are not sufficiently well known." Another mayor of Cambridge about this time, Robert de Brigham, was a member of the other associated Guild of S. Mary. How the support of Henry, Duke of Lancaster--the "Good Duke," as he was called--was secured does not appear, but he is mentioned as alderman of the Guild, in the letters patent of Edward III. in 1352, establishing the College. His influence perhaps may have been gained through Sir Walter Manny, the countryman and friend of Queen Philippa, whose whole family was enrolled in the Guild. At any rate, with the enrolment of the "Good Duke" as alderman of the Guild, the success of the proposed college was secure. In 1355 the Foundation received the formal consent of the chancellor and masters of the University, of the Bishop of Ely, and of the Prior and Chapter of Ely. The College Statutes, dated in the following year, 1356, show that "the chaplain and scholars were bound to appear in S. Benet's or S. Botulph's Church at certain times, and in all Masses the chaplains were to celebrate for the health of the King and Queen Philippa and their children, and the Duke of Lancaster, and the brethren and sisters, founders and benefactors of the Guild and College," and although this perhaps, rather than the love of learning, pure and simple, was the chief aim which influenced the early founders of Corpus Christi College, the Society has in after ages held a worthy place in the history of the University, and "Benet men" have occupied positions in church and state quite equal to those of more ample foundations. Three Archbishops of Canterbury--Parker, Tennison, and Herring--have been Corpus men, one of whom, Matthew Parker, enriched it with priceless treasures, and gave to its library a unique value by the bequest of what Fuller has called "the sun of English antiquity." Indeed, if they have done nothing else, the men of the Cambridge guilds have laid all students of English history under a supreme debt of gratitude in the provision of a place where so many of the MSS. so laboriously collected by Archbishop Parker are housed and preserved. From the walls of Benet College, also, there went out many other distinguished men: statesmen, like Nicholas Bacon, the Lord Keeper of the Seal; bishops, like Thomas Goodrich and Peter Gunning, of Ely; translators of the Scriptures, like Taverner, and Huett, and Pierson; commentators on the Old Testament, like the learned and ingenious Dean Spencer of Ely, the Wellhausen of the seventeenth century; soldiers, like the brave Earl of Lindsey, who fell at Edgehill, or like General Braddock, who was killed in Ohio in the colonial war against the French; learned antiquaries, like Richard Gough; sailors, like Cavendish, the circumnavigator; poets, like Christopher Marlowe and John Fletcher. [Illustration: Corpus Christi College and S. Benedict's Church] The College as originally built consisted of one court, which still remains, and is known as "the Old Court." It still preserves much of its ancient character, and is specially interesting as being probably _the first originally planned quadrangle_. Josselin speaks of it as being "entirely finished, chiefly in the days of Thomas Eltisle, the first master, but partly in the days of Richard Treton, the second master." It consisted simply of a hall range on the south and chambers on the three other sides. The former contained at the south-east corner the master's chambers, communicating with the common parlour below, and also with the library and hall. As in most of the early colleges, both the gateway tower and the chapel were absent. The entrance was by an archway of the simplest character in the north range, opening into the southern part of the churchyard of S. Benet, and thus communicating with Free School Lane, running past the east end of the church, or northwards past the old west tower, with Benet Street. At the end of the fifteenth century two small chapels, one above the other, were built adjoining the south side of S. Benet's chancel. They were connected with the College buildings by a gallery carried on arches like that already described in connection with Peterhouse. This picturesque building still exists. S. Benet's Church was used as the College chapel down to the beginning of the seventeenth century, when a new chapel was built, mainly due to the liberality of Sir Nicholas Bacon, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. This chapel occupied nearly the same site as the western part of the present building, which took its place in 1823, as part of the scheme of buildings which gave to Corpus the large new court with frontage to Trumpington Street. The principal feature of these buildings is the new library occupying the whole of the upper floor of the range of building on the south side of the quadrangle. It is here that the celebrated collection of ancient MSS. collected by Archbishop Parker are housed. They contain, among many other treasures, the Winchester text of the "Old English Chronicle," that great national record, which at the bidding of King Alfred, in part quite probably under his own eye, was written in the scriptorium of Winchester Cathedral; ancient copies of the "Penitentiale" of Archbishop Theodore; King Alfred's translation of Pope Gregory's "Pastorale"; Matthew Paris' own copy of his "History"; a copy of "John of Salisbury" which once belonged to Thomas à Becket; the Peterborough "Psalter"; Chaucer's "Troilus," with a splendid frontispiece of 1450; a magnificent folio of Homer's "Iliad" and "Odyssey"--a note by Josselin tells how "a baker at Canterbury rescued it from among some waste paper, remaining from S. Augustine's monastery after the dissolution," and how the Archbishop welcomed it as "a monstrous treasure"; and Jerome's Latin version of the "Four Gospels," sent by Pope Gregory to Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury, "the most interesting manuscript in England." No wonder that in handing over such a priceless gift to the charge of the College, Archbishop Parker should have striven to secure its future safety by this stringent regulation set out in his Deed of Gift. " ...That nothing be wanting for their more careful preservation, the Masters of Gonville and Caius College and of Trinity Hall, or their substitutes, are appointed annual supervisors on the 6th of August; on which occasion they are to be invited to dinner with two scholars of his foundation in those colleges; when each of the former is to have 3s. 4d. and the scholars 1s. a piece for their trouble in overlooking them; at which time they may inflict a penalty of 4d. for every leaf of MS. that may be found wanting; for every sheet, 2s.; and for every printed book or MS. missing, and not restored within six months after admonition, what sum they think proper. But if 6 MSS. in folio, 8 in quarto, and 12 in lesser size, should at any time be lost through supine negligence, and not restored within 6 months, then with the consent of the Vice-Chancellor and one senior doctor, not only all the books but likewise all the plate he gave shall be forfeited and surrendered up to Gonville and Caius College within a month following. And if they should afterwards be guilty of the like neglect they are then to be delivered over to Trinity Hall, and in case of their default to revert back in the former order. Three catalogues of these books were directed to be made, whereof one was to be delivered to each College, which was to be sealed with their common seal and exhibited at every visitation." [Illustration: The Pitt Press, S. Botolph's Church, and Corpus Christie College] We have spoken of the early foundation of the Guild College as in some sense an effort on the part of the Cambridge burgesses of the fourteenth century to take some worthy share in the development of university life. Unfortunately the good feeling between town and gown was not of long duration. As the older burgesses who had been brethren of the gilds of Corpus Christi and S. Mary died off, an estrangement sprang up between the members of the college they had founded and the new generation of townsmen. The initial cause of trouble arose from the character of some of the early endowments of the College. It would seem that in addition to the many houses and tenements in the town which had been bequeathed to the College, a particularly objectional rate in the form of "candle rent" was exacted by the College authorities. It is said that so numerous were the Cambridge tenements subjected to this rate, that one-half of the houses in the town had become tributary to the College. The townsmen did not long confine themselves to mere murmuring or "passive resistance." In 1381 the populace, taking advantage of the excitement caused by the Wat Tyler rebellion, vented their animosity and unreasoning hatred of learning by the destruction of all the College books, charters, and writings, and everything that bespoke a lettered community on the Saturday next after the feast of Corpus Christi, prompted perhaps by their hatred of the pomp and display of wealth in connection with the great annual procession of the Host through the streets. The bailiffs and commonalty of Cambridge, so we read in the old record, assembled in the town hall and elected James of Grantchester their captain. "Then going to Corpus Christi College, breaking open the house and doors, they traitorously carried away the charters, writings, and muniments." On the following Sunday they caused the great bell of S. Mary's Church to be rung, and there broke open the university chest. The masters and scholars under intimidation surrendered all their charters, muniments, ordinances, and a grand conflagration ensued in the market-place. One old woman, Margaret Steere, gathered the ashes in her hands and flung them into the air with the cry, "Thus perish the skill of the clerks! away with it! away with it!" Having finished their work of destruction in the market-place, the crowd of rioters marched out to Barnwell, "doing," so Fuller tells the story, "many sacrilegious outrages to the Priory there. Nor did their fury fall on men alone, even trees were made to taste of their cruelty. In their return they cut down a curious grove called Green's Croft by the river side (the ground now belonging to Jesus College), as if they bare such a hatred to all wood they would not leave any to make gallows thereof for thieves and murderers. All these insolencies were acted just at that juncture of time when Jack Straw and Wat Tyler played Rex in and about London. More mischief had they done to the scholars had not Henry Spencer, the warlike Bishop of Norwich, casually come to Cambridge with some forces and seasonably suppressed their madness."[49] And so the story of the seven earliest of the Cambridge colleges closes in a time of social misery and of national peril. The collapse of the French war after Crecy, and the ruinous taxation of the country which was consequent upon it, the terrible plague of the Black Death sweeping away half the population of England, and the iniquitous labour laws, which in face of that depopulation strove to keep down the rate of wages in the interests of the landlords, had brought the country to the verge of a wide, universal, social, political revolution. It was no time, perhaps, in which to look for any great national advance in scholarship or learning, much less for new theories of education or of academic progress. It is not certainly in the subtle realist philosophy and the dry syllogistic Latin of the _De Dominio Divino_ of John Wycliffe, the greatest Oxford schoolman of his age, but in the virile, homely English tracts, terse and vehement, which John Wycliffe, the Reformer, wrote for the guidance of his "poore priestes" (and in which, incidentally, he made once more the English tongue a weapon of literature), that we find the new forces of thought and feeling which were destined to tell on every age of our later history. It is not in the good-humoured, gracious worldliness of the poet Chaucer--most true to the English life of his own day as is the varied picture of his "Canterbury Tales"--but in the rustic shrewdness and surly honesty of "Peterkin the Plowman" in William Langland's great satire, that we find the true "note" of English religion, that godliness, grim, earnest, and Puritan, which was from henceforth to exercise so deep an influence on the national character. But while what was good in the Lollard spirit survived, the Lollards themselves, with the death of Wycliffe and of John of Gaunt, his great friend and protector, fell upon evil times. Their revolution by force had almost succeeded. For a short time they were masters of the field. But with the passing of the immediate terror of the Peasant Revolt, the conservative forces of the state rallied to the protection of that social order, whose very existence the Lollards had, by their ferocious extravagance and frantic communism, seemed to threaten. The wiser contemporaries of this movement agreed to abandon its provocations and to consign it to oblivion or misconception. At Oxford, the Government threatened to suppress the University itself unless the Lollards were displaced. And Oxford, to outward appearance, submitted. Its Lollard chancellor was dismissed. The "poore priestes" and preachers were silenced, or departed to spread the new Gospel of the "Bible-men" across the sea. Some recanted and became bishops, cardinals, persecutors. But many remained obscure or silent and cautious. Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, speaking of Oxford, said that there were wild vines in the University, and therefore little grapes; that tares were constantly sown among the pure wheat, and that the whole University was leavened with heresy. "You cannot meet," said a monkish historian, "five people talking together but three of them are Lollards." At Cambridge, on the 16th September 1401, holding a visitation in the Congregation House, the Archbishop had privately put to the Chancellor and the Doctors ten questions with regard to the discipline of the University. One question was significant: "_Were there any_," the Archbishop asked, "_suspected of Lollardism?_" The terrible and infamous statute, "De Heretico Comburendo," had been passed in the previous year, and but a few months before the first victim of that enactment had been burnt at the stake. It is an historic saying, that "Cambridge bred the Founders of the English Reformation and that Oxford burnt them." The statement is not without its grain of truth. The Puritan Reformation of the sixteenth century found, no doubt, its strongest adherents in the eastern counties of England; but it was not so much because the scholars of Cambridge welcomed more heartily than their brothers in the western university the teaching of the scholars of Geneva, but because the people of East Anglia, two centuries before, had been saturated with the Bible teaching of the "poore priestes" of Wycliffe's school, and throughout the whole of the intervening period had secretly cherished it. For the present, however, the curtain drops on the age of the schoolmen with the death of Wycliffe. When it rises again, we shall find ourselves in the age of the New Learning. What the transition was from one time to the other, how deeply the Revival of Learning influenced the reformation of religion, we shall hear in the succeeding chapters. CHAPTER VII TWO ROYAL FOUNDATIONS "Tax not the royal saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the architect who planned, Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed scholars only--this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou can'st: high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof, Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality." --WORDSWORTH'S _Sonnet on King's College Chapel_. Henry VI.--The most pitiful Character in all English History--His devotion to Learning and his Saintly Spirit--His foundation of Eton and King's College--The Building of King's College Chapel--Its architect, Reginald of Ely, the Cathedral Master-Mason--Its relation to the Ely Lady Chapel--Its stained glass Windows--Its close Foundation--Queens' College--Margaret of Anjou and Elizabeth Wydville--The buildings of Queens'--Similarity to Haddon Hall--Its most famous Resident, Erasmus--His _Novum Instrumentum_ edited within its Walls. On the 6th of December 1421, being S. Nicolas' Day, the unhappy Henry of Windsor was born. On the 1st of September in the following year, as an infant of less than a year old, he began his reign of forty miserable years as Henry VI. There is no more pitiful character in all English history than he. Henry V., his father, had been by far the greatest king of Christendom, and England, under his rule, had rejoiced in a light which was all the brighter for the gloom that preceded and followed it. The dying energies of mediæval life sank into impotency with his death. The long reign of his son is one unbroken record of divided counsels, constitutional anarchy, civil war, national exhaustion; only too faithfully fulfilling the prophecy which his father is said to have uttered, when he was told in France of the birth of his son at Windsor: "I, Henry of Monmouth, shall gain much in my short reign, but Henry of Windsor will reign much longer and lose all; but God's will be done." "Henry VI."--I quote the pathetic words of my kinsman, the historian of the Constitution-- "Henry was perhaps the most unfortunate king who ever reigned; he outlived power and wealth and friends; he saw all who had loved him perish for his sake, and, to crown all, the son, the last and dearest of the great house from which he sprang, the centre of all his hopes, the depositary of the great Lancastrian traditions of English polity, set aside and slain. And he was without doubt most innocent of all the evils that befell England because of him. Pious, pure, generous, patient, simple, true and just, humble, merciful, fastidiously conscientious, modest and temperate, he might have seemed made to rule a quiet people in quiet times.... It is needless to say that for the throne of England in the midst of the death struggle of nations, parties, and liberties, Henry had not one single qualification."[50] [Illustration: King's Parade] And yet he did leave an impression on the hearts of Englishmen which will not readily be erased. For setting aside the fabled visions and the false miracle with which he is credited, and upon which Henry VII. relied when he pressed the claims of his predecessor for formal canonisation on Pope Julius II., it was certainly no mere anti-Lancastrian loyalty or party spirit which led the rough yeomen farmers of Yorkshire to worship before his statue on the rood-screen of their Minster and to sing hymns in his honour, or caused the Latin prayers which he had composed to be reverently handed down to the time of the Reformation through many editions of the "Sarum Hours." One enduring monument there is of his devotion to learning and of his saintly spirit, which must long keep his memory green, namely, the royal and religious foundation of the two great colleges which he projected at Eton and at Cambridge. Of Eton we need not speak. The fame of that college is written large on the page of English history. And that fame and its founder's memory we may safely leave to the "scholars of Henry" in its halls and playing fields to-day. "Christ and His Mother, heavenly maid, Mary, in whose fair name was laid Eton's corner, bless our youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth! O ye, 'neath breezy skies of June, By silver Thames' lulling tune, In shade of willow or oak, who try The golden gates of poesy; Or on the tabled sward all day Match your strength in England's play, Scholars of Henry giving grace To toil and force in game or race; Exceed the prayer and keep the fame Of him, the sorrowful king who came Here in his realm, a realm to found Where he might stand for ever crowned."[51] It was on the 12th of February 1441, when Henry of Windsor was only nineteen years old, that the first charter for the foundation of King's College, Cambridge, was signed. On the 2nd of April in the same year he laid the first stone. It is difficult to say from whence the first impulse to the patronage of learning came to the King. He had always been a precocious scholar, too early forced to recognise his work as successor to his father. Something of his uncle Duke Humfrey of Gloucester's ardent love of letters he had imbibed at an early age. No doubt, too, the Earl of Warwick, "the King's master" for eighteen years, had faithfully discharged his duty to "teach him nurture, literature, language, and other manner of cunning as his age shall suffer him to comprehend such as it fitteth so great a prince to be learned of," and had made his royal pupil a good scholar and accomplished gentleman: though perhaps he had suffered the young king's mind to take somewhat too ascetic and ecclesiastic a bent for the hard and perilous times which he had to face: a feature of his character which Shakespeare emphasises in the speech which he puts into the mouth of Margaret of Anjou, his affianced bride, in the first act of the play in which he draws the picture of the decay of England's power under the weak and saintly Lancastrian king with so masterly a pencil:-- "I thought King Henry had resembled (Pole) In courage, courtship, and proportion: But all his mind is bent to holiness, To number _Ave-Maries_ on his beads: His champions are the Prophets and Apostles: His weapons holy saws of sacred writ: His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images o' canonized saints. I would the college or the cardinals Would choose him Pope, and carry him to Rome, And set the triple crown upon his head: That were a state fit for his holiness."[52] However, the first fruits of the royal "holiness" was a noble conception. A visit to Winchester in the July of 1440, where Henry studied carefully from personal observation the working of William of Wykeham's system of education, seems to have fired him with the desire to rival that great pioneer of schoolcraft's magnificent foundations at Winchester and Oxford. The suppression of the alien priories, decreed by Parliament in the preceding reign and carried out in his own, provided a convenient means of carrying out the project. Henry V. had already appropriated their revenues for the purposes of war in France. Henry VI. proceeded to confiscate them permanently as an endowment for his college foundations. It would appear, however, that the first intention of the King had been that his two foundations should have been independent of one another, and that the connection of Eton with King's, after the manner of Winchester and New College, came rather as an afterthought and as part of a later scheme. The determination, however, that the Eton scholars should participate in the Cambridge foundation forms part of the King's scheme in the second charter of his college granted on 10th July 1443, in which he says:-- "It is our fixed and unalterable purpose, being moved thereto, as we trust, by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, that our poor scholars of our Royal foundation of S. Mary of Eton, after they have been sufficiently taught the first rudiments of grammar, shall be transferred thence to our aforesaid College of Cambridge, which we will shall be henceforth denominated our College Royal of S. Mary and S. Nicholas, there to be more thoroughly instructed in a liberal course of study, in other branches of knowledge, and other professions." [Illustration: The West Doorway King's College Chapel] The first site chosen for the College was a very cramped and inconvenient one. It had Milne Street, then one of the principal thoroughfares of the town, on the west, the University Library and schools on the east, and School Street on the north. On the south side only had it any outlet at all. A court was formed by placing buildings on the three unoccupied sides, the University buildings forming a fourth. These buildings, however, were never completely finished, except in a temporary manner, and indeed so remained until the end of the last century, when they were more or less incorporated in the new buildings of the University Library facing Trinity Hall Lane, erected by Sir Gilbert Scott in 1868. The old gateway facing Clare College, which had been begun in 1444, was at last completed from the designs of Mr. Pearson in 1890, and remains one of the most beautiful architectural gates in Cambridge. [Illustration: King's College Chapel] It very soon, however, became evident that the selected site was much too small for the projected college. Little time was lost by the earliest provost and scholars in petitioning the King to provide an ampler habitation for their needs. "The task was beset with difficulties that would have daunted a mind less firmly resolved on carrying out the end in view than the king's; difficulties indeed that would have been insuperable except by royal influence, backed by a royal purse. The ground on which King's College now stands was then densely populated. It occupied nearly the whole of the parish of S. John Baptist, whose church is believed to have stood near the west end of the chapel. Milne Street crossed the site from north to south, in a direction that may be easily identified from the two ends of the street that still remain, under the name of Trinity Hall Lane and Queen's Lane. The space between Milne Street and Trumpington Street, then called High Street, was occupied by the houses and gardens of different proprietors, and was traversed by a narrow thoroughfare called Piron Lane, leading from High Street to S. John's Church. At the corner of Milne Street and this lane, occupying the ground on which about half the ante-chapel now stands, was the small college called _God's House_, founded in 1439 by William Byngham for the study of grammar, which, as he observes in his petition to Henry VI. for leave to found it, is "the rote and ground of all other sciences." On the west side of Milne Street, between it and the river, were the hostels of S. Austin, S. Nicholas, and S. Edmund, besides many dwelling-houses. This district was traversed by several lanes, affording to the townspeople ready access to the river, and to a wharf on its bank called Salthithe. No detailed account has been preserved of the negotiations necessary for the acquisition of this ground, between six and seven acres in extent, and in the very heart of Cambridge.... The greatest offence appears to have been given by the closing of the lanes leading down to the river, which was of primary importance to mediæval Cambridge as a highway. In five years' time, however, the difficulties were all got over; the town yielded up, though not with the best grace, the portion of Milne Street required and all the other thoroughfares; the hostels were suppressed, or transferred to other sites; the Church of S. John was pulled down, and the parish united to that of S. Edward, whose church bears evidence, by the spacious aisles attached to its choir, of the extension rendered necessary at that time by the addition of the members of Clare Hall and Trinity Hall to the number of its parishioners."[53] On this splendid site of many acres, where now the silent green expanse of sunlit lawn has taken the place of the busy lanes and crowded tenements, which in Henry's time hummed with the life of a mediæval river-side city, there rises the wondrous building, the crown of fifteenth century architecture, beautiful, unique--a cathedral church in size, a college chapel in plan--seeming in its lofty majesty so solitary and so aloof, and yet so instantaneously impressive. Who was the architect of this masterpiece? The credit has commonly been given to one of two men--Nicholas Close or John Langton. Close was a man of Flemish family, and one of the original six Fellows of the College. He had for a few years been the vicar of the demolished Church of S. John Zachary. He afterwards became Bishop of Carlisle. Langton was Master of Pembroke and Chancellor of the University, and was one of the commissioners appointed by the King to superintend the scheme of the works at their commencement. But both of these men were theologians and divines. We have no evidence that they were architects. Mr. G. Gilbert Scott, in his essay on "English Church Architecture," has, however, given reasons, which seem to be almost conclusive, that the man who should really have the credit of conceiving this great work was the master-mason Reginald of Ely, who as early as 1443 was appointed by a patent of Henry VI. "to press masons, carpenters, and other workmen" for the new building. According to Mr. Scott's view, Nicholas Close and his fellow surveyors merely did the work which in modern days would be done by a building committee. It was the master-mason who planned the building, and who continued to act as architect until the works came to a standstill with the deposition of the King and the enthronement of his successor Edward IV. in 1462. Moreover, the character of the general design of King's Chapel and even its architectural details, such as the setting out of its great windows, the plan of its vaulting shafts, and the groining of the roofs of the small chapels between its buttresses, lend force to Mr. Scott's contention. It is evident from the accuracy and minuteness of the directions given in "the Will of King Henry VI." (a document which was not in reality a testament, but an expression of his deliberate purpose and design with regard to his proposed foundation), that complete working plans had been prepared by an architect. Whoever that architect may have been, he had evidently been commissioned to design a chapel of magnificence worthy of a royal foundation. And where more naturally could he look for his model for such a building as the King desired than to that chapel, the largest and the most splendid hitherto erected in England, that finest specimen of decorated architecture in the kingdom, Alan de Walsingham's Lady Chapel at Ely. The relationship between the two buildings is obvious to even an uninstructed eye, but Mr. Scott has shown how closely the original design of King's follows the Ely Lady Chapel lines. "Any one," he truly says, "who will carry up his eye from the bases of the vaulting shafts to the springing of the great vault will perceive at once that the section of the shaft does not correspond with the plan of the vault springers. There is a sort of cripple here. The shaft is, in fact, set out with seven members, while the design of the vault plan requires but five. Thus two members of the pier have nothing to do, and disappear somewhat clumsily in the capital. The section of these shafts was imposed by the first architect, and does not agree with the requirement of a fan-groin (designed by the architect of a later date).... The original sections, and the peculiar distribution of their bases, unmistakably indicate a ribbed vault, with transverse, diagonal, and intermediate ribs. Now, if we apply to the plan of these shaftings at Cambridge the plan of the vaulting at Ely, we find the two to tally precisely. Each member of the pier has its corresponding rib, in the direction of the sweep of which each member of the base is laid down. This might serve as proof sufficient, but it is not all. There exist in the church two lierne-groins of the work of the first period, those namely of the two easternmost chapels of the north range, and these are identical in principle with the great vault at Ely, and with the plan that is indicated by the distribution of the ante-chapel bases. We know then that the first designer of the church did employ lierne and not fan-vaulting, even in the small areas of the chapels, and that these liernes resemble not the later form--such as we may observe in the nave of Winchester Cathedral--but the earlier manner which is exhibited at Ely. There can, therefore, as I conceive, be no doubt that this great chapel was designed to be "chare-roofed" with such a lierne-vault--it is practically a Welsh-groin--as adorns the next grandest chapel in England only sixteen miles distant."[54] There seems little doubt then that the architect of King's Chapel was its first master-builder, Reginald of Ely, who, trained under the shadow of the great Minster buildings in that city, probably in its mason's yard, naturally took as his model for the King's new chapel at Cambridge one of the most exquisite of the works of the great cathedral builder of the previous century, Alan de Walsingham. Had the original design of Reginald been completed, several of the defects of the building, as we see it to-day, would have been avoided. The chapel vault would have been arched, and the great space which is now left between the top of the windows and the spring of the vaulting would have been avoided. Much of the heaviness of effect also, which is felt by any one studying the exterior of the chapel, and which is due to the low pitch of the window arches, rendered necessary by the alteration in the design of the great vault, would have been avoided. [Illustration: KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL _To face p. 150_] Reginald of Ely's work, however, indeed all work on the new chapel, ceased in 1461, when the battle of Towton gave the crown to the young Duke of York, and the Lancastrian colleges of his rival fell upon barren days. On the accession of Richard III. in 1483, the new king not only showed his goodwill to the College by the gift of lands, but ordered the building to go on with all despatch. In 1485, however, there commenced another period of twenty years' stagnation. Then in 1506, Henry VII., paying a visit with his mother to Cambridge, attended service in the unfinished chapel, and determined to become its patron. In the summer of 1508 more than a hundred masons and carpenters were again at work, and henceforth the building suffered no interruption. By July 1515 the fabric of the church was finished, and had cost in all, according to the present value of money, some £160,000. In November of the same year a payment of £100 is made to Barnard Flower, the King's glazier, and a similar sum in February 1517. It would seem that the same artist completed four windows, that over the north door of the ante-chapel being the earliest. Upon his death agreements were made in 1526 for the erection of the whole of the remaining twenty-two windows. They were to represent "the story of the old lawe and of the new lawe." Above and below the transome in each window are two separate pictures, each pair being divided by a "messenger," who bears a scroll with a legend giving the subject represented. In the lower tier the windows from north-west to south-west represent the Life of the Blessed Virgin, the Life of Christ, and the History of the Church as recorded in the Acts of the Apostles. The upper tier has scenes from the Old Testament or from apocryphal sources which prefigure the events recorded below. The whole of the east window is devoted to the Passion and Crucifixion of our Lord. The west window, containing a representation of the Last Judgment, is entirely modern. It was executed by Messrs. Clayton and Bell, and was erected in 1879. "A bare enumeration of the subjects, however, can give but a poor idea of these glorious paintings. What first arrests the attention is the singularly happy blending of colours, produced by a most ingenious juxta-position of pure tints. The half-tones so dear to the present generation were fortunately unknown when they were set up. Thus though there is a profusion of brilliant scarlet, and light blue, and golden yellow, there is no gaudiness. Again, all the glass admits light without let or hindrance, the shading being laid on with sparing hand, so that the greatest amount of brilliancy is insured. This is further enhanced by a very copious use of white or slightly yellow glass. It must not, however, be supposed that a grand effect of colour is all that has been aimed at. The pictures bear a close study as works of art. The figures are rather larger than life, and boldly drawn, so as to be well seen from a great distance; but the faces are full of expression and individuality, and each scene is beautiful as a composition. They would well bear reduction within the narrow limits of an easel picture.... There is no doubt that a German or Flemish influence is discernible in some of the subjects; but that is no more than might have been expected, when we consider the number of sets of pictures illustrating the life and passion of Christ that had appeared in Germany and Flanders during the half century preceding their execution.... That these windows should (at the time of the Puritan destruction of such things) have been saved is a marvel; and how it came to pass is not exactly known. The story that they were taken out and hidden, or, as one version of it says, buried, may be dismissed as an idle fabrication. More likely the Puritan sentiments of the then provost, Dr. Whichcote, were regarded with such favour by the Earl of Manchester during his occupation of Cambridge, that he interfered to save the chapel and the college from molestation."[55] [Illustration: Gateway to Old Court of King's College] The magnificent screen and rood-loft are carved with the arms, badge, and initials (H. A.) of Henry and Anne Boleyn, and with the rose, fleur-de-lis, and portcullis. Doubtless, therefore, they were erected between 1532 and 1535. The doors to the screen were renewed in 1636, and bear the arms of Charles I. The stalls were set up by Henry VIII., but they were without canopies, the wall above them being probably covered with hangings, the hooks for which may still be seen under the string-course below the windows. The stalls are in the Renaissance manner, and are the first example of that style at Cambridge. They appear to differ somewhat in character from Torregiano's works at Westminster, and to be rather French than Italian in feeling, although some portions of the figure-carving recalls in its vigour the style of Michael Angelo. The stall canopies and the panelling to the east of the stalls were the work of Cornelius Austin, and were put up about 1675. The north and south entrance doors leading to the quire and the side chapel are probably of the same date as the screen. The lectern dates from the first quarter of the sixteenth century, having been given by Robert Hacombleyn, provost, whose name it bears. As to the remaining buildings of King's College it is sufficient to say that the great quadrangle projected by the founder was never built. The old buildings at the back of the schools, hastily finished in a slight and temporary manner, continued in use until the last century. In 1723 a plan was furnished by James Gibbs for a new quadrangle, of which the chapel was to form the north side. The western range--the Gibbs building--was the only part actually built. The hall, library, provost's lodge, and several sets of rooms at each end of the hall, as well as the stone screen and the porter's lodge, were erected in 1824-28, at a cost of rather more than £100,000, from the designs of William Wilkins. A range of rooms facing Trumpington Street were added by Sir Gilbert Scott in 1870. The new court, which when completed will form a court with buildings on three sides and the river on the fourth, was commenced by Mr. Bodley in 1891. At present this third side of the court is still left open. [Illustration: King's College Quadrangle] To return, however, to the history of the foundation. It is an illustration of the way in which at this time ultramontanist theories were contending for supremacy in England, in the universities as elsewhere, that the King should have applied to the pope for a bull granting him power to make his new college not only independent of the bishop of the diocese, but also of the University authorities. Such a bull was granted, and in 1448 the University itself consented, by an instrument given under its common seal, that the College, in the matter of discipline as distinguished from instruction, should be entirely independent of the University. By the limitation also of the benefits of this foundation to scholars only of Eton, the founder, perhaps unconsciously, certainly disastrously, created an exclusive class of students endowed with exclusive privileges, an anomaly which for more than four centuries marred the full efficiency of Henry's splendid foundation. This _imperium in imperio_ was happily abolished by a new code of statutes which became law in 1861. "A little flock they were in Henry's hall * * * * * Hardly the circle widened, till one day The guarded gate swung open wide to all." It may certainly be hoped that there is truth in the present provost's gentle prophecy, that "it is hardly possible that the College should relapse into what was sometimes its old condition, that of a family party, comfortable, indeed, but inclined to be sleepy and self-indulgent, and not wholly free from family quarrels." And yet at the same time it should not be forgotten, as good master Fuller reminds us, that "the honour of Athens lieth not in her walls, but in the worth of her citizens," and that during the lengthened period in which the society was a close foundation only open to scholars of Eton, with a yearly entry therefore of new members seldom exceeding half-a-dozen, it could still point to a long list of distinguished scholars and of men otherwise eminent--mathematicians like Oughtred, moralists like Whichcote, theologians like Pearson, antiquarians like Cole, poets like Waller--who had been educated within its walls. In Cooper's "Memorials of Cambridge," the list of eminent King's men down to 1860 occupies twenty pages, a similar list of Trinity men, the largest college in the university, only ten pages more. This hardly seems to justify Dean Peacock's well-known epigram on the unreformed King's as "a splendid _Cenotaph_ of learning." Let us now turn from King Henry's College to the other royal foundation of his reign which claims his consort, the Lady Margaret of Anjou, as its foundress. The poet Gray in his "Installation Ode," speaking of Queen Margaret in relation to Queens' College, calls her "Anjou's heroine." But those Shakespearean readers who have been accustomed to think of his representation of the Queen, in _The Second Part of King Henry VI._, as a dramatic portrait of considerable truth and historic consistency, will hardly recognise the "heroic" qualities of Margaret's character. Certainly she is not one of Shakespeare's "heroines." She has none of the womanly grace or lovableness of his ideal women. A woman of hard indomitable will, mistaking too often cruelty for firmness, using the pliancy and simplicity of her husband for mere party ends, outraging the national conscience by stirring up the Irish, the French, the Scots, against the peace of England, finally pitting the north against the south in a cruel and futile civil war, with nothing left of womanhood but the almost tigress heart of a baffled mother, this is the Queen Margaret as we know her in Shakespeare and in history. But "Our Lady the Queen Margaret," who was a "nursing mother" to Queens' College, seems a quite different figure. She has but just come to England, a wife and queen when little more than a child, "good-looking and well-grown" (_specie et forma præstans_), precocious, romantic, a "devout pilgrim to the shrine of Boccaccio," delighting in the ballads of the troubadour, a lover of the chase, inheriting all the literary tastes of her father, King René of Anjou. The motives which led her to become the patroness of a college are thus given by Thomas Fuller:-- "As Miltiades' trophy in Athens would not suffer Themistocles to sleep, so this queen, beholding her husband's bounty in building King's College, was restless in herself with holy emulation until she had produced something of the like nature, a strife wherein wives without breach of duty may contend with their husbands which should exceed in pious performances."[56] Accordingly we read that in 1447 Queen Margaret, being then but fifteen years old, sent to the King the following petition:-- "Margaret,--To the king my souverain lord. Besechith mekely Margaret, quene of England, youre humble wif. Forasmuche as youre moost noble grace hath newely ordeined and stablisshed a Collage of Seint Bernard, in the Universite of Cambrigge, with multitude of grete and faire privilages perpetuelly apparteynyng unto the same, as in your lettres patentes therupon made more plainly hit appereth. In the whiche Universite is no Collage founded by eny quene of England hidertoward. Plese hit therfore unto your highnesse to geve and graunte unto your seide humble wif the fondacon and determinacon of the seid collage to be called and named the Quene's Collage of Sainte Margarete and Saint Bernard, or ellis of Sainte Margarete, vergine and martir, and Saint Bernard Confessour, and thereupon for ful evidence therof to hav licence and pouoir to ley the furst stone in her own persone or ellis by other depute of her assignement, so that beside the mooste noble and glorieus collage roial of our Lady and Saint Nicholas, founded by your highnesse may be founded and stablisshed the seid so called Quenes Collage to conservacon of oure feithe and augmentacon of pure clergie, namly of the imparesse of alle sciences and facultees theologie ... to the ende there accustumed of plain lecture and exposicon botraced with docteurs sentence autentiq performed daily twyse by two docteurs notable and well avised upon the bible aforenone and maistre of the sentences afternone to the publique audience of alle men frely, bothe seculiers and religieus to the magnificence of denominacon of suche a Queen's Collage, and to laud and honneure of sexe feminine, like as two noble and devoute contesses of Pembroke and of Clare, founded two collages in the same Universite called Pembroke hall and Clare hall, the wiche are of grete reputacon for good and worshipful clerkis that by grete multitude have be bredde and brought forth in theym. And of your more ample grace to graunte that alle privileges immunitees, profites and comoditees conteyned in the lettres patentes above reherced may stonde in their strength and pouoir after forme and effect of the conteine in theym. "And she shal ever preye God for you." The College of S. Bernard, mentioned in the first paragraph of the Queen's petition, was a hostel, established by Andrew Dokett, the rector of S. Botolph's Church, situated on the north side of the churchyard in Trumpington Street, adjoining Benet College. For this hostel, Dokett had obtained from the King in 1446 a charter of incorporation as a college, but a year later procured another charter, refounding the College of S. Bernard on a new site, between Milne Street and the river, adjoining the house of the Carmelite Friars. The true founder, therefore, of Queens' College was Andrew Dokett, but he was foresighted enough to seek the Queen's patronage for his foundation, and no doubt welcomed the absorption of S. Bernard's hostel in the royal foundation of Queens' College. Anyhow, the foundation stone of the new building was laid on the 15th April 1448. The outbreak of the Civil War stopped the works when the first court of the College was almost finished. Andrew Dokett, the first master, was still alive when Edward IV. came to the throne, and about the year 1465, he was fortunate to secure for his College the patronage of the new queen, Elizabeth Wydville. Elizabeth had been in earlier days a lady-in-waiting to Margaret of Anjou, and had herself strongly sympathised with the Lancastrian party. It is probable, therefore, that in accepting the patronage of the College she did so, not in her character as Yorkist queen, but rather as desirous of completing the work of the old mistress whom she had faithfully served before the strange chances of destiny had brought her as a rival to the throne. At any rate, from this period onwards the position of the apostrophe after and not before the "s" in "Queens'" adequately corresponds to the fact that the College commemorates not one, but two queens in its title. The earliest extant statutes appear to be those of the second foundress, the Queen Consort of Edward IV., revised at a later time under the authority of Henry VIII. It seems indeed likely that the absence of canon law from the subjects required by statute from all fellows after regency in arts, and the provision of Bible lectures in College, and divers English sermons to be preached in chapel by the fellows, indicates a somewhat remarkable reforming spirit for the end of the fifteenth century, and rather points to the conclusion that these provisions belong to the later revised code of Henry VIII. At the time of the foundation of Queen's College the plan of a collegiate building had been completely developed. It followed the lines not so much of a monastery, though it had, of course, some features in common with the monastic houses, but of the normal type of the large country houses or mansions of the fifteenth century. The late Professor Willis, in his archæological lectures on Cambridge, was accustomed, we are told, to exhibit in support of this view a ground plan of Haddon Hall and Queens' College side by side. And certainly it is surprising to notice how striking is the similarity of the two plans. The east and west position of the chapel at Haddon Hall happens to be the reverse of that of Queens' College, but with that exception, and the position of the entrance gateway to the first quadrangle, the arrangement of the buildings in the two mansions is practically identical. The hall, buttery, and kitchen occupy in both the range of buildings between the two courts; the private dining-room beyond the hall at Haddon is represented at Queens' College by the fellows' combination room; the long gallery in the upper court of Haddon has more or less its counterpart at Queens' in the masters' gallery in the cloister court; the upper entrance at Haddon is similarly placed to the passage to the old wooden bridge at Queens'. [Illustration: Cloister Court, Queen's College] The principal court of Queens' was almost completed before the Wars of the Roses broke out. "It is," says Mr. J. W. Clark, "the earliest remaining quadrangle in Cambridge that can claim attention for real architectural beauty and fitness of design." It is built in red brick, and has a noble gateway flanked by octagonal turrets, and there are square towers at each external angle of the court. The employment of these towers is a peculiarity which perhaps offers presumptive evidence that the architect of the other two royal colleges of Eton and King's may also have been employed at Queens'. This court probably retains more of the aspect of ancient Cambridge than any other collegiate building in the town. The turret at the south-west angle of the great court, overlooking Silver Street and the town bridge and mill pond, adjoins the rooms which, according to tradition, were occupied by Erasmus, and whose top storey was used by him as a study. It is commonly known as The Tower of Erasmus. "Queens' College," says Fuller, "accounteth it no small credit thereunto that Erasmus (who no doubt might have pickt and chose what house he pleased) preferred this for the place of his study for some years in Cambridge. Either invited thither with the fame of the learning and love of his friend Bishop Fisher, then master thereof, or allured with the situation of this colledge so near the river (as Rotterdam, his native place, to the sea) with pleasant walks thereabouts." An interesting account of Erasmus' residence in Queens' is quoted by Mr. Searle[57] from a letter written by a fellow of the College, Andrew Paschal, Rector of Chedsey, in the year 1680, which pleasantly describes at least the traditional belief. "The staires which rise up to his studie at Queens' College in Cambr. doe bring into two of the fairest chambers in the ancient building; in one of them which lookes into the hall and chief court, the Vice-President kept in my time; in that adjoyning it was my fortune to be, when fellow. The chambers over are good lodgeing roomes; and to one of them is a square turret adjoyning, in the upper part of which is the study of Erasmus and over it leads. To that belongs the best prospect about the Colledge, viz. upon the river, into the corne fields, and country adjoyning. So y^{t} it might very well consist with the civility of the house to that great man (who was no fellow, and I think stayed not long there) to let him have that study. His sleeping roome might be either the President's, or to be neer to him the next. The roome for his servitor that above it, and through it he might goe to that studie, which for the height and neatnesse and prospect might easily take his phancy." [Illustration: Oriel Window, Queen's College] It was in this study no doubt that much of the work was done for his edition of the New Testament in the original Greek, that epoch-making book which he published at Basle in 1516; and from hence also he must have written those amusing letters to his friends, Ammonius, Dean Colet, Sir Thomas More, in which comments on the progress of his work alternate with humorous grumblings about the Cambridge climate, the plague, the wine, the food: "Here I live like a cockle shut up in his shell, stowing myself away in college, and perfectly mum over my books.... I cannot go out of doors because of the plague.... I am beset with thieves, and the wine is no better than vinegar.... I do not like the ale of this place at all ... if you could manage to send me a cask of Greek wine, the very best that can be bought, you would be doing your friend a great kindness, but mind that it is not too sweet.... I am sending you back your cask, which I have kept by me longer than I otherwise should have done, that I might enjoy the perfume at least of Greek wine.... My expenses here are enormous; the profits not a brass farthing. Believe me as though I were on my oath, I have been here not quite five months, and yet have spent sixty nobles: while certain members of my (Greek) class have presented me with just a single one, which they had much difficulty in persuading me to accept. I have decided not to leave a stone unturned this winter, and in fact to throw out my sheet anchor. If this succeeds I will build my nest here; if otherwise, I shall wing my flight--whither I know not." Perhaps there is some playful exaggeration in all this. Anyhow Erasmus stayed at Cambridge seven years in all. He may have been justly disappointed in his Greek class-room: "I shall have perhaps a larger gathering when I begin the grammar of Theodorus," he writes plaintively; but disappointed there, he took refuge in his college study, and there, high up in the south-west tower of Queens', we may picture him, "outwatching the Bear" over the pages of S. Jerome, as Jerome himself in his time had outwatched it writing those same pages, eleven hundred years before, in his cell at Bethlehem; or pouring over the text of his Greek Testament and its translation, the boldest work of criticism and interpretation that had been conceived by any scholar for many a century, a _Novum Instrumentum_ indeed, by which the scholars of the new learning were to restore to the centuries which followed, the old true theology which had been so long obscured by the subtleties of the schoolmen, the new and truer theology which while based on a foundation of sound method and historical apparatus rests also in the joyous and refreshing story of the Son of God, in that unique figure of a Divine Personality, round whom centre the love, the hopes, the fears, the joys of the coming ages. [Illustration: The Bridge & Gables. Queen's College] Queens' College has many claims upon the gratitude of English scholars and English churchmen--it would have been sufficient that she had been the "nursing mother" of John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester--"vere Episcopus, vere Theologus"--under whose cautious supervision Cambridge first tasted of the fruits of the Renascence, who "sat here governor of the schools not only for his learning's sake, but for his divine life"--but she can lay no claim to greater honour than this, that within her walls three hundred years ago, these words were written--they form part of the noble "Paraclesis" of the _Novum Testamentum_ of Erasmus:-- "If the footprints of Christ are anywhere shown to us, we kneel down and adore. Why do we not rather venerate the living and breathing picture of him in these books? If the vesture of Christ be exhibited, where will we not go to kiss it? Yet were his whole wardrobe exhibited, nothing could exhibit Christ more vividly and truly than these Evangelical writings. Statues of wood and stone we decorate with gold and gems for the love of Christ. They only profess to give us the form of his body; these books present us with a living image of his most holy mind. Were we to have seen him with our own eyes, we should not have so intimate a knowledge as they give of Christ, speaking, healing, dying, rising again, as it were, in our actual presence. * * * * * "The sun itself is not more common and open to all than the teaching of Christ. For I utterly dissent from those who are unwilling that the Sacred Scriptures should be read by the unlearned translated into their vulgar tongue, as though Christ had taught such subtleties that they can scarcely be understood even by a few theologians, or as though the strength of the Christian Religion consisted in men's ignorance of it. The mysteries of kings it may be safer to conceal, but Christ wished his mysteries to be published as openly as possible. I wish that even the weakest woman should read the Gospel--should read the Epistles of Paul. And I wish these were translated into all languages, so that they might be read and understood, not only by Scots and Irishmen, but also by Turks and Saracens. To make them understood is surely the first step. It may be that they might be ridiculed by many, but some would take them to heart. I long that the husbandman should sing portions of them to himself as he follows the plough, that the weaver should hum them to the tune of his shuttle, that the traveller should beguile with their stories the tedium of his journey."[58] [Illustration: A Bit from Sidney Street] CHAPTER VIII TWO OF THE SMALLER HALLS "To London hence, to Cambridge thence, With thanks to thee, O Trinity! That to thy hall, so passing all, I got at last. There joy I felt, there trim I dwelt, Then heaven from hell I shifted well With learned men, a number then, The time I past. When gains were gone and years grew on, And Death did cry, from London fly, In Cambridge then I found again A resting plot: In College best of all the rest, With thanks to thee, O Trinity! Through thee and thine for me and mine, Some stay I got!" --THOMAS TUSSER. The Foundation of Trinity Hall by Bishop Bateman of Norwich--On the Site of the Hostel of Student-Monks of Ely--Prior Crauden--Evidence of the Ely Obedientary Rolls--The College Buildings--The Old Hall--S. Edward's Church used as College Chapel--Hugh Latimer's Sermon on a Pack of Cards--Harvey Goodwin--Frederick Maurice--The Hall--The Library--Its ancient Bookcases--The Foundation of S. Catherine's Hall. Thus sang Thomas Tusser--the author of "Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry united to as many of Good Housewifery"--of Trinity Hall and his residence there about the year 1542. And the words of the homely old rhymer--the most fluent versifier, I suppose, among farmers since Virgil, wise in his advice to others, most unlucky in the application of his own maxims--have been echoed in spirit by many generations of "Hall" men from his time onwards. And indeed there is hardly perhaps another College in Cambridge which stirs the hearts of its members with a more passionate enthusiasm of loyalty than this, which yet never speaks of itself as a "College," but always proudly as "The Hall." It was founded by William Bateman, Bishop of Norwich, in 1350, but it had an earlier origin than this. On the southern part of the present site there stood an old house, which had been provided some thirty years earlier for the use of the student-monks of Ely attending the University by the then Prior. This was John of Crauden, Prior of Ely from 1321 to 1341, a man of noble personal character, a model administrator of the great possessions of his abbey, a patron of art and learning, the friend on the one hand of Queen Philippa, and on the other of the greatest cathedral builder of the fourteenth century, Alan de Walsingham. The portrait bust of him, which may still be seen carved at the end of one of the hood moulds of the great octagon arches in the Minster, shows a strong, handsome face, dignified, benignant, pleasant; a full, frank, eloquent eye; a mouth intelligent and firm, and yet with a merry smile lurking unmistakably in its corner; altogether such a man as we may well feel might not only rightly be Queen Philippa's friend, as the chronicler says, "propter amabilem et graciosam ipsius affabilitatem et eloquentiam,"[59] but one also who one might expect to find anxious to maintain among his convent brothers the Benedictine ideal of knowledge and learning. It was no doubt to that end that somewhere about the year 1325 he had purchased the house at Cambridge as a hostel for the use of the Ely monks. In the Obedientary Rolls of the monastery, still treasured in the muniment room of the cathedral, there is evidence that from his time onwards three or four of the Ely monks were constantly residing at Cambridge at the convent expense, taking their degrees there, and then returning to Ely.[60] [Illustration: The Chapel, Trinity Hall] It is probable, however, that the residence of the Ely monks was, shortly after Crauden's time, transferred from this hostel to the rooms provided in Monk's College on the present site of Magdalene, for a register among the Ely muniments shows that in the twenty-fourth year of Edward III. John of Crauden's hostel was conveyed by the Prior and Convent to the Bishop of Norwich for the purpose of his proposed college. The old Monk's Hall was still standing in 1731, for it is contained in a plan of the College of that date preserved in the College library. A note in Warren's "History of Trinity Hall" informs us that a part of it was destroyed in 1823. Warren himself speaks of it as "Y^{e} Old Building for y^{e} Monks, where y^{e} Pigeon House is." Now all has vanished unless perhaps some underground foundations in the garden of the Master's Lodge. The buildings of the College, in their general arrangement, have probably been little altered since their completion in the fourteenth century. They had the peculiarity of an entrance court between the principal court and the street, like the outer court of a monastery. The original gateway, however, of this entrance--the Porter's Court, as it was called at a later date--has been removed, and the College is now entered directly from the street. It is probable that the Hall, forming one half of the western side of the principal court, was built during the lifetime of the founder, as also was the original eastern range, rebuilt in the last century. This would give a date, 1355, for these two ranges. The buttery and the northern block of buildings belong to 1374. In early days Trinity Hall shared with Clare Hall the Church of S. John Zachary as a joint College chapel. When in connection with the building of King's College the Church of S. John was removed, two aisles were added to the chancel of S. Edward's Church for the accommodation of "The Hall" students. The present chapel appears to date from the end of the fourteenth, or probably the early part of the fifteenth century. The only architectural features, however, at present visible of mediæval character are the piscina and the buttresses on the south side. The advowson of the Church of S. Edward, the north aisle of the chancel of which was for a time used as the College chapel, was acquired by the College in the middle of the fifteenth century, and has thus remained to our own day. "The complete control," says Mr. Walden in his lately published "History of Trinity Hall," "of the Church by a College whose Fellows, in course of time, were more and more a lay body, while other Colleges continued to be exclusively clerical, might be expected to give opportunity for the ministrations of men whose opinions might not be those preferred by the dominant clerical party at the moment. In 1529, for instance, during the mastership of Stephen Gardiner be it observed, Hugh Latimer, who is said to have become a reformer from the persuasions of Bilney, Fellow of Trinity Hall, preached in S. Edward's on the Sunday before Christmas. He preached there often, but on this occasion he surpassed himself in originality, taking apparently a pack of cards as his text, and illustrating from the Christmas game of Triumph, with hearts as 'triumph,' or _trumps_ as we say, the superiority of heart-religion over the vain outward show of the superstitious ornaments of the other court cards. Buckenham, Prior of the Dominicans, answered him from the same pulpit, and preached on dice. Latimer answered him again. The whole must have been more entertaining than edifying." This tradition of independence, at any rate in pulpit teaching, though in less eccentric ways, has been retained by S. Edward's down to our own time. Here in 1832, Henry John Rose, the brother of Hugh James Rose, the Cambridge Tractarian, represented the moderate wing of the new Anglican party. Here, during the years preceding his promotion to the Deanery of Ely in 1858, Harvey Goodwin preached that series of sermons, simple, pithy, robust, which Sunday by Sunday crowded with undergraduates the Church of S. Edward for nearly eight years, as a church in a university city has seldom been crowded. Here, also, in 1871 Frederick Denison Maurice--the most representative churchman probably of the nineteenth century, for it was he rather than Pusey or Newman, who, by his interpretation of the Doctrine of the Incarnation, has most profoundly moulded, inspired, and transfigured the Church ideals of the present--found an opportunity of preaching when too many of the parochial pulpits of England were closed to him. The grave and the trivial mingle in college as in other human affairs. And so it came about that the possession of the spiritualities of S. Edward's parish compelled the Fellows of the Hall to keep an eye on its temporalities, and from time to time to beat its bounds. Here is one record of such "beating." It was May 23rd, viz., Ascension Day in 1734, when the Fellows deputed for the purpose started from the Three Tuns and went by the Mitre, the White Horse, and the Black Bull before reaching S. Catherine's Hall. They penetrated King's, but regretted to find that here the Brewhouse was shut up. They encircled Clare and Trinity Hall, therefore, and came back to the Three Tuns whence they had started two hours before. They had not, quite evidently--for the full circuit is not great--been walking all the time. The account ends:-- "N.B.--One bottle of white wine given us at y^{e} Tuns, and one bottle of white wine given us at the Mitre. Ale and bread and cheese given by the Minister of St. Edward's at y^{e} Bench in our College Backside. _Mem._--To be given by y^{e} Minister twelve halfpenny loaves, sixpenny worth of Cheshire cheeses, seven quarts and a half of ale in y^{e} great stone bottle for y^{e} people in general, and a tankard of ale for each church warden."[61] [Illustration: Oriel Window, Jesus College] It will be remembered that in the last chapter, in speaking of the books left to Corpus Christi College by Archbishop Parker, we mentioned that provision of his deed of gift by which under certain contingencies the books were to be transferred from Corpus to Trinity Hall. It is quite probable that this provision drew the attention of the authorities of the latter college to the possible need of a library. It is unknown, however, when exactly the present library was built. The style proclaims Elizabeth's reign or thereabouts. Professor Willis conjectured about 1600. But whatever the date may be it is very fortunate that the hand of the restorer which fell so heavily upon so many other of the College buildings should have mercifully spared the library, which to this day retains its early simplicity of character, leaving it one of the most interesting of the old book rooms in the University. Mr. J. G. Clark in his valuable essay on the Development of Libraries and their fittings, published two years ago under the title "The Care of Books," has thus spoken of the library of Trinity Hall:-- "The Library of Trinity Hall is thoroughly mediæval in plan, being a long narrow room on the first floor of the north side of the second court, 65 feet long by 20 feet wide, with eight equi-distant windows in each side wall, and a window of four lights in the western gable. It was built about 1600, but the fittings are even later, having been added between 1626 and 1645 during the mastership of Thomas Eden, LL.D. They are therefore a deliberate return to ancient forms at a time when a different type had been adopted elsewhere. "There are four desks and six seats on each side of the room, placed as usual, at right angles to the side walls, in the interspaces of the windows, respectively. "These lecterns are of oak, 6 feet 7 inches long, and 7 feet high, measured to the top of the ornamental finial. There is a sloping desk at the top, beneath which is a single shelf. The bar for the chains passes under the desk, through the two vertical ends of the case. At the end furthest from the wall, the hasp of the lock is hinged to the bar and secured by two keys. Beneath the shelf there is at either end a slip of wood which indicates that there was once a movable desk which could be pulled out when required. The reader could therefore consult his convenience, and work either sitting or standing. For both these positions the heights are very suitable, and at the bottom of the case was a plinth on which he could set his feet. The seats between each pair of desks were of course put up at the same time as the desks themselves. They show an advance in comfort, being divided into two so as to allow of support to the readers' backs."[62] The garden of the Hall was laid out early in the last century, with formal walks and yew hedges and a raised terrace overlooking the river. The well-known epigram quoted by Gunning in his "Reminiscences"[63] has for its topic not this garden but the small triangular plot next to Trinity Hall Lane, which was planted and surrounded by a paling in 1793, by Dr. Joseph Jowett, the then tutor. [Illustration: Gateway in Great Court St Catharine's College] "A little garden little Jowett made And fenced it with a little palisade, But when this little garden made a little talk, He changed it to a little gravel walk; If you would know the mind of little Jowett This little garden don't a little show it." It has usually been attributed to Archdeacon Wrangham. There are several versions of it, and a translation into Latin, which runs as follows:-- "Exiguum hunc hortum, fecit Jowettulus iste Exiguus, vallo et muniit exiguo: Exiguo hoc horto forsan Jowettulus iste Exiguus mentem prodidit exiguam." At the end of the fifteenth century, just twenty years after the fall of Constantinople, Dr. Robert Woodlark, third Provost of King's College and some time Chancellor of the University, founded the small "House of Learning," which he called S. Catherine's Hall, possibly because Henry VI., whose mother was a Catherine, was his patron, or possibly because at this time S. Catherine of Alexandria, the patron saint of scholars, was a popular saint. In the statutes he says, "I have founded and established a college or hall to the praise, glory, and honour of our Lord Jesus Christ, of the most glorious Virgin Mary, His mother, and of the Holy Virgin Katerine, for the exaltation of the Christian faith, for the defence and furtherance of the Holy Church, and growth of science and faculties of philosophy and sacred theology." In the autumn of 1473 a Master and three Fellows took up their residence in the small court which had just been built on a site in Milne Street, close to the Bull Inn. The chapel and library, however, do not appear to have been completed until a few years later. In 1520 a second court was added, and a century later, in 1634, some new buildings were commenced to the north of the principal court, and adjacent to Queen's Street. These buildings, which are the only old buildings that still remain, were completed two years later. Between 1673-97 all the rest of the old buildings were pulled down and the College rebuilt. In 1704 the new chapel was built on the site of the stables of Thomas Hobson, whose just but despotic method of dealing with his customers gave rise to the phrase "Hobson's Choice." In 1757, the houses which hitherto had concealed the College from the High Street were removed. CHAPTER IX BISHOP ALCOCK AND THE NUNS OF S. RHADEGUND "Yes, since his dayes a cocke was in the fen, I knowe his voyce among a thousand men: He taught, he preached, he mended every wrong: But, Coridon, alas! no good thing abideth long. He All was a Cocke, he wakened us from sleepe And while we slumbered he did our foldes keep: No cur, no foxes, nor butchers' dogges would Coulde hurte our folds, his watching was so good; The hungry wolves which did that time abounde, What time he crowed abashed at the sounde. This Cocke was no more abashed at the Foxe Than is a Lion abashed at the Oxe." --ALEXANDER BARCLAY, _Monk of Ely_, 1513 The New Learning in Italy and Germany--The English "Pilgrim Scholars": Grey, Tiptoft, Linacre, Grocyn--The practical Genius of England--Bishops Rotherham, Alcock, and Fisher--Alcock, diplomatist, financier, architect--The Founder of Jesus College--He takes as his model Jesus College, Rotherham--His Object the Training of a Preaching Clergy--The Story of the Nunnery of S. Rhadegund--Its Dissolution--Conversion of the Conventual Church into a College Chapel--The Monastic Buildings, Gateway, Cloister, Chapter House--The Founder a Better Architect than an Educational Reformer--The Jesus Roll of eminent Men from Cranmer to Coleridge. The historical importance of the New Learning depends ultimately on the fact that its influence on the Western world broadened out into a new capacity for culture in general, which took various forms according to the different local or national conditions with which it came into contact. In Italy, its land of origin, the Classical Revival was felt mainly as an æsthetic ideal, an instrument for the self-culture of the individual, expressing itself in delight for beauty of form and elegance of literary style, bringing to the life of the cultured classes a social charm and distinction of tone, which, however, it is difficult sometimes to distinguish from a merely refined paganism. In France and Spain too, where the basis of character was also Latin, the æsthetic spirit of classical antiquity was readily assimilated. To a French or a Spanish scholar sympathy with the pagan spirit was instinctive and innate. The Teutonic genius, however, both on the side of Literature and of Art, remained sturdily impervious to the more æsthetic side of the Italian Renaissance. In Germany the æsthetic influence was evident enough--we can trace it plainly in the writings of Erasmus and Melancthon, though with them Italian humanism was always a secondary aim subservient to a greater end--but it had a strongly marked character of its own, wholly different from the Italian. The Renaissance in Germany indeed we rightly know by the name of the Reformation, and the paramount task of the German scholars of the New Learning we recognise to have been the elucidation of the true meaning of the Bible. Similarly in England the scholarly mind was at first little affected by the æsthetic considerations which meant so much to a Frenchman or an Italian. A few chosen Englishmen, it is true, "pilgrim scholars" they were called--William Grey, Bishop of Ely, John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, Thomas Linacre, William Grocyn stand out perhaps most conspicuously--were drawn to Italy by the rumours of the marvellous treasures rescued from monastic lumber rooms, or conveyed over seas by fugitive Greeks, but they returned to England to find that there was little they could do except to bequeath the books and manuscripts they had collected to an Oxford or a Cambridge College, and hope for happier times when scholars would be found to read them. It was not indeed until the little group of Hellenists--Erasmus and Linacre and Grocyn and Colet--had shown the value of Greek thought as an interpreter of the New Testament, that any enthusiasm for the New Learning could be awakened in England. An increase of a knowledge of the Bible was worth working for, not the elegancies of an accurate Latin style. Englishmen in the fifteenth century were busy in the task of developing trade and commerce, and their intellectual tone took colour from their daily work. It became eminently utilitarian and practical. An English scholar was willing to accept the New Learning if you would prove to him that it was useful or was true, that it was only beautiful did not at first much affect him. It was only therefore with an eye to strictly practical results that at the universities the New Learning was welcomed, and even there tardily. Nowhere perhaps is this practical tendency of English scholarship at this period more characteristically shown than in the Cambridge work of Thomas Alcock and John Fisher, the founders respectively of Jesus College and of the twin colleges of Christ's and John's. Alcock and Fisher were both of them Yorkshiremen, born and educated at Beverley in the Grammar School connected with the Minster there, and both proceeding from thence to Cambridge: Alcock in all likelihood, though there is some doubt about this, to Pembroke, where he took his LL.D. degree in or before 1461; Fisher to Michaelhouse, of which he became a Fellow in 1491. Of Alcock, the historian Bale has said that "no one in England had a greater reputation for sanctity." He was equally remarkable for his practical qualities, as a diplomatist, as a financier, as an architect. He had twice been a Royal Commissioner, under Richard III. and under Henry VII., to arrange treaties with Scotland. By an arrangement, of which no similar instance is known, he had conjointly held the office of Lord Chancellor with Bishop Rotherham of Lincoln, he himself at that time ruling the diocese of Rochester. As early as 1462 he had been made Master of the Rolls. In 1476 he was translated to Worcester, and at the same time became Lord President of Wales. On the accession of Henry VII., he was made Comptroller of the Royal Works and Buildings, an office for which he was especially fitted, it is said, by his skill as an architect. In 1486 he was translated to the See of Ely and again made Lord Chancellor. It was as Bishop of Ely that he undertook the foundation of Jesus College. There can, I think, be little doubt that for the idea of his projected college he was indebted to his old Cambridge friend and co-chancellor, Thomas Rotherham, at this time Archbishop of York. At any rate, it is noteworthy that each of the friends founded in his Diocese--the Archbishop at his native place of Rotherham, the Bishop of Ely at Cambridge--a college dedicated to the name of Jesus. Jesus College, Rotherham, was founded in 1481; Jesus College, Cambridge, followed fifteen years later. The main object of the two prelates was probably the same. In the license for the foundation of Rotherham's college its objects are stated to be twofold: "To preach the Word of God in the Parish of Rotherham and in other places in the Diocese of York; and to instruct gratuitously, in the rules of grammar and song, scholars from all parts of England, and especially from the Diocese of York." There is no reason to suppose that the needs of the Diocese of Ely, even fifteen years later, were any different. For the fact that Jesus College, Rotherham, should consist of _ten_ persons--a provost, six choristers, and three masters--who can teach respectively grammar, music, and writing, the Archbishop gave the fanciful reason, that as he, its founder, had offended God in His ten commandments, so he desired the benefit of the prayers of ten persons on his behalf. Alcock's motive for fixing the number of his new Society of Jesus at Cambridge at thirteen seems to have been no less characteristic. Thirteen, the number of the original Christian Society of Our Lord and His Apostles, was the common complement of the professed members of a monastic society, and may in all likelihood have been the original number of the nuns of St. Rhadegund, whose house the Bishop was about to suppress to found his new college. "Rotherham's College, according to its measure, was intended to meet two pressing needs of his time, and especially of northern England--a preaching clergy, and boys trained for the service of the church. At the end of the fifteenth century 'both theology and the art of preaching seemed in danger of general neglect. At the English universities, and consequently throughout the whole country, the sermon was falling into almost complete disuse.' The disfavour with which it was regarded by the heads of the Church was largely due to fear of the activity of the Lollards, which had brought all popular harangues and discourses under suspicion. When the embers of heresy had been extinguished, here and there a reforming churchman sought to restore among the parish clergy the old preaching activity. In the wide unmanageable dioceses of the north the lack of an educated, preaching priesthood was most apparent. Bishop Stanley is probably only echoing the language of Alcock when he begins and closes his statutes with an exhortation to the society, whom he addresses as 'scholars of Jesus,' so to conduct themselves 'that the name of our Lord Jesus Christ may be honoured, the clergy multiplied, and the people called to the praise of God.' He enacts that of the five Foundation Fellows (one of Alcock's having been suppressed) four shall be devoted to the study of theology, and he requires that they shall be chosen from natives of five counties, which, owing to the imperfections of the single existing copy of his statutes, are unspecified. If, as is likely, this county restriction was re-introduced by Stanley from the provisions made by Alcock, it is natural to surmise that the founder's native county was one of those preferred. Certain it is that his small society had a Yorkshireman, Chubbes of Whitby, for its first master. He had been a Fellow of Pembroke, and probably from the same society and county came one of the original Fellows of Jesus, William Atkynson. "The same fear of Lollardism which had stifled preaching had caused the teaching profession to be regarded with jealousy by the authorities of the Church. In a limited part of north-eastern England, William Byngham, about the year 1439, found seventy schools void for 'grete scarstie of Maistres of Gramar' which fifty years previously had been in active use. His foundation of God's House at Cambridge was designed to supply trained masters to these derelict schools. The boys' schools attached to Rotherham's and Alcock's Foundations were intended to meet the same deficiency. Presumably Alcock meant that one or other of his Fellows should supply the teaching, for his foundation did not include a schoolmaster. The linking of a grammar school with a house of university students was of course no novelty; the connection of Winchester with New College had been copied by Henry VI. in the association of Eton and King's. But Alcock's plan of including boys and 'dons' within the same walls, and making them mix in the common life and discipline of hall and chapel, if not absolutely a new thing, had no nearer prototype in an English university than Walter de Merton's provisions in the statutes of his College for a _Grammaticus_ and _Pueri_. Though the school was meant to supply a practical need, the pattern of it seems to have been suggested by Alcock's mediæval sentiment. There is indeed no evidence or likelihood that S. Rhadegund's Nunnery maintained a school, but the same monastic precedent which Alcock apparently followed in fixing the number of his society prescribed the type of his school. It stood in the quarter where monastic schools were always placed, next the gate, in the old building which had served the nuns as their almonry."[64] The story of the nunnery of S. Rhadegund, which, under the auspices of Bishop Alcock, became Jesus College, is an interesting one. Luckily, the material for that history is fairly complete. The nuns bequeathed a large mass of miscellaneous documents--charters, wills, account rolls--to the College, and the scrupulous care with which they were originally housed, and not less, perhaps, the wholesome neglect which has since respected their repose in the College muniment room, have fortunately preserved them intact to the present time, and have enabled the present tutor of the College, Mr. Arthur Gray, to reconstruct a fairly complete picture of this isolated woman's community in an alien world of men in pre-Academic Cambridge, and of the depravation and decay which came of that isolation, and which ended in the first suppression in England of an independent House of Religion. I am indebted for the following particulars to Mr. Gray's monograph on the priory of S. Rhadegund, published a year or two ago by the Cambridge Antiquarian Society, and to the first chapter of his lately published College History. Who the nuns were that first settled on the Green-Croft by the river bank below Cambridge, and whence they came thither, and by what title they became possessed of their original site, the documents they have handed down to us across the centuries apparently do not record. It is true that in the letters patent of Henry VII. for the dissolution of the nunnery and the erection of a college in its room it is asserted--evidently on the representation of Bishop Alcock--that S. Rhadegund's Priory was "of the foundation and patronage of the Bishop, as in right of his Cathedral Church of Ely." The nun's "original cell" was no doubt of the Benedictine Order, and the great Priory of Ely, fifteen miles away down the river, was also Benedictine, and the good Bishop may have been right in his assertion of the connection between the two, but it is a little doubtful whether he could have given chapter and verse for his assertion. What is certain is this, that Nigel, the second Bishop of Ely, in the opening years of Stephen's reign, gave to the nuns their earliest charter. It is addressed with Norman magnificence "to all barons and men of S. Etheldrytha, cleric or lay, French or English," and it grants for a rent of twelve pence, "to the nuns of the cell lately established without the vill of Cantebruge," certain land lying near to other land belonging to the same cell. To the friendly interest of the same Bishop it seems probable that the nuns owed their first considerable benefaction. This was a parcel of ground, consisting of two virgates and six acres of meadow and four cottars with their tenure in the neighbouring village of Shelford, granted to them by a certain William the Monk. The fact that after seven centuries and a half the successors of the nuns of S. Rhadegund, the Master and Fellow of Jesus College, still hold possession of the same property is not only a remarkable instance of continuity of title, but also, let us hope, is sufficient proof that the original donor had come by his title honestly--a fact about which there might otherwise have been some suspicion, when we read such a record as this of this same William the Monk in the _Historia Eliensis_ of Thomas of Ely: "With axes and hammers, and every implement of masonry, he profanely assailed the shrine (of S. Etheldreda, the Foundress Saint in the Church of Ely), and with his own hand robbed it of its metal." However, it is something that further on in the same record we may read: "He lived to repent it bitterly. He, who had once been extraordinarily rich and had lacked for nothing, was reduced to such extreme poverty as not even to have the necessaries of life. At last when he had lost all and knew not whither to turn himself, by urgent entreaty he prevailed on the Ely brethren to receive him into their order, and there with unceasing lamentation, tears, vigils, and prayers deploring his guilt, he ended his days in sincere penitence." * * * * * Other benefactions followed that of William the Monk, lands, customs, tithes, fishing rights, advowsons of churches. At some time in the reign of Henry II. the nuns acquired the advowson of All Saints Church--All Saints in the Jewry--a living which still belongs to the Masters and Fellows of Jesus, although the old church standing in the open space opposite the gate of John's was removed in the middle of the last century, and is now represented by the memorial cross placed on the vacant spot and by the fine new church of All Saints facing Jesus College. The advowson of S. Clements followed in the year 1215, given to the nuns by an Alderman of the Cambridge Guild Merchants. Altogether the nunnery, though never a large house, seems to have acquired a comfortable patrimony. [Illustration: ST. JOHN'S AND DIVINITY SCHOOLS] "The Account Rolls which the departing sisters left behind them in 1496 reveal pretty fully the routine of their lives. Books--save for the casual mention of the binding of the lives of the saints--were none of their business, and works of charity, excepting the customary dole to the poor on Maundy Thursday, and occasional relief to 'poor soldiers disabled in the wars of Our Lord the King,' scarcely concerned them more. The duties of hospitality in the Guest House make the Cellaress a busy woman. They cost a good deal, but are not unprofitable; the nuns take in 'paying guests,' daughters of tradesmen and others. Being ladies, the sisters neither toil nor spin; but the Prioress and the Grangeress have an army of servants, whose daily duties have to be assigned to them; carters and ploughmen have to be sent out to the scattered plots owned by the Nunnery in the open fields about Cambridge; the neatherd has to drive the cattle to distant Willingham fen; the brewer has instructions for malting and brewing the 'peny-ale' which serves the nuns for 'bevers'; and the women servants are dispatched to work in the dairy, to weed the garden, or to weave and to make candles in the hospice. Once in a while a party of the nuns, accompanied by their maid-servants, takes boat as far as to Lynn, there to buy stock-fish and Norway timber, and to fetch a letter for the Prioress."[65] There is not much sign, alas! in all the record of any great devotion to religion, such as we might have expected to find in regard to such a House. Indeed, it would seem that there was seldom a time in the history of the Nunnery when a visit from the Bishop of the Diocese or from one of his commissioners on a round of inspection was other than a much resented occurrence. Discipline, indeed, appears to have been generally lax in the Nunnery, and the sisters or some of them easily got permission to gad outside the cloister. Scandal is a key which generally unlocks the cloister gate and permits a glance into the interior shadows. _Bene vixit quæ bene latuit._ "Not such was Margaret Cailly, whose sad story was the gossip of the nuns' parlour in 1389. She came of an old and reputable family which had furnished mayors and bailiffs to Cambridge and had endowed the nuns with land at Trumpington. For reasons sufficiently moving her, which we may only surmise, she escaped from the cloister, discarded her religious garb, and sought hiding in the alien diocese of Lincoln. But it so happened that Archbishop Courtenay that year was making metropolitical visitation of that diocese, and it was the ill-fortune of Margaret, 'a sheep wandering from the fold among thorns,' to come under his notice. The Archbishop, solicitous that 'her blood be not required at our hands,' handed her over to the keeping of our brother of Ely. The Bishop in turn passed her on to the custody of her own Prioress, with injunctions that she should be kept in close confinement, under exercise of salutary penance, until she showed signs of contrition for her 'excesses'; and further that when the said Margaret first entered the chapter-house she should humbly implore pardon of the Prioress and her sisters for her offences. The story ends for us at Margaret's prison-door."[66] [Illustration: Norman Work in Church of Jesus College] Such a story, more or less typical, I fear, of much and long continued lax discipline, prepares us for the end. When Bishop Alcock visited the House in 1497, we are not surprised perhaps at the evidence which is set forth in the Letters Patent authorising the foundation of his College in the place of the Nunnery. The buildings and properties of the house are said to be dilapidated and wasted "owing to the improvidence, extravagance, and incontinence of the nuns resulting from their proximity to the University." Two nuns only remain; one of them is professed elsewhere, the other is _infamis_. They are in abject want, utterly unable to maintain Divine service or the works of mercy and piety required of them, and are ready to depart, leaving the home desolate. * * * * * From the nuns of S. Rhadegund then Jesus College received no heritage of noble ideal. Two things only they have left behind them for which they merit gratitude. Firstly, a bundle of deeds and manuscripts, inconsiderable to them, very valuable to the scholars and historians of the future; and secondly, their fine old church and monastic buildings. In writing in a previous chapter of the buildings of Queens' we drew attention to the fact that the general plan of the College followed in the main the lines of a large country house such as Haddon Hall. And in degree this is true of the other college buildings in Cambridge. A mere glance at a ground-plan of Jesus will show at once that the arrangement of the buildings is entirely different from that of any other college at Cambridge, and it is clearly derived from that of a monastery. This accords with what we know of its history. However dilapidated the old nunnery may have become through the poverty and neglect of the nuns, the outward walls of solid clunch, which under a facing of later brick, still testify to the durability of the Nunnery builders, were still practically intact, and Bishop Alcock had too much practical skill as an architect to destroy buildings which he could so easily adapt to the needs of his college, and harmonise to fifteenth century fashions in architecture. In his conversion of the Nunnery buildings to the purposes of his college, Bishop Alcock grouped the buildings he required round the original cloister of the nuns, increasing the size of that cloister by the breadth of the north aisle of the Conventual Church which he pulled down. The hall was placed on the north side, the library on the west. The kitchens and offices were in the angle of the cloister between the hall and library. The master's lodge at the south-west corner was partly constructed out of the altered nave of the church, and partly out of new buildings connecting this south-western corner of the cloister with the gate of entrance. This gateway, approached by a long gravelled path between high walls, known popularly as "the chimney," is one of the most picturesque features of the College. It is usually ascribed to Bishop Alcock, but on architectural evidence only. It is thus described by Professor Willis:-- "The picturesque red-brick gateway tower of Jesus College (1497), although destitute of angle-turrets, is yet distinguished from the ground upwards by a slight relief, by stone quoins, and by having its string courses designedly placed at different levels from those of the chambers on each side of it. The general disposition of the ornamentation of its arch and of the wall above it furnished the model for the more elaborate gate-houses at Christ's College and St. John's College. The ogee hood-mould rises upwards, and the stem of its finial terminates under the base of a handsome tabernacle which occupies the centre of the upper stage, with a window on each side of it. Each of the spandrel spaces contains a shield, and a larger shield is to be found in the triangular field between the hood-mould and the arch." Professor Willis thus describes also the Conventual Church and the changes which were made by the Bishop in his conversion of it into a college chapel. [Illustration: Norman Work in N. Transept Jesus College Chapel] "The church ... presented an arrangement totally different from that of the chapel of Jesus College at the present day. It was planned in the form of a cross, with a tower in the centre, and had in addition to a north and south transept, aisles on the north and south sides of the eastern limb, flanking it along half the extent of its walls, and forming chapels which opened to the chancel by two pier arches in each wall. The structure was completed by a nave of seven piers with two side aisles.... (The church) was an admirable specimen of the architecture of its period, and two of the best preserved remaining portions, the series of lancet windows on the north and south aisles of the eastern limb, and the arcade that ornaments the inner surface of the tower walls, will always attract attention and admiration for the beauty of their composition. "Under the direction of Bishop Alcock the side aisles, both of the chancel and of the nave, were entirely removed, the pier arches by which they had communicated with the remaining centre portion of the building were walled up, and the place of each arch was occupied by a perpendicular window of the plainest description. The walls were raised, a flat roof was substituted for the high-pitched roof of the original structure, large perpendicular windows were inserted in the gables of the chancel and south transept, and lastly, two-thirds of the nave were cut off from the church by a wall, and fitted up partly as a lodge for the master, partly as chambers for students. "As for the portion set apart for the chapel of the college, the changes were so skilfully effected and so completely concealed by plaster within and without, that all trace and even knowledge of the old aisles was lost; but in the course of preparations for repairs in 1846 the removal of some of the plaster made known the fact that the present two south windows of the chancel were inserted in walls which were themselves merely the filling-up of a pair of pier-arches, and that these arches, together with the piers upon which they rested, and the responds whence they sprang, still existed in the walls. When this key to the secret of the church had been supplied, it was resolved to push the enquiry to the uttermost; all the plaster was stripped off the inner face of the walls; piers and arches were brought to light again in all directions; old foundations were sought for on the outside of the building, and a complete and systematic examination of the plan and structure of the original Church was set on foot, which led to very satisfactory results."[67] [Illustration: Entrance to Chapter-House Priory of S. Radegund now Jesus College Herbert Railton] To-day the completely restored church, the work at varying intervals from 1849 to 1869 of Salvin and Pugin and Bodley, forms one of the most beautiful and interesting college chapels in Cambridge. An important series of stained glass windows were executed by Mr. William Morris from the designs of Burne-Jones between 1873-77. In 1893 the Rev. Osmund Fisher, a former Dean of the College, at this time elected an Honorary Fellow, remembering to have seen in his undergraduate days of fifty years before indications of old Gothic work in the wall of the cloister, during some repair of the plaster work, obtained leave of the Master to investigate the wall. This led to the discovery of the beautiful triple group of early English arches and doorway which formed the original entrance to the chapter house of the Nunnery, one of the most charming bits of thirteenth century architectural grouping in all Cambridge. Bishop Alcock was probably a better architect than he was an educational reformer. He was successful enough in converting the fabric of the dissolved Nunnery into college buildings. It may be doubted whether he was equally successful in translating his friend Archbishop Rotherham's ideal of a grammar school college into a working institution. In the constitution which he gave to his college there were to be places found for both Fellows and boys--_Scholares and Pueri_--but the _Scholares_ were obviously to be men, and the _Pueri_ simply schoolboys, for they were to be under fourteen years of age on admission; and _Juvenes_, undergraduate scholars, did not enter into his plan. The amended statutes of his successors, Bishops Stanley and West, gave some definition to the founder's scheme, but they did not materially modify it. Within fifty years, in fact, from its foundation, Jesus College, as Alcock had conceived it, had become an anachronism, and the claustral community of student priests with their schoolboy acolytes, not seriously concerned with true education, and unvivified by contact with the real student scholar, came near to perishing, as a thing born out of due season. The dawn of what might seem to be a better state of things only began with the endowment of scholarships--scholarships, that is to say, in the modern sense--in the reign of Edward VI. It was only, however, with the university reforms of the nineteenth century that the proportion of college revenue allotted to such endowment fund was reasonably assessed. And yet with this somewhat meagre scholarship equipment the roll of eminent men belonging to Jesus College is a worthy one. On the very first page of that roll we are confronted with the name of Cranmer. We do not know the name of any student whose admission to the College preceded his. Wary and sagacious then, as in later life, he had resisted the tempting offer of a Fellowship at Wolsey's new college of Christ Church at Oxford to come to Cambridge, there, it is true at first, "to be nursed in the grossest kind of sophistry, logic, philosophy, moral and natural (not in the text of the old philosophers, but chiefly in the dark riddles of Duns and other subtle questionists), to his age of 22 years," but shortly, having taken his B.A. degree in 1511, to receive from Erasmus, who in that year began to lecture at Cambridge as Lady Margaret Reader, his first bent towards those studies which led eventually to the publication of his "Short Instruction into Christian Religion," which it had been better had he himself more closely followed, and possibly towards that opportunist policy, which in the event ended so sadly for himself, and meant so much, both of evil and of good, to the future of both Church and State in England. Closely associated with Cranmer were other Jesus men, noted theologians of the reforming party;--John Bale, afterwards Bishop of Ossory, called "bilious Bale" by Fuller because of the rancour of his attacks on his papal opponents, Geoffry Downs, Thomas Goodrich, afterwards Bishop of Ely, John Edmunds, Robert Okyng, and others. In the list of succeeding archbishops claimed by the College as Jesus men occur the names of Herring, Hutton, Sterne. The Sterne family indeed contribute not a few members through several generations to the College, not the least eminent being the author of "Tristram Shandy" and "The Sentimental Journey." The portraits of both Laurence Sterne and his great grandfather the Archbishop hang on the walls of the dining-hall, the severe eyes of the Caroline divine looking across as if with much disfavour at the trim and smiling figure of his descendant, the young cleric so unlike his idea of what a priest and scholar should be. Other than "Shandean" influence in the College is, however, suggested by the name of Henry Venn among the admissions of 1742, when he migrated to Jesus after three months' residence at S. John's, and exercised an influence prophetic of the great movement of Cambridge evangelicalism, prolonged far into the next century by Venn's pupil and friend, Charles Simeon. It is probable, however, that there is no more brilliant page in the history of Jesus College than that which tells the story of the last decade of the seventeenth century, and which contains the names of William Otter, E. D. Clarke, Robert Malthus, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Coleridge was elected a Rustat Scholar in 1791 and a Foundation Scholar in 1793, but he gained no academic distinction. There was no classical tripos in those days, and to obtain a Chancellor's medal it was necessary that a candidate should have obtained honours in mathematics for which Coleridge had all a poet's abhorrence. Among the poems of his college days may be remembered, "A Wish written in Jesus Wood, Feb. 10, 1792," and the well-known "Monologue to a Young Jackass in Jesus Piece." Another poem more worthy of record perhaps, though he scribbled it in one of the College chapel prayer-books, is one of regretful pathos on the neglected "hours of youth," which finds a later echo in his "Lines on an Autumnal Evening," where he alludes to his undergraduate days at Jesus:-- "When from the Muses' calm abode I came, with learning's meed not unbestowed; Whereas she twined a laurel round my brow, And met my kiss, and half returned my vow." And with that quotation from the Jesus poet we may perhaps close this chapter, only adding one word of hearty agreement with that encomium which was passed upon the College by King James, who, because of the picturesqueness of its old buildings and the beauty and charm of its surroundings, spoke of Jesus College as _Musarum Cantabrigiensium Museum_, and also with that decision which on a second visit to Cambridge His Majesty wisely gave, that "Were he to choose, he would pray at King's, dine at Trinity, and study and sleep at Jesus." CHAPTER X COLLEGES OF THE NEW LEARNING "No more as once in sunny Avignon, The poet-scholar spreads the Homeric page, And gazes sadly, like the deaf at song: For now the old epic voices ring again And vibrate with the beat and melody Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days." --MRS. BROWNING. The Lady Margaret Foundations--Bishop Fisher of Rochester--The Foundation of Christ's--God's House--The Buildings of the new College--College Worthies--John Milton--Henry More--Charles Darwin--The Hospital of the Brethren of S. John--Death of the Lady Margaret--Foundation of S. John's College--Its Buildings--The Great Gateway--The New Library--The Bridge of Sighs--The Wilderness--Wordsworth's "Prelude"--The Aims of Bishop Fisher--His Death. We may well in this chapter take together the twin foundations of Christ's College and S. John's which both had the Lady Margaret, Countess of Richmond and Derby, and mother of Henry VII. for their foundress. The father of this lady was John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and her mother was Margaret, daughter and heiress of Sir John Beauchamp, of Bletso. "So that," says Fuller, punning on her parents' names, "_fairfort_ and _fairfield_ met in this lady, who was fair body and fair soul, being the exactest pattern of the best devotion those days afforded, taxed for no personal faults but the errors of the age she lived in. John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, preached her funeral sermon, wherein he resembled her to Martha in four respects: firstly, nobility of person; secondly, discipline of her body; thirdly, in ordering her soul to God; fourthly, in hospitality and charity." In that assemblage of noble lives, who from the earliest days of Cambridge history have laboured for the benefit of the University, and left it so rich a store of intellectual good, there are no more honoured names than these two:--the Lady Margaret, Countess of Richmond, and her friend and confessor, Bishop Fisher, under whose wise and cautious supervision Cambridge first tasted of the fruits of the Renaissance, and welcomed Erasmus, I fear with but a very tempered enthusiasm, to the newly-founded Lady Margaret chair, and yet, nevertheless, in that encouragement of the New Learning laid the foundation of that sound method and apparatus of criticism which has enabled the University in an after age to take all knowledge for its province, and to represent its conquest by the foundation of twenty-five professorial chairs. John Fisher, who came, as we have seen in the last chapter, from the Abbey School at Beverley, where, some twenty years or so before, he had been preceded by Bishop Alcock, was Proctor of the University in 1494, and three years later, in 1497, was made Master of his College, Michaelhouse. The duties of the proctorial office necessitated at that time occasional attendance at Court, and it was on the occasion of his appearance in this capacity at Greenwich that Fisher first attracted the notice of the Lady Margaret, who in 1497 appointed him her confessor. It was an auspicious conjunction for the University. Under his inspiration the generosity of his powerful patron was readily extended to enrich academic resources. It was the laudable design of Fisher to raise Cambridge to the academic level which Oxford had already reached. Already students of the sister university had been to Italy, and had returned full of the New Learning. The fame of Colet, Grocyn, and Linacre made Oxford renowned, and drew to its lecture-rooms eager scholars from all the learned world. It hardly needed that such a man as Erasmus should sing the praises of the Oxford teachers. "When I listen to my friend Colet," he wrote, "I seem to be listening to Plato himself. Who does not admire in Grocyn the perfection of training? What can be more acute, more profound, or more refined than the judgment of Linacre? What has nature ever fashioned gentler, sweeter, or pleasanter than the disposition of Thomas More?"[68] It was natural therefore that Fisher should be ambitious in the same direction for his own university. He began wisely on a small scale, with an object of immediate practical usefulness, the foundation of a Divinity professorship, which should aim at teaching pulpit eloquence. On this point he rightly thought that the adherents of the Old and the New Learning might agree. And there was desperate need for the adventure. For with the close of the fifteenth century both theology and the art of preaching had sunk into general neglect. Times, for example, had greatly changed since the day when Bishop Grosseteste had declared that if a priest could not preach, there was one remedy, let him resign his benefice. But now the sermon itself had ceased to be considered necessary. "Latimer tells us that in his own recollection, sermons might be omitted for twenty Sundays in succession without fear of complaint. Even the devout More, in that ingenious romance which he designed as a covert satire on many of the abuses of his age, while giving an admirably conceived description of a religious service, has left the sermon altogether unrecognised. In the universities, for one master of arts or doctor of divinity who could make a text of Scripture the basis of an earnest, simple, and effective homily, there were fifty who could discuss its moral, analogical, and figurative meaning, who could twist it into all kinds of unimagined significance, and give it a distorted, unnatural application. Rare as was the sermon, the theologian in the form of a modest, reverent expounder of Scripture was yet rarer. Bewildered audiences were called upon to admire the performances of intellectual acrobats. Skelton, who well knew the Cambridge of these days, not inaptly described its young scholars as men who when they had "once superciliously caught A lytell ragge of rhetoricke, A lesse lumpe of logicke, A pece or patch of philosophy, Then forthwith by and by They tumble so in theology, Drowned in dregges of divinite That they juge themselfe alle to be Doctours of the chayre in the Vintre, At the Three Cranes To magnifye their names."[69] It was to remedy this state of things that, in the first instance, Fisher set himself to work. The Divinity professorship was soon supplemented by the Lady Margaret preachership, the holder of which was to go from place to place and give a cogent example in pulpit oratory: one sermon in the course of every two years at each of the following twelve places:-- "On some Sunday at S. Paul's Cross, if able to obtain permission, otherwise at S. Margaret's, Westminster, or if unable to preach there, then in one of the more notable churches of the City of London; and once on some feast day in each of the churches of Ware and Cheshunt in Hertfordshire; Bassingbourne, Orwell and Babraham in Cambridgeshire; Maney, St. James Deeping, Bourn, Boston, and Swineshead in Lincolnshire."[70] We have already spoken in the chapter on Queens' College of the work of Erasmus at Cambridge. He was summoned to Cambridge in 1511 to teach Greek and to lecture on the foundation of Lady Margaret. He himself tells us that within a space of thirty years the studies of the University had progressed from the old grammar, logic, and scholastic questions to some knowledge of the New Learning, of the renewed study at any rate of Aristotle, and the study of Greek. The literary revival had no doubt been quicker and more brilliant at Oxford, but Cambridge, owing to Fisher's cautious and careful supervision, and his foundation of the Lady Margaret Colleges of Christ's and S. John's, was the first to give to the New Learning a permanent home. [Illustration: The Chapel, Christ's College] The religious bias of the Countess of Richmond had inclined her to devote the bulk of her fortune to an extension of the great monastery of Westminster. But Bishop Fisher knew that active learning rather than lazy seclusion was essential to preserve the Church against the dangerous Italian type of the Renaissance, and he persuaded her to direct her gift to educational purposes. He pointed out that the Abbey Church was already the wealthiest in England, "that the schools of learning were meanly endowed, the provisions of scholars very few and small, and colleges yet wanting to their maintenance--that by such foundations she might have two ends and designs at once, might double her charity and double her reward, by affording as well supports to learning as encouragement to virtue." The foundation of Christ's College in 1505 is an enduring memorial of the wisdom of the Bishop and the charity of the Lady Margaret. There is a tradition that Fisher, who undoubtedly had joined Michaelhouse before taking his B.A. degree in 1487, had, upon his first entering Cambridge, been a student of God's House. However that may be, it was to this small foundation he turned as the basis of his projected new college. God's House, an adjunct of Clare-Hall, founded by William Byngham, Rector of S. John Zachary, in London, in 1441, stood originally on a plot of land at the west end of King's Chapel, adjoining the Church of S. John Zachary. In the changes which were necessary to secure a site for King's College, the Church of S. John and God's House were removed. In return for his surrender, Byngham had received license from Henry VI. to build elsewhere a college. Land was accordingly secured on what is now the site of the first and second courts of Christ's College, and in the charter of the new God's House, dated 16th April 1448, it is stated that Byngham had deferred the foundation owing to his ardent desire that "the King's glory and his reward in heaven might be increased" by his personal foundation of God's House. Henry could not resist such an argument, and thus God's House became, and Christ's College, as its successor, claims to be, of Royal Foundation. The little foundation, however, was always cramped by lack of means. Within fifty years of its first foundation the time had evidently come for a reconstitution of God's House. "In the year 1505 appeared the royal charter for the foundation of Christ's College, wherein after a recital of the facts already mentioned, together with other details, it was notified that King Henry VII., at the representation of his mother and other noble and trustworthy persons--_percarissimæ matris nostræ necnon aliorum nobilium et fide dignorum_--and having regard to her great desire to exalt and increase the Christian faith, her anxiety for her own spiritual welfare, and the sincere love which she had ever borne 'our uncle' (Henry VI.) while he lived--had conceded to her permission to carry into full effect the designs of her illustrious relative; that is to say, to enlarge and endow the aforesaid God's House sufficiently for the reception and support of any number of scholars not exceeding sixty, who should be instructed in grammar or in the other liberal sciences and faculties or in sacred theology."[71] The arrival of the charter was soon followed by the news of the Lady Margaret's noble benefactions--consisting of many manors in the four counties of Cambridge, Norfolk, Leicester, and Essex--which thus exalted the humble and struggling Society of God's House, under its new designation of Christ's College, into the fourth place in respect of revenue, among all the Cambridge colleges. The building of the College seems to have gone on uninterruptedly between 1505 and 1511. The amount spent by the Foundress during her lifetime is not ascertainable; but the cost, as given in the household books of the Lady Margaret after her death, was more than £1000. "Though the College," says the present Master, Dr. Peile, "had no very striking architectural features, the general effect, as seen in Loggan's view, is good. We see the old mullioned windows supplanted by sash windows in the last century: and the battlements inside the court as well as without, which were displaced by Essex to make way for the solid parapet, which still remains, and indeed suits the new windows better. The original windows have recently been restored with very good effect. We see a path, called the Regent's Walk, running from the great gate directly across the court to a door which gave entrance to the great parlour in the Lodge, then the reception-room of the College, and now the Masters' dining-room. That room has been reduced in size by a passage made between it and the Hall. The passage leads to the winding stone staircase which gave the only access to this suite of three rooms on the first floor, corresponding exactly with those below, and reserved by the Foundress for her own use during life, while the Master contented himself with the three rooms on the ground floor. The Foundress's suite consisted of a large ante-room (commonly but wrongly called the Foundress's Bed-Chamber) with a little lobby in one corner at the entrance from the old staircase. The second room (now the drawing-room) was the Foundress's own living room; it has an oriel window looking into the court, not much injured by the removal of the mullions." We may interrupt the Master's record here to tell the characteristic story of the Lady Margaret which most probably has this oriel window for its scene: "Once the Lady Margaret came to Christ's College to behold it when partly built; and looking out of a window, saw the Dean call a faulty scholar to correction, to whom she said, '_Lente! Lente!_' (Gently! gently!) as accounting it better to mitigate his punishment than to procure his pardon: mercy and justice making the best medley to offenders."[72] "The Foundress's sitting-room has a very interesting stone chimney-piece adorned with fourteen badges (originally sixteen), including a rose (repeated twice), a portcullis--the Beaufort badge (repeated once), three ostrich feathers (a badge assumed by Edward III. in right of his wife), a crown, a fleur-de-lis (repeated once), the letters H.R., doubtless Henricus Rex (repeated once), and lastly (twice repeated though the form differs) the special badge of the Lady Margaret--groups of Marguerites, in one case represented as growing in a basket. This very beautiful work was brought to light in 1887; it had been covered up by the insertion of a modern fireplace, whereby two of the badges were destroyed. The whole had been coloured: there were traces of a deep blue pigment on the stone between the badges, and on the jambs was scroll-work in black and yellow. The remaining space between the drawing-room and the chapel contained at its eastern end a private oratory with its window opening into the chapel, closed up in 1702, but reopened in 1899; it was connected with the drawing-room by a door, which was revealed when the walls of the oratory were stripped. At the western end was a small room looking into the court, probably the bedroom of the Foundress, connected by a door, now visible, with the oratory; this room was swept away when the present staircase was introduced, probably in the seventeenth century; further access had become necessary, because at that time several of the masters let the best rooms of the Lodge, and lived themselves in what was called the Little Lodge, a building of considerable size to the north of the Chapel, intended originally for offices to the Lodge."[73] [Illustration: Jack in Wolsey's Kitchen Christ's College] The hall, between the Lodge and the buttery, has no exceptional features. Early in the eighteenth century it was entirely Italianised, as also were many of the other buildings. It was entirely rebuilt by Sir Gilbert Scott in 1876, the old roof, with its ancient chestnut principals, being reconstructed and replaced. The walls were raised six feet and an oriel window was built on the east side in addition to the original one on the west. In 1882 and following years portraits of the Founders, of benefactors, and of worthies of the College were placed in the twenty-one lights of the west oriel. The persons chosen as "glass-worthy" were William Bingham, Henry VI., John Fisher, Lady Margaret, Edward VI., Sir John Finch, Sir Thomas Baines, John Leland, Edmund Grindall, Sir Walter Mildmay, John Still, William Perkins, William Lee, Sir John Harrington (this because of a mistaken claim on the part of Christ's, for Harrington was a King's man, and possibly also of Trinity at a later date), Francis Quarles, John Milton, John Cleveland, Henry More, Ralph Cudworth, William Paley, Charles Darwin. The glass-work was executed by Burlison & Grylls. At an early period "a very considerable part of y^{e} schollars of Christ College lodged in y^{e} Brazen George; and y^{e} gates there were shut and opened Morning and Evening constantly as y^{e} College gates were." The Brazen George Inn stood on the other side of S. Andrew's Street, opposite to the south-east corner of the College. Alexandra Street no doubt represents the Inn yard. In 1613 the accommodation in the College was further increased by the erection of a range of buildings in the Second Court. This was a timber building of two stories with attics. In 1665 it is described as "the little old building called Rat's Hall." It was pulled down in 1730; the large range of buildings known as the Fellows' buildings, parallel to Rat's Hall and further east, having been erected, according to tradition, by Inigo Jones about 1640. A large range of building, similar in style to the Fellows' building, was erected in 1889, and in 1895-97 Messrs. Bodley & Garner enlarged the old library, and altered and refaced the street front, extending the building to Christ's Lane, and thus added much to the dignity of the College buildings, as seen from S. Andrew's Street. The "re-beautifying the chappell," as the then Master, Dr. Covel, called it, took place in 1702-3, when it was panelled by John Austin, who did similar work about the same time in King's College chapel. The chapel has no remarkable or beautiful features. It is unnecessary to contradict the verdict of the present Master: "It must have been much more beautiful during the first fifty years of the College than at any later time." [Illustration: The Courtyard of the Wrestlers Inn. _To face p._ 220] In the list of twenty-one names which we give above as being "glass-worthy," we have also, no doubt, the list of the most eminent members of Christ's College. Of these the two greatest are undoubtedly John Milton and Charles Darwin. Milton was admitted a pensioner of Christ's College on 12th February 1624-25, and was matriculated on 9th April following. He resided at Cambridge in all some seven years, from February 1625 to July 1632. His rooms were on the left side of the great court as it is entered from the street, the first floor rooms on the first staircase on that side. They consist at present of a small study with two windows looking into the court, and a very small bedroom adjoining, and they have not probably been altered since his time. In the gardens behind the Fellows' buildings, perhaps the most delightful of all the college gardens in Cambridge, is the celebrated mulberry tree, which an unvarying tradition asserts to have been planted by Milton. "Unvarying," I have ventured to write, for I dare not repeat the heresy of which Mr. J. W. Clark was guilty when he suggested that Milton's mulberry tree was in reality one of three hundred which the College bought to please James I., and which was "set" by Troilus Atkinson, the College factotum, in the very year that Milton was born. Concerning such heresy I can only repeat the rebuke of the present Master: "The suggestion that the object of wider interest than anything else in Christ's--'Milton's mulberry tree'--is probably the last of that purchase, is the one crime among a thousand virtues of the present Registrary of the University." Milton took his B.A. degree 26th March 1629, the year in which he wrote that noble "Ode on the Nativity," in which the characteristic majesty of his style is already well marked. Three years earlier at least he had already written poems--the epitaph "On the Death of an Infant":-- "O fairest flow'r no sooner blown than blasted, Soft, silken primrose fading timelessly, Summer's chief honour" ... hardly less beautiful than the slightly later dirge "On the Marchioness of Winchester":-- "Here besides the sorrowing That thy noble house doth bring, Here be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon," which in their exquisite grace and tenderness of wording scarcely fall below the mastery of the mightier measure and deeper thought of "Lycidas," written in 1637. Of his Latin poems, written also during his undergraduate years, Dr. Peile has said--and on such a point there could be no higher authority:--"Even then he thought in Latin: his exercises are original poems, not mere clever imitations. There is remarkable power in them--power which could only be gained by one who had filled himself with the spirit of classical literature." After this testimony we can assuredly afford to smile at those rumours of some disgrace in his university career spread about in later years by his detractors. That he had met perhaps, according to Aubrey's account, with "some unkindnesse" from his tutor Chapell, even though that phrase by an amended reading is interpreted "whipt him," need not distress us. It is a doubtful piece of gossip, and even if it were true--for flogging of students was by no means obsolete--it was a story to the tutor's disgrace, not to Milton's; and certainly the poet himself bore no grudge against the College authorities, as these magnanimous words plainly testify:-- "I acknowledge publicly with all grateful mind, that more than ordinary respect which I found, above any of my equals, at the hands of those courteous and learned men, the Fellows of that College, wherein I spent some years; who, at my parting, after I had taken two degrees, as the manner is, signified many ways how much better it would content them that I would stay; as by many letters full of kindness and loving respect, both before that time and long after, I was assured of their singular good affection towards me."[74] Between the matriculation of John Milton at Christ's and that of Charles Darwin at the same college is a period exactly of two centuries. The Christ's Roll of Honour for that period contains many worthy names, but none certainly which shed a brighter lustre on the College history than that of Henry More, a leader in that remarkable school of thinkers in the seventeenth century--Benjamin Whichcote, Ralph Cudworth, John Smith, John Worthington, Samuel Cradock--known as "the Cambridge Platonists," for whom Burnet claims the high credit of "having saved the Church from losing the esteem of the kingdom," and whose distinctive teaching is perhaps best brought out in More's writings. Henry More had been admitted to Christ's College about the time when John Milton was leaving it. He was elected a Fellow of the College in 1639, and thenceforth lived almost entirely within its walls. Like many others, he began as a poet and ended as a prose writer. He had, in fact, the Platonic temperament in far greater measure probably than any other of the Cambridge school. How the soul should escape from its animal prison--when it should get the wings that of right should belong to it--into what regions those wings could carry it--were the questions which occupied him from youth upwards. "I would sing," he had said in one of his Platonical poems, "The pre-existency Of human souls, and live once more again, By recollection and quick memory, All what is past since first we all began." But the neo-platonic extravagances which lay hidden in his writings from the first grew at last into a new species of fanaticism, which makes his later books quite unreadable. And yet he remains perhaps the most typical, certainly the most interesting, of all the Cambridge Platonists, and at least he held true to the two great springs of the movement--an unshrinking appeal to Reason, coupled with profound faith in the essential harmony of natural and spiritual Truth--doctrines which are of the very pith of the seventeenth century Cambridge evangel, and which one is glad to think remain of the very essence of the Cambridge theology of to-day. That Henry More and the Cambridge Platonists failed in much that they attempted cannot be denied. They failed partly because of their own weakness, but partly also because the time was not yet ripe for an adequate spiritual philosophy. Such a philosophy of religion can indeed only rise gradually on a comprehensive basis of historic criticism, and of a criticism which has realised not only that religious thought can no more transcend history than science can transcend nature, but has also learnt the lesson--which no man has more clearly taught to the students of history and of science alike, in the century which has just closed, than that latest and greatest of the sons of Christ's College, Charles Darwin--that knowledge is to be found not only in sudden illumination, but in the slow processes of evolution, and progress not in pet theories of this or that ancient or modern thinker, but only in patient study and faithful generalisation. Let us turn now to the second and perhaps greater Lady Margaret Foundation of S. John's College. Three years after Henry VI.'s incompleted foundation of God's House had been enriched by a fair portion of the Lady Margaret's lands and opened as Christ's College, the Oxford friends of the Countess petitioned her for help in the endowment of a college in that University. For a time it seemed as if Christ's Church was to have the Lady Margaret and not Cardinal Wolsey as its founder. But Bishop Fisher again successfully pleaded the cause of his own University, and the royal licence to refound the corrupt monastic Hospital of S. John as a great and wealthy college was obtained in 1508. Of the Hospital of the Brethren of S. John the Evangelist, which was founded in the year 1135, we have already spoken in the chapter on Peterhouse. It owed its origin to an opulent Cambridge burgess, Henry Frost, and was placed under the direction of a small community of Augustinian Canons, an Order whose rule very closely resembled that of a monastery, their duties consisting mainly in the performance of religious services, and in caring for the poor and infirm. The patronage which the little community received would seem to show that, during its earlier history at least, the Brethren of S. John had faithfully discharged their duties. Several of the early Bishops of Ely took the Hospital under their direct patronage. Bishop Eustace, a prelate who played a foremost part in Stephen's reign, appropriated to it the livings of Homingsea and of S. Peter's Church in Cambridge, now known as Little S. Mary's. Bishop Hugh de Balsham, as we have seen in our account of his foundation of Peterhouse, endeavoured to utilise the Hospital for the accommodation of the many students who in his time were flocking to the University in quest of knowledge, and to that end endowed the Hospital with additional revenues. After the failure of that scheme and the successful foundation of Peterhouse, Bishop Simon Montagu came to the help of the little house, and decreed, that in compensation for the loss of S. Peter's Church, the Master and Fellows of Peterhouse should pay to the Brethren of S. John a sum of twenty shillings annually, a payment which has regularly been made down to the present day. The Hospital continued to grow in wealth and importance down to the time of its "decay and fall" in Henry VII.'s reign. The last twelve years of the fifteenth century, under the misrule of its then Master, William Tomlyn, saw its estates mortgaged or let on long leases, its discipline lax and scandalous, its furniture, and even sacred vessels, sold. At the beginning of the sixteenth century it had fallen into poverty and decay, and the number of its brethren had dwindled to two. Its condition is described in words identical with those applied to the Priory of S. Rhadegund.[75] The words, as given in the charter of S. John's College, are these:-- "The House or Priory of the Brethren of S. John the Evangelist, its lands, tenements, rents, possessions, buildings, as well as its effects, furniture, jewels and other ornaments in the Church, conferred upon the said house or priory in former times, have now been so grievously dilapidated, destroyed, wasted, alienated, diminished and made away with, by the carelessness, prodigality, improvidence and dissolute conduct of the Prior, Master and brethren of the aforesaid House or Priory; and the brethren themselves have been reduced to such want and poverty that they are unable to perform Divine Service, or their accustomed duties whether of religion, mercy or hospitality, according to the original ordinance of their founders, or even to maintain themselves by reason of their poverty and want of means of support; inasmuch as for a long while two brethren only have been maintained in the aforesaid House, and these are in the habit of straying abroad in all directions beyond the precincts of the said religious House, to the grave displeasure of Almighty God, the discredit of their order, and the scandal of their Church." The legal formalities necessary for the suppression of the Hospital were so tedious, that it was not "utterly extinguished," as Baker, the historian of S. John's, called its dissolution, until January 1510, when it fell, "a lasting monument to all future ages and to all charitable and religious foundations not to neglect the rules or abuse the institutions of their founders, lest they fall under the same fate." Meanwhile, before these difficulties could be entirely overcome, King Henry VII. died, and within little more than two months after, the Lady Margaret herself was laid to rest by the side of her royal son in Westminster Abbey. Erasmus composed her epitaph. Skelton sang her elegy. Torregiano, the Florentine sculptor, immortalised her features in that monumental effigy which Dean Stanley has characterised as "the most beautiful and venerable figure that the abbey contains." Bishop Fisher, who two months before had preached the funeral sermon for her son Henry VII., preached again, and with a far deeper earnestness, on the loss which, to him at least, could never be replaced. [Illustration: Entrance S. John's College] "Every one that knew her," he said, "loved her, and everything that she said or did became her ... of marvellous gentleness she was unto all folks, but especially unto her own, whom she trusted and loved right tenderly.... All England for her death hath cause of weeping. The poor creatures who were wont to receive her alms, to whom she was always piteous and merciful; the students of both the universities, to whom she was as a mother; all the learned men of England, to whom she was a very patroness; all the virtuous and devout persons, to whom she was as a loving sister; all the good religious men and women whom she so often was wont to visit and comfort; all good priests and clerks, to whom she was a true defendress; all the noblemen and women, to whom she was a mirror and example of honour; all the common people of this realm, to whom she was in their causes a woman mediatrix and took right great displeasure for them; and generally the whole realm, hath cause to complain and to mourn her death." The executors of the Lady Margaret were Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester; John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester; Charles Somerset; Lord Herbert, afterwards Earl of Worcester; Sir Thomas Lovell, Knight; Sir Henry Marney, Knight, afterwards Lord Marney; Sir John St. John, Knight; Henry Hornby, clerk; and Hugh Ashton, clerk. Unforeseen difficulties, however, soon arose. The young king looked coldly on a project which involved a substantial diminution of the inheritance which he had anticipated from his grandmother, while the young Bishop of Ely--"the Dunce Bishop of Ely"--James Stanley,[76] although stepson to the Countess, and solely indebted to her for promotion to his see, a dignity which he little merited, did his best after her death to avert the dissolution of the Hospital. As a result of this opposition of the Court party, to which no less a person than Cardinal Wolsey, out of jealousy it would seem for his own university, lent his powerful support, Lady Margaret's executors found themselves compelled to forego their claims, and the munificent bequest intended by the foundress was lost to the College for ever. As some compensation for the loss sustained the untiring exertions of Bishop Fisher succeeded in obtaining for the College the revenues of another God's House, a decayed society at Ospringe, in Kent, and certain other small estates, producing altogether an income of £80. "This," says Baker, "with the lands of the old house, together with the foundress's estate at Fordham, which was charged with debts by her will, and came so charged to the College, with some other little things purchased with her moneys at Steukley, Bradley, Isleham, and Foxton (the two last alienated or lost), was the original foundation upon which the College was first opened; and whoever dreams of vast revenues or larger endowments will be mightily mistaken." [Illustration: Gateway S. John's College] Such were the conditions under which the new society of the College of S. John the Evangelist was at last formed in 1511, and Robert Shorten appointed Master with thirty-one Fellows. During Shorton's brief tenure of the Mastership (1511-16) it devolved upon him to watch the progress of the new building, which now rose on the site of the Hospital, and included a certain portion of the ancient structure. "Some three centuries and a half later, in 1869, when the old chapel gave place to the present splendid erection, the process of demolition laid bare to view some interesting features in the ancient pre-collegiate buildings. Members of the College, prior to the year 1863, can still remember 'The Labyrinth'--the name given to a series of students' rooms approached by a tortuous passage which wound its way from the first court, north of the gateway opening upon Saint John's Street. These rooms were now ascertained to have been formed out of the ancient infirmary--a fine single room, some 78 feet in length and 22 in breadth, which during the mastership of William Whitaker (1586-95) had been converted into three floors of students' chambers. Removal of the plaster which covered the south wall of the original building further brought to light a series of Early English lancet windows, erected probably with the rest of the structure, sometime between the years 1180 and 1200. Between the first and second of these windows stood a very beautiful double piscina which Sir Gilbert Scott repaired and transferred to the New Chapel. The chapel of the Hospital had been altered to suit the needs of the College, and in Babington's opinion was very much 'changed for the worse.' The Early English windows gave place to smaller perpendicular windows, inserted in the original openings, while the pitch of the roof was considerably lowered. The contract is still extant made between Shorton and the glazier, covenanting for the insertion of 'good and noble Normandy glasse,' in certain specified portions of which were to appear 'roses and portcullis,' the arms of 'the excellent pryncesse Margaret, late Countesse of Rychemond and Derby,' while the colouring and designs were to be the same 'as be in the glasse wyndowes within the collegge called Christes Collegge in Cambrigge or better in euery poynte.'"[77] The buildings of S. John's College consist of four quadrangles disposed in succession from east to west, and extending to a length of some nearly 300 yards. The westernmost court is across the river, approached by the well-known "Bridge of Sighs," built in 1831. The easternmost court, facing on the High Street, is the primitive quadrangle, and for nearly a century after the foundation comprised the whole college. The plan closely follows what we have now come to regard as the normal arrangement, and is almost identical with that of Queens'. [Illustration: S. John's College from the Backs] The Great Gateway, which is in the centre of the eastern range of buildings, is by far the most striking and beautiful gate in all Cambridge. It is of red brick with stone quoins. The sculpture in the space over the arch commemorates the founders, the Lady Margaret and her son King Henry VII. In the centre is a shield bearing the arms of England and France quarterly, supported by the Beaufort antelopes. Above it is a crown beneath a rose. To the right and left are the portcullis and rose of the Tudors, both crowned. The whole ground is sprinkled with daisies, the peculiar emblem of the foundress. They appear in the crown above the portcullis. They cluster beneath the string course. Mixed with other flowers they form a groundwork to the heraldic devices. Above all, in a niche, is the statue of S. John. The present figure was set up in 1662. The original figure was removed during the Civil War. There is evidence that at one time the arms were emblazoned in gold and colours, and that the horns of the antelopes were gilt. Over the gateway is the treasury. The first floor of the range of buildings to the south of the treasury contained at first the library. The position of this old library is the only feature in the arrangement of the buildings in which S. John's differs from Queens'. [Illustration: Oriel in Library, S. John's College] The second court, a spacious quadrangle, considerably larger than the first, was commenced in 1598, and finished in 1602, the greater part of the cost being defrayed by the Countess of Salisbury. In the west range there is a large gateway tower. The first floor of the north range contains the master's long gallery--a beautiful room with panelled walls and a rich plaster ceiling. In this fine chamber for successive centuries the head of the College was accustomed to entertain his guests, among whom royalty was on several occasions included. According to the historian Carter, down even to the middle of the last century it still remained the longest room in the University, and when the door of the library was thrown open, the entire vista presented what he describes as a "most charming view." It was originally 148 feet long, but owing to various rearrangements its dimensions have been reduced to 93 feet. It is now used as a Combination Room by the Fellows. The new library building, which forms the north side of the third court, was built in 1624. It is reached by a staircase built in the north-west corner of the second court. The windows of the library are pointed and filled with fairly good geometrical tracery, while the level of the floor and the top of the wall are marked by classical entablatures. The wall is finished by a good parapet, which originally had on each battlement three little pinnacles like those still remaining on the parapet of the oriel window in the west gable. This gable stands above the river, and forms with the adjoining buildings a most picturesque group. The name of Bishop Williams of Lincoln, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, who had contributed as "an unknown person" two-thirds of the entire cost of £3000, is commemorated by the letters I.L.C.S. (_i.e._ _Johannes Lincolniensis Custos Sigilli_), together with the date 1624, which appear conspicuously over the central gable. His arms, richly emblazoned, were suspended over the library door, and his portrait, painted by Gilbert Jackson, adorns the wall. The original library bookcases remain, though their forms have been considerably altered. The west range of the second court and the new library formed two sides of the third court. The remaining river range and the buildings on the south adjoining the back lane were added about fifty years later. They were probably designed by Nicholas Hawkes, then a pupil of Sir Christopher Wren. The central composition of the western range was designed as an approach to a footbridge leading to the College walks across the river. This footbridge gave way to the covered new bridge, commonly spoken of as the Bridge of Sighs from its superficial resemblance to the so-called structure at Venice, leading to the fourth court, which was completed in 1831 from the plans of Rickman and Hutchinson. The old bridge, leading from the back lane, was built in 1696. Beyond the new court are the extensive gardens, on the western side of which is "the wilderness," commemorated by Wordsworth, who was an undergraduate of John's from 1787 to 1791, in the well-known lines of his Prelude:-- "All winter long whenever free to choose, Did I by night Frequent the College grove And tributary walks; the last and oft The only one who had been lingering there Through hours of silence, till the porter's bell, A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice Inexorable summons. Lofty elms, Inviting shades of opportune recess, Bestowed composure on a neighbourhood Unpeaceful in itself. A single tree With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed, Grew there; an ash, which Winter for himself Decked out with pride, and with outlandish grace; Up from the ground and almost to the top The trunk and every mother-branch were green With clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs The outer spray profusely tipped with seeds That hung in yellow tassels, while the air Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I stood Foot-bound, uplooking at this lovely tree Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere Of magic fiction verse of mine perchance May never tread; but scarcely Spenser's self Could have more tranquil visions in his youth, Or could more bright appearances create Of human forms with superhuman powers Than I beheld, loitering on calm clear nights Alone, beneath the fairy-work of Earth." [Illustration: Bridge of Sighs S. John's College] The new chapel of S. John's, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott in a style of pointed architecture, repeating, with some added degree of richness, the same architect's design of Exeter College chapel at Oxford, was begun in 1863 and finished in 1869. The scheme involved the destruction of the old chapel and the still earlier building to the north of it. The hall was enlarged by adding to it the space formerly occupied by the Master's lodge, a new lodge being built to the north of the third court, and the Master's gallery being converted into the Fellows' combination room. The stalls from the old chapel were refixed in the new building, and some new stalls were added. The beautiful Early English piscina, three arches and some monuments were also removed from the old chapel. * * * * * Considerations of space compel me to bring this chapter to a conclusion. I have spoken of the two Lady Margaret foundations as colleges of the New Learning. How far they have succeeded in fulfilling the aims of their founder only a careful study of their subsequent history can tell, and for that we have not space. But this, at least, we may say, that a college in which, generation after generation, there were enrolled men of such varying parts and powers as Sir Thomas Wyatt and William Grindall; as Sir John Cheke and Roger Ascham, the former the tutor of Edward VI., the latter of Queen Elizabeth, and both famous as among the most sagacious and original thinkers on the subject of education; as Robert Greene and Thomas Nash, the dramatists; as Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, and Thomas Cartwright, "the most learned of that sect of dissenters called Puritans"; of John Dee, mathematician and astrologer, the editor of Euclid's "Elements," and William Lee, the inventor of the stocking-frame; of Roger Dodsworth, the antiquary, and Thomas Sutton, the founder of Charterhouse; as Thomas Baker, the historian of the College, and Richard Bentley, the great scholar and critic; as Henry Constable, and Robert Herrick and Mark Akenside and Robert Otway and Henry Kirke White and William Wordsworth--a galaxy of names which seems to prove that not Cambridge only, but S. John's College, is "the mother of poets"--as William Wilberforce and Thomas Clarkson, can hardly be said not to have contributed much to the history of English culture and English learning, to the extension of the older Classical studies, and to the advance of the newer Science, to that wider and freer outlook upon the world and upon life to which so much that is best in our modern civilisation may be traced, and all of which took its origin from that movement of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries which we know by the name of the Renaissance. Of the genuine attachment of Bishop Fisher, the true founder of S. John's, to the New Learning there can be no doubt. He showed it clearly enough by the sympathy which he evinced with the new spirit of Biblical Criticism, and by the friendship with Erasmus, which induced that great scholar to accept the Lady Margaret professorship at Cambridge. That the study of Greek was allowed to go on in the University without that active antagonism which it encountered at Oxford was mainly owing--it is the testimony of Erasmus himself--to the powerful protection which it received from Bishop Fisher. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that his attachment to the papal cause, and his hostility to Luther, whom he rightly enough regarded as a Reformer of a very different type to that of his friends Erasmus, Colet, and More, remained unshaken. [Illustration: Tower & Turrets of Trinity from S. John's College] On the occasion of the burning of Luther's writings in S. Paul's Churchyard in 1521, he had preached against the great reformer at Paul's Cross before Wolsey and Warham, a sermon which was subsequently handled with severity by William Tyndall. It is, in fact, not difficult to recognise in the various codes of statutes, which from time to time he gave to his college foundations, evidence of both the strength and weakness of his character. In 1516 he had given to S. John's statutes which were identical with those of Christ's College. But in 1524 he substituted for these another code, and in 1530 a third. In this final code, accordingly, among many provisions, characterised by much prudent forethought, and amid statutes which really point to something like a revolution in academic study, we see plainly enough signs of timorous distrust, not to say a pusillanimous anxiety against all innovations whatever in the future. But in one cause, at any rate, he bore a noble part, and for it he died a noble death. His opposition to the divorce of King Henry and Queen Catharine was not less honourable than it was consistent, and he stood alone among the Bishops of the realm in his refusal to recognise the validity of the measure. It was, in fact, his unflinching firmness in regard to the Act of Supremacy which finally sealed his fate. The story of his trial and death are matters that belong to English history. The pathos of it we can all feel as we read the pages in which Froude has told the story in his "History," and its moral, we may perhaps also feel, has not been unfitly pointed by Mr. Mullinger in his "History of the University." Here are Froude's words:-- "Mercy was not to be hoped for. It does not seem to have been sought. He was past eighty. The earth on the edge of the grave was already crumbling under his feet; and death had little to make it fearful. When the last morning dawned, he dressed himself carefully--as he said, for his marriage day. The distance to Tower Hill was short. He was able to walk; and he tottered out of the prison gates, holding in his hand a closed volume of the New Testament. The crowd flocked about him, and he was heard to pray that, as this book had been his best comfort and companion, so in that hour it might give him some special strength, and speak to him as from his Lord. Then opening it at a venture, he read: 'This is life eternal, to know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast sent.' It was the answer to his prayer; and he continued to repeat the words as he was led forward. On the scaffold he chanted the _Te Deum_, and then, after a few prayers, knelt down, and meekly laid his head upon a pillow where neither care nor fear nor sickness would ever vex it more. Many a spectacle of sorrow had been witnessed on that tragic spot, but never one more sad than this; never one more painful to think or speak of. When a nation is in the throes of revolution, wild spirits are abroad in the storm: and poor human nature presses blindly forward with the burden which is laid upon it, tossing aside the obstacles in its path with a recklessness which, in calmer hours, it would fear to contemplate."[78] And here are Mr. Mullinger's:-- "When it was known at Cambridge that the Chancellor (Fisher) was under arrest, it seemed as though a dark cloud had gathered over the University; and at those colleges which had been his peculiar care the sorrow was deeper than could find vent in language. The men, who ever since their academic life began, had been conscious of his watchful oversight and protection, who as they had grown up to manhood had been honoured by his friendship, aided by his bounty, stimulated by his example to all that was commendable and of good report, could not see his approaching fate without bitter and deep emotion; and rarely in the correspondence of colleges is there to be found such an expression of pathetic grief as the letter in which the Society of S. John's addressed their beloved patron in his hour of trial. In the hall of that ancient foundation his portrait still looks down upon those who, generation after generation, enter to reap where he sowed. Delineated with all the severe fidelity of the art of that period, we may discern the asceticism of the ecclesiastic blending with the natural kindliness of the man, the wide sympathies with the stern convictions. Within those walls have since been wont to assemble not a few who have risen to eminence and renown. But the College of St. John the Evangelist can point to none in the long array to whom her debt of gratitude is greater, who have laboured more untiredly or more disinterestedly in the cause of learning, or who by a holy life and heroic death are more worthy to survive in the memories of her sons."[79] CHAPTER XI A SMALL AND A GREAT COLLEGE "Quæ ponti vicina vides, Audelius olim Coepit et adversi posuit fundamina muri: Et coeptum perfecit opus Staffordius heros Quem genuit maribus regio celeberrima damis. * * * * * Quattuor inde novis quæ turribus alta minantur Et nivea immenso diffundunt atria circo, Ordine postremus, sed non virtutibus, auxit Henricus tecta, et triplices cum jungeret sedes, Imposuit nomen facto." --GILES FLETCHER, 1633. Dissolution of the Monasteries--Schemes for Collegiate Spoliation checked by Henry VIII.--Monks' or Buckingham College--Refounded by Sir Thomas Audley as Magdalene College--Conversion of the Old Buildings--The Pepysian Library--Foundation of Trinity College--Michaelhouse and the King's Hall--King Edward's Gate--The Queen's Gate--The Great Gate--Dr. Thomas Neville--The Great Court--The Hall--Neville's Court--New Court--Dr. Bentley--"A House of all Kinds of Good Letters." The dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII. and the confiscation of their great estates naturally created a sense of foreboding in the universities that it would not be long before the College estates shared the same fate. There were not wanting, we may be sure, greedy courtiers prepared with schemes of collegiate spoliation. If we may trust, however, the testimony of Harrison in his "Description of England,"[80] the hopes of the despoiler were effectually checked by the King himself. "Ah, sirha," he is reported to have said to some who had ventured to make proposals for such despoilment, "I perceive the abbey lands have fleshed you, and set your teeth on edge to ask also those colleges. And whereas we had a regard only to pull down sin by defacing the monasteries, you have a desire also to overthrow all goodness by a dispersion of colleges. I tell you, sirs, that I judge no land in England better bestowed than that which is given to our universities; for by their maintenance our realm shall be well governed when we be dead and rotten." These are brave words, and we may hope that they were sincere. They may seem, perhaps, to receive some confirmation of sincerity from the fact that that munificent donor of other people's property did himself erect upon the ruins of more than one earlier foundation that great college, whose predominance in the University has from that time onwards been so marked a feature of Cambridge life. It is the opinion of Huber,[81] that the uncertainty and depression caused in the universities by these fears of confiscation did not subside until well on in the reign of Elizabeth. * * * * * In the year 1542, however, four years before the foundation of Trinity College by Henry VIII., the spoliation of the monasteries was turned to the advantage of the University in a somewhat remarkable manner. On the further side of the river Cam, "cut off," as Fuller describes it, "from the continent of Cambridge," there stood an ancient religious house known at this time as Buckingham College. "Formerly it was a place where many monks lived, on the charge of their respective convent, being very fit for solitary persons by the situation thereof. For it stood on the transcantine side, an anchoret in itself, severed by the river from the rest of the University. Here the monks some seven years since had once and again lodged and feasted Edward Stafford, the last Duke of Buckingham of that family. Great men best may, good men always will, be grateful guests to such as entertain them. Both qualifications met in this Duke and then no wonder if he largely requited his welcome. He changed the name of the house into Buckingham College, began to build, and purposed to endow the same, no doubt in some proportion to his own high and rich estate."[82] The foundation of this Monks' College had dated as far back as the year 1428, when the Benedictines of Croyland erected a building for the accommodation of those monks belonging to their house who wished to repair to Cambridge, "to study the Canon Law and the Holy Scriptures," and yet to reside under their own monastic rule. From time to time other Benedictines of the neighbourhood--Ely, Ramsey, Walden--added additional chambers to the hostel--Croyland Abbey, however, remaining the superior house. [Illustration: The Library, Chapel and Hall, Magdalene College] A hall was built in connection with the College in 1519 by Edward, Duke of Buckingham, son of the former benefactor, and it is probably to this date that we may refer the secular or semi-secular foundation of the College. Certainly at this period the secular element of the College must have been considerable, for we find Cranmer, on his resignation of his Fellowship at Jesus on account of his marriage, supporting himself by giving lectures at Buckingham College. Sir Robert Rede, the founder of the Rede Lectureship in the University, and Thomas Audley, the future Lord Chancellor, are also said to have received their education in this College. At any rate there can be little doubt that it was this semi-secular character of the College at this period which saved it from the operations of the successive acts for the dissolution of the monastic bodies. In the year 1542 Buckingham College was converted by Sir Thomas Audley into Magdalene College. "Thomas, Lord Audley of Walden," says Fuller, "Chancellor of England, by licence obtained from King Henry VIII., changed Buckingham into Magdalene (vulgarly Maudlin) College, because, as some[83] will have it, his surname is therein contained betwixt the initial and final letters thereof--_M'audley'n_. This may well be indulged to his fancy, whilst more solid considerations moved him to the work itself." What those "more solid considerations" may have been it is difficult, in relation to such a founder, to divine. He was a man who had gradually amassed considerable wealth by a singular combination of talent, audacity, and craft, one who, in the language of Lloyd in his "State Worthies," was "well seen in the flexures and windings of affairs at the depths whereof other heads not so steady turned giddy." He was Speaker of the House of Commons in that Parliament by whose aid Henry VIII. had finally separated himself and his kingdom from all allegiance to the See of Rome, and of whose further measures for ecclesiastical reform at home Bishop Fisher had exclaimed in the House of Lords: "My lords, you see daily what bills come hither from the Common House, and all is to the destruction of the Church. For God's sake, see what a realm the kingdom of Bohemia was, and when the Church went down, then fell the glory of the kingdom. Now with the Commons is nothing but 'Down with the Church!' and all this meseemeth is for lack of faith only." Sir Thomas Audley had been one of the first to profit by the plunder of the monasteries. "He had had," as Fuller terms it, "the first cut in the feast of abbey lands." He was also one of those who shared in its final distribution. As a reward for his services as Lord Chancellor--and what those services must have been as "the keeper of the conscience" of such a king as Henry VIII. we need not trouble to inquire--a few more of the suppressed monasteries were granted to him at the general dissolution, among which, at his own earnest suit, was the Abbey of Walden in Essex. Walden was one of the Benedictine houses that had been associated in the early days with Monks', now Buckingham College. Whether the newly-created Lord of Walden regarded himself as inheriting also the Monks' rights and responsibilities in connection with the Cambridge college or not, or whether, being an old man now and infirm and with no male heir, he thought to find some solace for his conscience in the thought of himself as the benefactor and founder of a permanent college, I cannot say. Certain, however, it is that the original statutes of Magdalene College, unlike those of Christ's and John's, exhibit no regard for the New Learning, and are indeed mainly noteworthy for the large powers and discretion which they assign to the Master, and the almost entire freedom of that official from any responsibility to the governing body of Fellows. It was evidently the founder's design to place the College practically under the control of the successive owners of Audley End. In 1564 the young Duke of Norfolk, who had married Lord Audley's daughter and sole heir, and who was, moreover, descended from the early benefactor of the College, the Duke of Buckingham, contributed liberally towards both the revenues of Magdalene and its buildings. On the occasion of Queen Elizabeth's visit to Cambridge, it is recorded that "the Duke of Norfolk accompanied Her Majesty out of the town, and, then returning, entered Magdalene College, and gave much money to the same; promising £40 by year till they had builded the quadrant of the College."[84] From this statement it is plain that the quadrangle of Magdalene was not complete so late as 1654. The chapel and old library which form the west side of this court, and also the frontage to the street, had been built in 1475. The roof of the present chapel, uncovered in 1847, shows that Buckingham College had a chapel on the same site. The doorway in the north-west corner of the court retained a carving of the three keys, the arms of the prior and convent of Ely, so late as 1777, and thus probably indicated the chambers which were added to Monks' College for the accommodation of the Ely Convent scholars. The similar rooms assigned to the scholar-monks of Walden and Ramsey appear to have been in the range of buildings forming the south side of the College, parallel with the river, originally built in 1465, but reconstructed in 1585. The new gateway in the street-front belongs also to this late date. The chapel was thoroughly "Italianised" in 1733, and again restored and enlarged in 1851. The extremely beautiful building now known as the Pepysian Library, beyond the old quadrangle to the east, which belongs to Restoration times, although its exact date and the name of its architect are not known, is the chief glory of Magdalene. It was probably approaching completion in 1703, when Samuel Pepys, the diarist, who had been a sizar of the College in 1650, and had lately contributed towards the cost of the building, bequeathed his library to the College, and directed that it should be housed in the new building. There, accordingly, it is now deposited, and the inscription, "BIBLIOTHECA PEPYSIANA, 1724," with his arms and motto, "_Mens cujusque is est quisque_," is carved in the pediment of the central window. The collection of books is a specially interesting one, invaluable to the historian or antiquary. Most of the books are in the bindings of the time, and are still in the mahogany-glazed bookcases in which they were placed by Pepys himself in 1666, and of which he speaks in his Diary under date August 24 of that year:-- [Illustration: Tower & Gateway to Trinity College. _To face p. 252_] "Up and dispatched several businesses at home in the morning, and then comes Simpson to set up my other new presses for my books; and so he and I fell to the furnishing of my new closett, and taking out the things out of my old; and I kept him with me all day, and he dined with me, and so all the afternoone, till it was quite darke hanging things--that is my maps and pictures and draughts--and setting up my books, and as much as we could do, to my most extraordinary satisfaction; so that I think it will be as noble a closett as any man hath, and light enough--though, indeed, it would be better to have had a little more light." Of the many Magdalene men of eminence, from the days of Sir Robert Rede and Archbishop Cranmer down to those of Charles Parnell and Charles Kingsley, there is no need to speak in any other words than those of Fuller: "Every year this house produced some eminent scholars, as living cheaper and privater, freer from town temptations by their remote situation." * * * * * No Cambridge foundation, probably no academic institution in Europe, furnishes so striking an example as does Trinity College of the change from the mediæval to the modern conception of education and of learning. If, indeed, we may take the words of the Preamble to his Charter of Foundation, dated the thirty-eighth year of his reign (1546) as a statement of his own personal aims, King Henry had conceived a very noble ideal of liberal education. After referring to his special reasons for thankfulness to Almighty God for peace at home and successful wars abroad--peace had just been declared with France after the brief campaign conducted by Henry himself, which had been signalised by the capture of Boulogne--and above all for the introduction of the pure truth of Christianity into his kingdom, he sets forth his intention of founding a college "to the glory and honour of Almighty God, and the Holy and undivided Trinity, for the amplification and establishment of the Christian and true religion, the extirpation of heresy and false opinion, the increase and continuance of divine learning and all kinds of good letters, the knowledge of the tongues, the education of the youth in piety, virtue, learning, and science, the relief of the poor and destitute, the prosperity of the Church of Christ, and the common good and happiness of his kingdom and subjects."[85] [Illustration: Gateway & Dial, Trinity College] The site upon which King Henry VIII. had decided to place his college is also mentioned in this preamble to the Charter of Foundation. It was to be "on the soil, ground, sites, and precincts of the late hall and college, commonly called the King's Hall, and of a certain late college of S. Michael, commonly called Michaelhouse, and also of a certain house and hostel called Fyswicke or Fysecke hostel and of another house and hostel, commonly called Hovinge Inn." In addition to the hostels here named there were, however, several others which occupied, or had occupied, the site previous to 1548--for one or two previous to this time had been absorbed by their neighbours--whose names have been preserved, and whose position has been put beyond doubt by recent researches. These other hostels were S. Catharine's, S. Margaret's, Crouched Hostel, Tyler or Tyler's, S. Gregory's, Garet or Saint Gerard's Hostel, and Oving's Inn. * * * * * We may indicate roughly, perhaps, the position of these various halls and hostels in relation to the present college buildings, if we imagine ourselves to have entered the great gate of Trinity from the High Street, from Trinity Street, and to be standing on the steps leading into the Great Court, and facing across towards the Master's lodge. Immediately in front of us, on what is now the vacant green sward between the gateway steps and the sun-dial, there stood in the fifteenth century King's Hall, or that block of it which a century earlier had been built to take the place of the thatched and timbered house which Edward III. had bought from Robert de Croyland, and had made into his "King's Hall of Scholars." The entrance to this house, however, was not on the side which would have been immediately facing the point where we stand on the steps. It was entered by a doorway on its south side, opening into a lane--King's Childers' Lane it was called--which, starting from the High Street, from a point slightly to the south of the Great Gate, crossed the Great Court directly east and west, and then bending slightly to the north, reached the river at Dame Nichol's Hythe, at a point just beyond the bend in the river by the end of the present library. Returning to our point of view we should find on our right, occupying the easternmost part of the existing chapel, the old chapel of King's Hall, built in 1465, and beyond it, westwards, other buildings,--the buttery, the kitchen, the hall,--forming four sides of a little cloistered court, partly occupying the site of the present ante-chapel, and partly on its northern side facing across the Cornhithe Lane to the gardens of the old Hospital of S. John. Turning to our left to the southern half of the great court, to that part which in the old days was south of King's Childers' Lane, south, that is, of the present fountain, we should find the site intersected by a lane running directly north and south, from a point at the south-west corner of the King's Hall about where the sun-dial now stands, to a point in Trinity Lane, or S. Michael's Lane as it was then called, where now stands the Queen's Gate. This was Le Foule Lane, and was practically a continuation of that Milne Street of which we have spoken in an earlier chapter as running parallel with the river past the front of Trinity Hall, Clare, and Queens' to the King's Mills. To the east of Foule Lane, occupying the site of the present range of buildings on the east and south-east of the great court, stood the Hostel of S. Catharine, with Fyswicke Hostel on its western side. Michaelhouse occupied practically the whole of the south-western quarter of the great court, with its gardens stretching down to the river. S. Catharine's, Fyswicke Hostel, and Michaelhouse all had entrances into S. Michael's or Flaxhithe, now Trinity Lane. Beyond and across Flaxhithe Lane was Oving's Inn, on the site of the present Bishop's Hostel, with Garett Hostel still further south, on land adjoining Trinity Hall. S. Gregory's and the Crouched Hostel stood north of Michaelhouse, side by side, on a space now occupied for the most part by the great dining-hall. The Tyled or Tyler's Hostel was on the High Street adjoining the north-east corner of S. Catharine's. S. Margaret's Hall, which had adjoined the house of William Fyswicke, had been at an early date absorbed in the Fyswicke Hostel. It is plain that these various halls and hostels would sufficiently supply all the early needs of King Henry's new college. There was the chapel of King's Hall, the halls of King's Hall, Michaelhouse and Fyswicke's Hostel, and the chambers in each of these and the smaller hostels. During the first three years or so, from 1546 to 1549, the existing buildings seem to have been occupied without alteration. In 1550 and 1551 parts of Michaelhouse and Fyswicke's Hostel were pulled down, and their gates walled up. The Foule Lane, which separated them, was closed, and the new Queen's gate built at the point where that lane had joined Michael's Lane. The south ranges of both Fyswicke's Hostel and Michaelhouse on each side of this gate were retained. The hall, butteries, and kitchen of Michael House on the west were also retained, and continued northwards to form a lodge for the Master, and this range was returned easterwards at right angles to join the King Edward's gateway at the south-west corner of King's Hall. A little later the hall, butteries, and chapel of King's Hall were removed to make way for the new chapel, which was begun in 1555 and completed about ten years later. An early map of Cambridge, made by order of Archbishop Parker in 1574, and preserved in one of the early copies of Caius' "History of the University" in the British Museum, shows the College in the state which we have thus described, the outline of the Great Court, that is to say, practically defined as it is to-day, but broken at two points, one by the projection from its western side joining the Master's lodge with the old gateway of King Edward, still standing in its ancient position, more or less on the site of the present sun-dial; the other by a set of chambers, built in 1490, projecting from the eastern range of buildings, and ending at a point somewhat east of the site of the present fountain. The transformation of the Great Court into the shape in which we now know it is due entirely to the energy and skill of Dr. Thomas Neville, at that time Dean of Peterborough, who was appointed Master of Trinity in 1573. "Dr. Thomas Neville," says Fuller, "the eighth master of this College, answering his anagram '_most heavenly_,' and practising his own allusive motto, '_ne vile velis_,' being by the rules of the philosopher himself to be accounted [Greek: megaloprepês], as of great performances, for the general good, expended £3000 of his own in altering and enlarging the old and adding a new court thereunto, being at this day the stateliest and most uniform college in Christendom, out of which may be carved three Dutch universities."[86] [Illustration: The Fountain Trinity College.] Neville's first work was the completion of the ranges of chambers on the east and south sides of the great court, including the Queen's gateway tower. On the completion of these in 1599 the projecting range of buildings on the east side were pulled down. In 1601 he pulled down the corresponding projection on the western side, removing the venerable pile known as King Edward the Third's Gate. This was rebuilt at the west end of the chapel as we now see it. The Master's lodge was prolonged northwards, and a library with chambers below it was built eastwards to meet the old gate. The great quadrangle was thus complete, the largest in either university,[87] having an area of over 90,000 square feet. To Dr. Neville also in the Great Court is owing the additional storey to the Great Gate, with the statue of Henry VIII. in a niche on its eastern front, and the statue of King James, his Queen, and Prince Charles on its western side, the beautiful fountain erected in 1602, and the hall in 1604. The building of this hall, which with certain variations is copied from the hall of the Middle Temple, is thus described in the "Memoriale" of the College. "When he had completed the great quadrangle and brought it to a tasteful and decorous aspect, for fear that the deformity of the Hall, which through extreme old age had become almost ruinous, should cast, as it were, a shadow over its splendour, he advanced £3000 for seven years out of his own purse, in order that a great hall might be erected answerable to the beauty of the new buildings. Lastly, as in the erection of these buildings he had been promoter rather than author, and had brought these results to pass more by labour and assiduity than by expenditure of his own money, he erected at a vast cost, the whole of which was defrayed by himself, a building in the second court adorned with beautiful columns, and elaborated with the most exquisite workmanship, so that he might connect his own name for ever with the extension of the College." Unfortunately, much of the original beauty of Neville's Court was spoilt by the alterations of Mr. Essex in 1755, "a local architect whose life," as Mr. J. G. Clark has truly said, "was spent in destroying that which ought to have been preserved." The building of the library which forms the western side of Neville's Court was due mainly to the energy of Dr. Isaac Barrow, who was master from 1673 to 1677. The architect was Sir Christopher Wren, who himself thus describes his scheme:-- "I haue given the appearance of arches as the order required, fair and lofty; but I haue layd the floor of the Library upon the impostes, which answer to the pillars in the cloister and levells of the old floores, and haue filled the arches with relieus stone, of which I haue seen the effect abroad in good building, and I assure you where porches are low with flat ceelings is infinitely more gracefull than lowe arches would be, and is much more open and pleasant, nor need the mason feare the performance because the arch discharges the weight, and I shall direct him in a firme manner of executing the designe. By this contrivance the windowes of the Library rise high and give place for the deskes against the walls.... The disposition of the shelves both along the walls and breaking out from the walls must needes proue very convenient and gracefull, and the best way for the students will be to haue a little square table in each celle with 2 chaires." [Illustration: Neville's Court Trinity College] The table and the chairs, as well as the book-shelves, were designed by Wren, who was also at pains to give full-sized sections of all the mouldings, because "we are scrupulous in small matters, and you must pardon us. Architects are as great pedants as criticks or heralds." In 1669 Bishop's Hostel--so called after Bishop Hacket of Lichfield, who gave £1200 towards the cost--took the place of the two minor halls, Oving's Inn and Garett Hostel. No further addition to the College buildings was made until the nineteenth century, when the new court was built from the designs of Wilkins in the mastership of Dr. Christopher Wordsworth, and at a later time the two courts opposite the Great Gate across Trinity Street, by the benefaction of a sum approaching £100,000, by Dr. Whewell. To Dr. Whewell also belongs the merit of the restoration of the front of the Master's lodge, by the removal of the classical façade which had been so foolishly and tastelessly imposed upon the old work built by Dr. Bentley during his memorable tenure of the mastership from 1700 to 1742. The mention of the name of that most masterful of Yorkshiremen and most brilliant of Cambridge scholars and critics inevitably suggests the picture of that long feud between the Fellows of Trinity and their Master which lasted for nearly half a century, for a year at any rate longer than the Peloponnesian war, and was almost as full of exciting incidents. Those who care to read the miserable and yet amusing story can do so for themselves in the pages of Bishop Monk's "Life of Richard Bentley." It is more to the purpose here, I think, to recall the kindly and judicious verdict of the great scholar's life at Trinity by the greatest Cambridge scholar of to-day. "It must never be forgotten," writes Sir Richard Jebb, "that Bentley's mastership of Trinity is memorable for other things than its troubles. He was the first Master who established a proper competition for the great prizes of that illustrious college. The scholarships and fellowships had previously been given by a purely oral examination. Bentley introduced written papers; he also made the award of scholarships to be annual instead of biennial, and admitted students of the first year to compete for them. He made Trinity College the earliest home for a Newtonian school, by providing in it an observatory, under the direction of Newton's disciple and friend--destined to an early death--Roger Cotes. He fitted up a chemical laboratory in Trinity for Vigani of Verona, the professor of chemistry. He brought to Trinity the eminent orientalist, Sike of Bremen, afterwards professor of Hebrew. True to the spirit of the royal founder, Bentley wished Trinity College to be indeed a house 'of all kinds of good letters,' and at a time when England's academic ideals were far from high he did much to render it not only a great college, but also a miniature university."[88] And "a house of all kinds of good letters" Trinity has remained, and will surely always remain. As we walk lingeringly through its halls and courts what thronging historic memories crowd upon us! We may not forget the failures as well as the successes; the defeats as well as the triumphs; "the lost causes and impossible loyalties" as well as the persistent faith and the grand achievement; but what an inspiration we feel must such a place be to the young souls who, year by year, enter its gates. How can the flame of ideal sympathy with the great personalities of their country's history fail to be kindled or kept alive in such a place? Here by the Great Gate, on the first floor to the north, are the rooms where Isaac Newton lived. It was to these rooms that in 1666 he brought back the glass prism which he had bought in the Stourbridge Fair, and commenced the studies which eventually made it possible for Pope to write the epitaph:-- "Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night, God said 'Let Newton be!' and all was light." It was in these rooms that he had entertained his friends, John Locke, Richard Bentley, Isaac Barrow, Edmund Halley, Gilbert Burnett, who afterwards wrote of him, "the whitest soul I ever knew." It was here that he wrote his "Principia." It is in the ante-chapel close by that there stands that beautiful statue of him by Roubiliac, which Chantrey called "the noblest of our English statues," and of which Wordsworth has recorded how he used to lie awake at night to think of that "silent face" shining in the moonlight:-- "The marble index of a mind for ever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone." And in the chapel beyond, with its double range of "windows richly dight" with the figures of saints and worthies and benefactors of the College--Sir Francis Bacon, Sir Edward Coke, Sir Harry Spelman, Lord Craven, Roger Cotes, Archbishop Whitgift, Bishop Pearson, Bishop Barrow, Bishop Hacket, the poets Donne, George Herbert, Andrew Marvell, Cowley and Dryden--is it possible for the youthful worshipper not sometimes to be aroused and uplifted above the thoughts of sordid vulgarity, of moral isolation, of mean ambition, to "see visions and dream dreams," visions of coming greatness for city, or country, or empire, visions of great principles struggling in mean days of competitive scrambling, dreams of opportunity of some future service for the common good, which shall not be unworthy of his present heritage in these saints and heroes of the past, who may-- "Live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues." CHAPTER XII ANCIENT AND PROTESTANT FOUNDATIONS "Nec modo seminarium augustum et conclusum nimis, verum in se amplissimum campum collegium esse cupimus: ubi juvenes, apum more, de omnigenis flosculis pro libita libent, modo mel legant, quo et eorum procudantur linguæ et pectora, tanquam crura, thymo compleantur: ita ut tandem ex collegio quasi ex alveari evolantes, novas in quibus se exonerent ecclesiæ sedes appetant."--_Statutes of Sidney College._ Queen Elizabeth and the Founder of Emmanuel--The Puritan Age--Sir Walter Mildmay--The Building of Emmanuel--The Tenure of Fellowships--Puritan Worthies--The Founder of Harvard--Lady Frances Sidney--The Sidney College Charter--The Buildings--The Chapel the old Franciscan Refectory--Royalists and Puritans--Oliver Cromwell--Thomas Fuller--A Child's Prayer for his Mother. "I hear, Sir Walter," said Queen Elizabeth to the founder of Emmanuel College, "you have been erecting a Puritan foundation." "No, madam," he replied, "far be it from me to countenance anything contrary to your established laws; but I have set an acorn, which, when it becomes an oak, God alone knows what will be the fruit therefrom." And Sir Walter Mildmay expressed no doubt truthfully what was his own intention as a founder, for although it is customary to speak of both Emmanuel and Sidney Colleges as Puritan foundations, and although it admits of no question that the prevailing tone of Emmanuel College was from the first intensely Puritan in tone, yet it cannot certainly be said that either Emmanuel College or the college established by the Lady Frances Sidney two years later, were specially designed by their founders to strengthen the Puritan movement in the University. They synchronised with it no doubt, and many of their earliest members gave ample proof of their sympathy with it. But as foundations they sprang rather from the impulse traceable on the one hand to the literary spirit of the Renaissance, and on the other to the desire of promoting that union of rational religion with sound knowledge, which the friends of the New Learning, the disciples of Colet, Erasmus, and More had at heart. The two colleges were born, in fact, at the meeting-point of two great epochs of history. The age of the Renaissance was passing into the age of Puritanism. Rifts which were still little were widening every hour, and threatening ruin to the fabric of Church and State which the Tudors had built up. A new political world was rising into being; a world healthier, more really national, but less picturesque, less wrapt in the mystery and splendour that poets love. Great as were the faults of Puritanism, it may fairly claim to be the first political system which recognised the grandeur of the people as a whole. [Illustration: Hall & Chapel, Emmanuel College.] As great a change was passing over the spiritual sympathies of man; a sterner Protestantism was invigorating and ennobling life by its morality, by its seriousness, and by its intense conviction of God. But it was at the same time hardening and narrowing it. The Bible was superseding Plutarch. The obstinate questionings which haunted the finer souls of the Renaissance were being stereotyped in the theological formulas of the Puritan. The sense of divine omnipotence was annihilating man. The daring which turned England into a people of adventurers, the sense of inexhaustible resources, the buoyant freshness of youth, the intoxicating sense of beauty and joy, which inspired Sidney and Marlowe and Drake, was passing away before the consciousness of evil and the craving to order man's life aright before God. Emmanuel and Sidney Colleges were the children of this transition period. Sir Walter Mildmay, the founder of Emmanuel, was Chancellor of the Exchequer in the reign of Elizabeth, known and trusted by the Queen from her girlhood--she exchanged regularly New Year's gifts with him--a tried friend and discreet diplomatist, who had especially been distinguished in the negotiations in connection with the imprisonment of Mary, Queen of Scots. He had been educated at Christ's College, though apparently he had taken no degree. He was a man, however, of some learning, and retained throughout life a love for classical literature. Sir John Harrington, in his "Orlando Furioso," quotes a Latin stanza, which he says he derived from the Latin poems of Sir Walter Mildmay. These poems, however, are not otherwise known. He is also spoken of as the writer of a book entitled "A Note to Know a Good Man." His interest in his old university and sympathy with letters is attested by the fact that he contributed a gift of stone to complete the tower of Great S. Mary's, and established a Greek lectureship and six scholarships at Christ's College. He had acquired considerable wealth in his service of the State, having also inherited a large fortune from his father, who had been one of Henry VIII.'s commissioners for receiving the surrender of the dissolved monasteries. It was fitting, perhaps, he felt, that some portion of this wealth should be devoted to the service of religion and sound learning. Anyhow, in the month of January 1584, we find the Queen granting to her old friend, "his heirs, executors, and assigns," a charter empowering them "to erect, found, and establish for all time to endure a certain college of sacred theology, the sciences, philosophy and good arts, of one master and thirty fellows and scholars, graduate or non-graduate, or more or fewer according to the ordinances and statutes of the same college." On the 23rd of the previous November, Sir Walter had purchased for £550 the land and buildings of the Dominican or Black Friars, which had been established at Cambridge in 1279 and dissolved in 1538. During the fifty years that had elapsed since the dissolution the property had passed through various hands. Upon passing into the hands of Sir Walter it is thus described:-- "All that the scite, circuit, ambulance and precinct of the late Priory of Fryers prechers, commonly called the black fryers within the Towne of Cambrigge ... and all mesuages, houses, buildinges, barnes, stables, dovehouses, orchards, gardens, pondes, stewes, waters, land and soyle within the said scite.... And all the walles of stone, brick or other thinge compassinge and enclosinge the said scite." The present buildings stand upon nearly the same sites as those occupied by the original buildings, which were adapted to the requirements of the new college by Ralph Symons, the architect, who had already been employed at Trinity and S. John's. The hall, parlour, and butteries were constructed out of the Church of the Friars. It is recorded that "in repairing the Combination Room about the year 1762, traces of the high altar were very apparent near the present fireplace." The Master's lodge was formed at the east end of the same range, either by the conversion of the east part of the church, or by the erection of a new building. A new chapel, running north and south--the non-orientation, it is said, being due to Puritan feeling--was built to the north of the Master's lodge. The other new buildings consisted of a kitchen on the north side of the hall and a long range of chambers enclosing the court on the south. Towards the east there were no buildings, the court on that side being enclosed by a low wall. The entrance to the College was in Emmanuel Lane, through a small outer court, having the old chapel as its southern range and the kitchen as the northern. From this the principal court was reached by passages at either end of the hall. The range known as the Brick Building was added in 1632, extending southwards from the east end of the Founder's Chambers. In 1668 the present chapel was built facing east and west, in the centre of the southern side of the principal court. By this time, it is said, the old chapel had become ruinous. Moreover, it had never been consecrated, and the Puritanical observances alleged to have been practised in it were giving some offence to the Restoration authorities. The following statement, drawn up in 1603,[89] is interesting, not only as giving a graphic picture of the disorders complained of at Emmanuel, but also incidentally of the customs of other colleges:-- "1. First for a prognostication of disorder, whereas all the chappells in y^{e} University are built with the chancell eastward, according to y^{e} uniform order of all Christendome. The chancell in y^{e} colledge standeth north, and their kitchen eastward. "2. All other colledges in Cambridge do strictly observe, according to y^{e} laws and ordinances of y^{e} Church of Englande, the form of publick prayer, prescribed in y^{e} Communion Booke. In Emmanuel Colledge they do follow a private course of publick prayer, after y^{r} own fashion, both Sondaies, Holydaies and workie daies. "3. In all other colledges, the M^{rs} and Scholers of all sorts do wear surplisses and hoods, if they be graduates, upon y^{e} Sondaies and Holydaies in y^{e} time of Divine Service. But they of Emmanuel Colledge have not worn that attier, either at y^{e} ordinary Divine Service, or celebration of y^{e} Lord's Supper, since it was first erected. "4. All other colledges do wear, according to y^{e} order of y^{e} University, and many directions given from the late Queen, gowns of a sett fashion, and square capps. But they of Eman. Colledge are therein altogether irregular, and hold themselves not to be tied to any such orders. "5. Every other Colledge according to the laws in that behalf provided, and to the custome of the King's Householde, do refrayne their suppers upone Frydaies and other Fasting and Ember daies. But they of Eman. Coll. have suppers every such nights throughout y^{e} year, publickly in the gr. Hall, yea upon good Fridaye itself. "6. All other Colledges do use one manner of forme in celebratinge the Holy Communion, according to the order of the Communion Booke, as particularlye the Communicants do receive kneelinge, with the particular application of these words, viz., _The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, etc.; The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, etc._; as the s^{d} Booke prescribeth. But in Eman. Coll. they receive that Holy Sacrament, sittinge upon forms about the Communion Table, and doe pulle the loafe one from the other, after the minister hath begon. And soe y^{e} cuppe one drinking as it were to another, like good Fellows without any particular application of y^{e} s^{d} wordes, more than once for all. "7. In other Colledges and Churches, generally none are admitted to attend att the Communion Table, in the celebration of the Holy Mystery, but Ministers and Deacons. But in Eman. Coll. the wine is filled and the table is attended by the Fellows' subsizers." There is one interesting feature in connection with the foundation of Emmanuel College which calls for special notice, as showing that the Puritan founder was fully conscious of the dangers attaching to a perpetual tenure of Fellowships, as affording undue facilities for evading those practical duties of learning and teaching, the efficient discharge of which he rightly considered it should be the main object of the University to demand, and the interest of the nation to secure. "We have founded the College," says Sir Walter, "with the design that it should be, by the grace of God, a seminary of learned men for the supply of the Church, and for the sending forth of as large a number as possible of those who shall instruct the people in the Christian faith. _We would not have any Fellow suppose that we have given him, in this College, a perpetual abode_, a warning which we deem the more necessary, in that we have ofttimes been present when many experienced and wise men have taken occasion to lament, and have supported their complaints by past and present utterances, that in other colleges a too protracted stay of Fellows has been no slight bane to the common weal and to the interests of the Church."[90] In the sequel, however, the wise forethought of Sir Walter Mildmay was to a great extent frustrated. The clause of the College statutes which embodied his design was set aside in the re-action towards conservative university tradition, which followed upon the re-establishment of the Stuart dynasty. A similar clause in the statutes of Sidney College, which had been simply transcribed from the original Emmanuel statutes, was about the same time rescinded, on the ground that it was a deviation from the customary practice of other societies, both at Oxford and Cambridge. It was not, in fact, until the close of the nineteenth century that university reformers were able to secure such a revision of the terms of Fellowship tenure as should obviate, on the one hand, the dangers which the wisdom of the Puritan founder foresaw, and, on the other, make adequate provision, under stringent and safe conditions, for the endowment of research. The old traditionary system is thus summarised by Mr. Mullinger:-- "The assumption of priests' orders was indeed made, in most instances, an indispensable condition for a permanent tenure of a Fellowship, but it too often only served as a pretext under which all obligation to studious research was ignored, while the Fellowship itself again too often enabled the holder to evade with equal success the responsibilities of parish work. Down to a comparatively recent date, it has accordingly been the accepted theory with respect to nearly all College Fellowships that they are designed to assist clergymen to prepare for active pastoral work, and not to aid the cause of learned or scientific research. Occasionally, it is true, the bestowal of a lay fellowship has fallen upon fruitful ground. The Plumian Professorship fostered the bright promise of a Cotes: the Lucasian sustained the splendid achievements of Newton. But for the most part those labours to which Cambridge can point with greatest pride and in whose fame she can rightly claim to share--the untiring scientific investigations which have established on a new and truer basis the classification of organic existence or the succession of extinct forms--or the long patience and profound calculations which have wrested from the abysmal depths of space the secrets of stupendous agencies and undreamed of laws--or the scholarship which has restored, with a skill and a success that have moved the envy of united Germany, some of the most elaborate creations of the Latin muse--have been the achievements of men who have yielded indeed to the traditional theory a formal assent but have treated it with a virtual disregard."[91] How essentially Puritan was the prevailing tone of Emmanuel during the early days we may surmise from the fact, that in the time of the Commonwealth no less than eleven masters of other colleges in the University came from this Foundation--Seaman of Peterhouse, Dillingham of Clare Hall, Whichcote of King's, Horton of Queens', Spurston of S. Catharine's, Worthington of Jesus, Tuckney of John's, Cudworth of Christ's, Sadler of Magdalene, Hill of Trinity. Among some of the earliest students to receive their education within its walls were many of the Puritan leaders of America. Cotton Mather, in his "Ecclesiastical History of New England," gives a conspicuous place in its pages to the names of Emmanuel men--Thomas Hooker, John Cotton, Thomas Shephard. "If New England," he says, "hath been in some respect Immanuel's Land, it is well; but this I am sure of, Immanuel College contributed more than a little to make it so." Few patriotic Americans of the present day, visiting England, omit to make pilgrimage to Emmanuel, for was not the founder of their University, Harvard College, an Emmanuel man, graduating from that college in 1631, and proceeding to his M.A. degree in 1635? John Harvard, "the ever memorable benefactor of learning and religion in America," as Edward Everett justly styles him--"a godly gentleman and lover of learning," as he is called by his contemporaries, "a scholar, and pious in life, and enlarged towards the country and the good of it in life and death," seems indeed to have been a worthy son of both Emmanuel and of Cambridge, a Puritan indeed, but of that fuller and manlier type which was characteristic of the Elizabethan age rather than of the narrower, more contentious, more pedantic order which set in with and was hardened and intensified by the arbitrary provocations of the Stuart regime. [Illustration: Downing College] The last in date of foundation of the Cambridge Colleges with which we have to deal--for Downing College, unique as it is in many ways, and attractive (its precincts, "a park in the heart of a city"), is not yet a century old, and its history although in some respects of national importance, lies beyond our limit of time--was the "Ancient and Protestant Foundation of Sidney Sussex College." The foundress of Sydney Sussex College was the Lady Frances Sidney, one of the learned ladies of the court of Elizabeth. She was the aunt both of Sir Philip Sidney and of the Earl of Leicester; the wife of Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, known at least to all readers of "Kenilworth" as the rival of Leicester. To-day the noble families of Pembroke, Carnarvon, and Sidney all claim her as a common ancestress. A few years ago, in conjunction with the authorities of the college, they restored her tomb, which occupies the place of the altar in the chapel of S. Paul in Westminster Abbey. It was the Dean of Westminster, her friend Dr. Goodman, who gave to the college that portrait of the foundress which hangs above the high table in the college hall. It is a characteristic of the period which may be worth noting here--of the middle, that is, of the sixteenth century--when the destinies of Europe were woven by the hands of three extraordinary queens, who ruled the fortunes of England, France, and Scotland--that, as the fruits of the Renaissance and of the outgrowth of the New Learning, and perhaps also of the independent spirit of the coming Puritanism, learned women should in some degree be leading the van of English civilisation. How long the Lady Frances had had the intention of founding a college, and what was the prompting motive, we do not know. In her will, however, which is dated December 6, 1588, the intention is clearly stated. After giving instructions as to her burial and making certain bequests, she proceeds to state "that since the decease of her late lord"--he had died five years previously--"she had yearly gathered out of her revenues so much as she conveniently could, purposing to erect some goodly and godly monument for the maintenance of good learning." In performance of the same, her charitable pretence, she directs her executors to employ the sum of £5000 (made up from her ready-money yearly reserved, a certain portion of plate, and other things which she had purposely left) together with all her unbequeathed goods, for the erection of a new college in the University of Cambridge, to be called the "Lady Frances Sidney Sussex College, and for the purchasing some competent lands for the maintaining of a Master, ten Fellows, and twenty Scholars, if the said £5000 and unbequeathed goods would thereunto extend." On her death in the following year her executors, the Earl of Kent and Sir John Harrington, at once attempted to carry out her wishes. Of them and their endeavour, Fuller, himself a Sidney man, has thus, as always, quaintly written:-- "These two noble executors in the pursuance of the will of this testatrix, according to her desire and direction therein, presented Queen Elizabeth with a jewel, being like a star, of rubies and diamonds, with a ruby in the midst thereof, worth an hundred and forty pounds, having on the back side a hand delivering up a heart into a crown. At the delivery hereof they humbly requested of her Highness a mortmain to found a College, which she graciously granted unto them"--though the royal license did not actually come until five years later. "We usually observe infants born in the seventh month, though poor and pitiful creatures, are vital; and with great care and good attendance, in time prove proper persons. To such a _partus septimestris_ may Sidney College well be resembled, so low, lean, and little at the birth thereof. Alas! what is five thousand pounds to buy the site, build and endow a College therewith?... Yet such was the worthy care of her honourable executors, that this Benjamin College--the least and last in time, and born _after_ (as he _at_) the death of his mother--thrived in a short time to a competent strength and stature."[92] Some delay ensued, for it was not until 1593 that, at the motion of the executors, an Act of Parliament was passed enabling Trinity College to sell or let at fee farm rent the site of the Grey Friars. The College charter is dated February 14, 1596. The building was commenced in the following May, and completed, with the exception of the chapel, in 1598. In the same year the original statutes were framed by the executors. They are largely copied from those of Emmanuel, and are equally verbose, cumbrous, and ill-arranged. One clause in them which speaks of the Master as one who "_Papismum, Hæreses, superstitiones, et errores omnes ex animo abhorret et detestatur_," testifies to the intentionally Protestant character of the College, a fact, however, which did not prevent James II., on a vacancy in the mastership, intruding on the society a Papist Master, Joshua Basset, of Caius, of whom the Fellows complained that he was "let loose upon them to do what he liked." They had, however, their revenge, for, although later he was spoken of as "such a mongrel Papist, who had so many nostrums in his religion that no part of the Roman Church could own him," in 1688 he was deposed. The architect of the College buildings was Ralph Simons, who had built Emmanuel and "thoroughly reformed a great part of Trinity College." It is interesting to note that more than half of the sum received from Lady Sidney's estate to found and endow the College was expended in the erection of the hall, the Master's lodge, and the hall court. These buildings formed the whole of the College when it was opened in 1598. How picturesque it must have been in those days, before the red brick of which it is built was covered with plaster, one can see by Loggan's print of the College, made about 1688. The buildings are simple enough, but quite well designed. The "rose-red" of the brick, at least, seems to have struck the poet, Giles Fletcher, when he wrote of Sidney in 1633 in his Latin poem on the Cambridge colleges:-- "Haec inter media aspicies mox surgere tecta Culminibus niveis roseisque nitentia muris; Nobilis haec doctis sacrabit femina musis, Conjugio felix, magno felicior ortu, Insita Sussexo proles Sidneia trunco." [Illustration: The Garden Front Sidney Sussex College] The arrangement of the hall, kitchen, buttery, and Master's lodge was much the same as at present. The hall had an open timber roof, with a fine oriel window at the dais end, but no music gallery. Fuller says that the College "continued without a chapel some years after the first founding thereof, until at last some good men's charity supplied this defect." In 1602, however, the old hall of the friars--Fuller calls it the dormitory, but there is little doubt that it was in reality the refectory--was fitted up as a chapel, and a second storey added to form a library. A few years later, about 1628, a range of buildings forming the south side of the chapel court was built. In 1747, the buildings having become ruinous, extensive repairs were carried out, and the hall was fitted up in the Italian manner. The picturesque gateway which had stood in the centre of the street wall of the hall court was removed, and a new one of more severe character was built in its place. This also at a later time was removed and re-erected as a garden entrance from Jesus Lane. Between 1777 and 1780 the old chapel was destroyed, and replaced by a new building designed by Essex, in a style in which, to say the least, there is certainly nothing to remind the modern student of the old hall of the Grey Friars' Monastery, where for three centuries of stirring national life the Franciscan monks had kept alive, let us hope, something of the mystic tenderness, the brotherly compassion, the fervour of missionary zeal, which they had learnt from their great founder, Saint Francis of Assisi. Of the old Fellows' garden, which in 1890 was partly sacrificed to provide a site for the new range of buildings and cloister--perhaps the most beautiful of modern collegiate buildings at either university--designed by Pearson, Dyer writes with enthusiasm:-- "Here is a good garden, an admirable bowling green, a beautiful summer house, at the back of which is a walk agreeably winding, with variety of trees and shrubs intertwining, and forming the whole length, a fine canopy overhead; with nothing but singing and fragrance and seclusion; a delightful summer retreat; the sweetest lovers' or poets' walk, perhaps in the University." To the extremely eclectic character of the College in its early days the Master's admission register testifies. Among its members were some of the stoutest Royalists and also some of the stoutest Republicans in the country. Among the former we find such names as those of Edward Montagu (afterwards first Baron Montagu of Boughton), brother of the first Master, a great benefactor of the College; of Sir Roger Lestrange, of Hunstanton Hall, in Norfolk, celebrated as the editor of the first English newspaper, "a man of good wit, and a fancy very luxuriant and of an enterprising nature," in early youth--his attempt to recover the port of Lynn for the King in 1644 is one of the funniest episodes in English history--a very Don Quixote of the Royalist party; and of Seth Ward, a Fellow of the college, who was ejected in Commonwealth times, but had not to live long, before he was able to write back to his old College that he had been elected to the See of Exeter, and that "the old bishops were exceeding disgruntled at it, to see a brisk young bishop, but forty years old, not come in at the right door, but leap over the pale." Among the Republican members of the College it is enough, perhaps, to name the name of Oliver Cromwell. And of him, at least, whatever our final verdict on his career may be, whatever dreams of personal ambition we may think mingled with his aim, we cannot surely deny, if at least we have ever read his letters, that his aim was, in the main, a high and unselfish one, and that in the career, which to our modern minds may seem so strange and complex, he had seen the leading of a divine hand that drew him from the sheepfolds to mould England into a people of God. And to some, surely, he seems the most human-hearted sovereign and most imperial man in all English annals since the days of Alfred. And no one, I trust, would in these days endorse the verdict of the words interpolated in the College books between the entry of his name and the next on the list:-- "_Hic fuit grandis ille impostor, carnifex perditissimus, qui, pientissimo rege Carolo primo nefaria cæde sublato, ipsum usurpavit thronum, et tria regna per quinque ferme annorum spatium sub protectoris nomine indomita tyrannide vexavit_," which may be Englished thus-- "This was that arch hypocrite, that most abandoned murderer, who having by shameful slaughter put out of the way the most pious King, Charles the First, grasped the very throne, and for the space of nearly five years under the title of Protector harassed three kingdoms with inflexible tyranny." Rather, as we stand in the College Hall and gaze up at the stern features, as depicted by Cooper,[93] in that best of all the Cromwell portraits, shall we not commemorate this greatest of Sidney men, in Lowell's words, as-- "One of the few who have a right to rank With the true makers: for his spirit wrought Order from chaos; proved that Right divine Dwelt only in the excellence of Truth: And far within old darkness' hostile lines Advanced and pitched the shining tents of Light. Nor shall the grateful Muse forget to tell That--not the least among his many claims To deathless honour--he was Milton's friend." Thomas Fuller, too, who was neither Republican nor Royalist, but loyal to the good men of both parties in the State, is a name of which Sidney College may well be proud. No one can read any of his books, full as they are of imagination, pathos, and an exuberant, often extravagant, but never ineffective wit, without heartily endorsing Coleridge's saying: "God bless thee, dear old man!" and recognising the truth of his panegyric, "Next to Shakespeare, I am not certain whether Thomas Fuller, beyond all other writers, does not excite in me the sense and emulation of the marvellous.... He was incomparably the most sensible, the least prejudiced great man in an age that boasted of a galaxy of great men." And with Fuller's name, indeed with Fuller's own words, in that benediction which, after eight years of residence, he gave to Sidney College, and which he himself calls his "Child's Prayer to His Mother," I may appropriately end this chapter. "Now though it be only the place of the parent, and proper to him (as the greater) to bless his child, yet it is of the duty of the child to pray for his parent, in which relation my best desires are due to this foundation, my mother (for the last eight years) in this University. May her lamp never lack light for oil, or oil for the light thereof. Zoar, is it not a little one? Yet who shall despise the day of small things? May the foot of sacrilege, if once offering to enter the gates thereof, stumble and rise no more. The Lord bless the labours of all the students therein, that they may tend and end at his glory, their own salvation, the profit and honour of the Church and Commonwealth." And not less appropriately, perhaps, may I end, not only this chapter, but this whole sketch of the story of Cambridge and its colleges--for to the memory of what more kindly, more sound-hearted, more pious soul could any Sidney man more fitly dedicate his book than to his--with the prayer in which, in closing his own History, he gracefully connects the name of Cambridge with that of the sister university, and commends them both to the charitable devotion of all good men. "O God! who in the creating of the lower world didst first make light (confusedly diffused, as yet, through the imperfect universe) and afterwards didst collect the same into two great lights, to illuminate all creatures therein; O Lord, who art a God of knowledge and dost lighten every man that cometh into the world; O Lord, who in our nation hast moved the hearts of Founders and Benefactors to erect and endow two famous luminaries of learning and religion, bless them with the assistance of Thy Holy Spirit. Let neither of them contest (as once Thy disciples on earth) which should be the greatest, but both contend which shall approve themselves the best in Thy presence.... And as Thou didst appoint those two great lights in the firmament to last till Thy servants shall have no need of the sun, nor of the moon to shine therein, for Thy glory doth lighten them; so grant these old lights may continue until all acquired and infused knowledge be swallowed up with the vision and the fruition of Thy blessed-making Majesty.--Amen." INDEX _Akeman Street_, old Roman road known as, 15 Alan de Walsingham, cathedral builder, 174 Alcock, Thomas, Bishop of Ely, founder of Jesus College, 185, 186; his plan of incorporating grammar-school with college, 187, 189 Alcwyne, departure of, from England, 52 Audley, Sir Thomas, conversion of Buckingham College into Magdalene by, 249; Fuller's account of, 249, 250; grant of suppressed monasteries made to, 251 Augustinian Friars, settlement of, on site of old Botanic Gardens, 72 Barnard Flower, King's glazier, 151 Barnwell, origin of name, 37; Augustinian priory of, 35, 36; foundation and further history of, 36, 37; rebuilding of, 38; present remains of, 38 _Barnwell Cartulary_, 18, 40 Barnwell Fair, 17, 18 Barrow, Dr. Isaac, Master of Trinity, his work in connection with, 260 Bateman, William, Bishop of Norwich, founder of Trinity Hall, 174 Bede, monastic school of, 51, 52; book on "The Nature of Things" by, 52 Benedictine Order, re-establishment of, under St. Dunstan, 53; discipline of, 75 Bentley, Dr. Richard, Master of Trinity, feud between Fellows and, 261-2; work of, in connection with college, 262 _Bibliotheca Pepysiana_, 252 Black Death, the, 103, 111, 134 Black Friars, arrival of, in England, 55; land and buildings belonging to, purchased for site of Emmanuel College, 268 Books, complaint by Roger Bacon of lack of, 57 _Brazen George Inn_, the scholars of Christ's lodged in, 220 British earthworks, 14 Buckingham College, description of, by Fuller, 248; foundation of, by Benedictine, 248; hall built in connection with, 248; lectures by Cranmer at, 249; semi-secular character of, 249; conversion of, into Magdalene College, 249 Burne-Jones, designs by, for Jesus Chapel, 203 Caius, John, founder of College, 114; design for famous three gates by, 114-19; death of, 119 _Camboritum_, 16, 17 Cambridge, verses on, by Lydgate, 2; legendary history of, 3-8; position of, 14; origin of name of, 15, 16; geographical position of, 17; early population of, 24; farm of, given as dower to the queen, 24; beginnings of municipal independence of, 27; "the borough," overflow of, incorporated with township of S. Benet, 28, 32; first charter of, 48 Cambridge Guilds, 120, 121, 122-26 Cambridge University, migration of masters and scholars from Paris to, 59, 60; royal writs concerning, 60; description of, in Middle Ages, 61, 62, 63; course of study pursued at, 63, ff.; learning at, in thirteenth century, 68-70; library, erected by Sir Gilbert Scott, 144 _Candle rent_, insurrection of towns-people on account of, 132, 133 Cantelupe, Nicholas, legendary history by, 4-7 Carmelites, settlement of, on present site of Queens', 72 Castle, old site of, 15; foundation of, by William the Conqueror, 22; use of, as prison, as a quarry, 23; gate-house of, demolished, 23 Castle Hill, ancient earthwork known as, 14, 15 Chaucer, tradition concerning, 106 Churches-- _Abbey_, the, 39 _All Saints by the Castle_, 34 _Holy Sepulchre_, one of the four round churches of England, 40, 43, 44 _S. Benedict_, 28, 29, 31, 125, 130-31 _S. Edward_, 176; independence of, with regard to pulpit teaching, 177, 178 _S. Giles_, 34, 35 _S. John Zachary_, 176 _S. Mary at Market_, afterwards _Great S. Mary_, 123 _S. Peter_, without the Trumpington Gate, afterwards called _Little S. Mary_, 86, 87 _S. Peter by the Castle_, 34 Close, Nicholas, architect of King's Chapel, 147, 148 Coleridge, S. T., scholar of Jesus, 208; poems written by, at College, 208 College, meaning of the term in olden times, 62 Colleges-- _Caius._ See _Gonville Hall_ _Christ's_, foundation of, 210, 215; _God's House_, taken as basis of, 215; Royal Charter of, 216; description of buildings of, 217, 218; hall of, rebuilt by Sir Gilbert Scott, 219; windows of, 219, 220; scholars of, lodged in the _Brazen George_, 220; _Rat's Hall_, erection of, 220; further buildings of, erected by Inigo Jones, 220; "re-beautifying the Chappell" of, 220, 221; John Milton and Charles Darwin members of, 221, 223; other distinguished members of, 223, 224 _Clare._ See _University Hall_ _Corpus Christi_, foundation of, 121, 127; building of, 126, 127; royal benefactors of, 128; distinguished men belonging to, 128, 129; library given by Matthew Parker to, 128; description of old buildings of, 129; new library of, 130; attack on, by townspeople, 132, 133 _Emmanuel_, foundation of, 265; design of Sir W. Mildmay in founding, 265; charter of, granted by Queen Elizabeth, 268; land and buildings of the Black Friars purchased for site of, 268; buildings of, erected, 269; offence given by the Puritanical observances of, 269; statement drawn up concerning the same, 270-71; tenure of fellowships at, 271-272; revision of terms concerning, 272; masters of other colleges elected from, 273; John Harvard, a graduate of, 274 _Gonville Hall_, first foundation of, 110; removal of, 111; statutes of, 111, 112; old buildings of, 112; bequest by John Household to, 112; strong support of reformed opinions at, 113; second foundation by John Caius, 114; architectural additions made by, 114; famous three gates designed by, 114-19 _Jesus_, foundation of, 180; number of society of at first, 187; grammar-school incorporated with, 187, 189; nunnery of S. Rhadegund converted into buildings of, 189, 190, 199, 200; "the chimney" at, 200; the chapel of, 201-203; constitution of, 203, 204; failure of plan for incorporating school with, 204; Cranmer and other famous men at, 204, 207, 208; King James's saying regarding, 209 _King's_, foundation of by Henry VI., 142; confiscation of alien priories for endowment of, 143; provision concerning the transference of Eton scholars to, 144; first site of, 144; description of old buildings of, 144; incorporation of, in new buildings of university library, 114; old gateway of, 145; ampler site obtained for, 146, 147; chapel of, 147-50; work in connection with stopped, 150; renewed, 151; windows of, 151, 152; screen and rood-loft, 153; further buildings of, 153, 154; Pope's bull granting independence of, 154; distinguished men belonging to, 157, 158; King James's saying regarding, 209 _King's Hall_, first establishment of, 97, 98; absorption of by Trinity, 97, 257; picture of collegiate life given in statutes of, 98, 99 _Magdalene_, Buckingham College converted into, 248; dissimilarity of original statutes of, with those of Christ's and S. John's, 251; Duke of Norfolk contributes to revenues of, 251; date of quadrangle of, 251; of chapel and library of, 251; chambers added to Monk's College for accommodation of scholars of, 252; new gateway of, 252; chapel of, "Italianised" and restored, 252; Pepysian Library of, 252; reference to same in Pepys' "Diary," 252; famous Magdalene men, 253 _Michaelhouse_, foundation of and early statutes, 97; absorption of, by Trinity, 97, 257 _Pembroke_, foundation of, 93; Countess of Pembroke, foundress of, 106, 107; charter of, 107; constitution of, 108; building of, 108, 109; remains of old buildings of, 110 _Peterhouse_, foundation of, 77; first code of statutes of, 79-81; hall of, 82-84; Fellows' parlour at, 85; Perne library at, 89, 90; building of present chapel of, 81; description of same, 92 _Queens'_, foundation of by Margaret of Anjou, 158-61; earliest extant statutes of, 161; change of name of from Queen's to Queens', 161; similarity of building of with that of Haddon Hall, 162; description of principal court of, 162, 165; Tower of Erasmus at, 165, 166; residence of Erasmus at, 165-71 _S. Catherine's Hall_, foundation of, 181; statutes of, 181; old buildings of, 181, 182; rebuilding of, 182; new chapel of, built on site of Hobson's stables, 182 _S. John's_, royal license to refound the Monastic Hospital of, 226; bequest of Lady Margaret lost to, through opposition of Court Party, 230; other revenues obtained for, by Bishop Fisher, 231; first Master of, 231; early and present buildings of, 231, 232; "Bridge of Sighs" at, 232; great gateway of, 235; old and new library of, 235, 236, 237; the Masters' gallery at, 236; lines on by Wordsworth, 237, 238; new chapel of, erected by Sir Gilbert Scott, 238, 241; famous men at, 241, 242 _Sidney_, foundation of, 265; desire of Lady Frances Sidney in the founding of, 266; Fuller's account of petition to Queen Elizabeth concerning, 275-76; granting of charter to, 276-77; original statutes of, 277; Papist master of, deposed, 278; buildings of, 278-79; poem by Giles Fletcher on, 278; old chapel of, destroyed, 279; old Fellows' garden at, 279; Royalist and Republican members of, 280; Oliver Cromwell and Thomas Fuller members of, 281; Fuller's "Child's Prayer to his Mother," and prayer at close of his history, 283 _Trinity Hall_, origin of, 174; buildings of, 175, 176; hall of, 176; chapel of, 176; beating the bounds by Fellows of, 178; old library of, 179; Garden and "Jowett's Plot" at, 180; King James's saying concerning, 209; example of change from mediæval to modern conception of learning furnished by, 253; King Henry's charter of foundation, 253; site of, 254 _Trinity College_, relation of old halls and hostels with present buildings of, 254-55; Dr. Thomas Neville's work in connection with, 258; building of new library at, 260; later additions to, 261; two minor halls at, replaced by Bishop's hostel, 261; feud between Master and Fellows of, 261; Dr. Bentley's work in connection with, 262; Isaac Newton at, 263; other famous men connected with, 263 _University Hall_, first foundation of, 93, 99; refoundation of, as Clare House, 99; statutes of, 100, 103, 104; dispute of with King's College, 104, 105; supposed identity of with Chaucer's "Soler-Halle," 105, 106; great men associated with, 106 Cornelius, Austin, wood-carver, 153 Cosin, Dr., Master of Peterhouse, building of College Chapel by, 91 Cranmer, entry of, into Jesus College, 204; fellowship at resigned by, 249; lectures given by, at Magdalene, 249 Crauden, John of, Prior of Ely, Hostel of, 174, 175; portrait bust of, 174 Cromwell, Oliver, member of Sidney College, 281-82; portrait of, by Cooper, 282; Lowell's verses on, 282 Danes, ravages of, 52, 53 Darwin, Charles, member of Christ's College, 221, 222, 225 _De Heretico Comburendo_, 136 Devil's Dyke, British earthwork known as, 14 Dokell, Andrew, founder of S. Bernard's Hostel, 160 Dominicans, introduction of the new philosophy by, 58, 59; settlement of, on site of Emmanuel, 72 Drayton, Michael, picture of Fenland by, 11-12 Elizabeth, Queen, visit of, to Cambridge, 251 Elizabeth de Burgh, Countess of Clare, University Hall refounded by, 99 Elizabeth Wydville, Queen to Edward IV., second foundress of Queen's College, 161 Ely, Lady Chapel, comparison of with King's, 149, 150 Ely, student monks of, Hostel for, provided by John Crauden, 174; transference of, to Monk's College, 175 Erasmus, residence of, at Queens', 165-68; "Paraclesis" of _Novum Testamentum_ written while there, 171; appointment of, to Lady Margaret chair, 211; his praise of Oxford teachers, 212; summoned to Cambridge to teach Greek, 214 Eton College, 141; connection of, with King's, 144 Fenland, changes in physical features of, 9-11; description of, in _Liber Eliensis_ and other works, 11-13 Fisher, John, Bishop of Rochester, founder of Christ's and S. John's, 185, 242; notice of Lady Margaret attracted by, 211; divinity professorship founded by, 212; literary revival at Cambridge promoted by, 214, 242; speech by, in Parliament, 250; funeral sermon on Lady Margaret by, 228, 229; sympathy of, with new spirit of Bible criticism, 242; friendship of, with Erasmus, 242; attachment of, to Papal cause, 242; character of, evidenced by his codes of statutes, 243; opposition of, to divorce of Henry VIII. and Catherine of Arragon, 243; description of trial and death of, by Froude and Mullinger, 244, 245 Fletcher, Giles, poem by, on Sidney College, 278 Franciscans, first habitation of, 55, 56; erection of house by, on site of Sidney College, 72 Friars, proselytising of students by, 72, 73 Friars of the Order of Bethlehem, 72; of the Sack, 72, 78 Frost, Henry, Burgess, founder of Hospital of S. John, 226 Fuller, Thomas, quotation from, concerning the Universities, 8; account of origin of Fair by, 17, 18; account of petition to Queen Elizabeth concerning Sidney College, 276-77; "Child's Prayer to his Mother," and prayer, at close of his History, by, 283 Gilbertines, settlement of, in Trumpington Street, 72 _God's House_, small foundation of latter as basis of Christ's, 215, 216, 217, 226 Grantebrigge, Norman village of, 32 _Great Bridge and Small Bridge_, 33 Grey Friars, arrival of, in England, 55 Guilds. _See_ under Cambridge Guild of Corpus Christi, 120, 125, 126; incorporation of, with Guild of S. Mary, 121, 126; the "good Duke," alderman of, 127; Queen Philippa and family enrolled as members of, 127; of Thegns, 122, 123; of S. Mary, 120, 121, 123, 125; of the Holy Sepulchre, first religious guild, 123 Harvard, John, graduate of Emmanuel, 274 Havens, Theodore, of Cleves, architect, 116 Henry VI., birth of, 137; description of, by Stubbs, 138; his love of letters, 142; and holiness, 143 Henry VII., visit of, to Cambridge, 151 Henry of Costessey, _Commentary on the Psalms_ by, 58 Hervey de Stanton, Bishop of Bath and Wells, founder of Michaelhouse, 97 High Street, old, 34 Hobson, Thomas, chapel built on site of stables belonging to, 182 Hostels, establishment of, 63; various, absorbed by Trinity, 254-55 _House of Benjamin_, 47, 48 Household, John, bequest by D. Gonville, 113 Hugh de Balsham, Bishop of Ely, founder of Peterhouse, 75, 76, 78, 79 Ingulph, story quoted from, 7 Jews, early establishment of, in Cambridge, 44; influence of, on academic history and material condition of town, 46, 47 Josselin, fellow of Queen's, account of the building of Corpus Christi College by, 126, 127 King's Ditch, the, old artificial stream known as, 32, 33 _King's Scholars_, 97; regulations concerning, 98, 99 Kingsley, Charles, description of Fenland by, 12, 13 Lancaster, Henry, Duke of, alderman of Corpus Christi Guild, 127, 128 Lanes, old, still surviving, 33 Langton, John, architect of King's Chapel, 147 Latimer, Hugh, sermon preached by, at S. Edward, 177 Learning, decline of, in fourteenth century, 95, 96 Lollardism in the university towns, 135, 136 Lydgate, John, verses on Cambridge by, 2, 3 Margaret, Countess of Richmond and Derby, foundress of Christ's College and S. John's, description of, by Fuller, 210; funeral sermon on, by Bishop Fisher, 210, 228, 229, 230; influence of Bishop Fisher upon, 212, 215; noble benefactions of, 216, 217; rooms at Christ Church of, 218, 219; characteristic story of, 218; death of, 228; monument to, 228 Margaret of Anjou, description of, by Shakespeare, 158; foundress of Queen's College, 158, 159, 160 Matthew Paris, description of Fenland by, 11 Mediæval students, dress of, 81-83 Merton, Walter de, exclusion of religious orders from his foundation by, 73; his _Regula Mertonensis_, 74, 75, 79 Mildmay, Sir Walter, founder of Emmanuel, 265; answer of, to Queen Elizabeth concerning same, 265 Milne Street, old, 34 Milton, John, member of Christ's, 221; description of rooms at, 221; mulberry tree planted by, 221; poems written by, as an undergraduate, 222; treatment of at college, 223 Monasteries, depression caused by suppression of, 246; advantages to universities arising from, 247, 248; King Henry's words with regard to, 247, 248 Monastic houses, early settlements of, 72 _Monk's College_, monks of Ely transferred to, 175 Monk's Hall, 175 More, Henry, member of Christ's, 224; as one of the Cambridge Platonists, 224, 225 Neville, Dr. Thomas, Master of Trinity, his work of building in connection with, 258-59 New Learning, the, 56, 57, 58, 183-85; encouragement of, at Cambridge, 211; renown of Oxford in connection with, 212; promoted at Cambridge by Bishop Fisher, 214; colleges of, 241; no regard shown to, in statutes of Magdalene, 251 Newton, Sir Isaac, at Trinity, 263; his _Principia_ written there, 263; statue of, by Roubiliac, 263 Parker, Matthew, Archbishop, library of MSS. belonging to, 128, 130, 131 Parker, Richard, translation of _Skeletos Cantabrigiensis_ by, 4 Pearson, Mr., old gateway of King's restored by, 145 Perne, Dr. Andrew, portrait of, 85; bequest of library to Peterhouse by, 89; account of, 89, 90; Latin verb invented in honour of, 89 Philippa, Queen, member of Corpus Christi Guild, 127, 128 "Poore Priestes," the, of Wycliffe, 135, 136 Preaching, art of, neglected, 212, 213; Lady Margaret's readership founded as a remedy for, 213, 214 Puritanism in England, 265-66 Reginald of Ely, architect of King's Chapel, 148 _Regula Mertonensis_ taken as model for rule of Peterhouse, 75, 79 Richard de Baden, Chancellor of the University, 99 Richard III., gift of land by, to King's College, 151 Richard of Bury, Bishop of Durham, application from Petrarch to, 95; description of Oxford by, 96 Rotherham, Thomas, Archbishop of York, college founded by, 187; purposes and provisions of same, 187, 188 S. Augustine, list of books brought to England by, 50 S. Bernard Hostel, 160; absorption of, in foundation of Queen's, 161 S. John, Hospital of, 76, 226; nucleus of S. John's College, 78; history and downfall of, 226, 228 S. Rhadegund, history of nuns of, 189-99; conversion of nunnery of, into college buildings, 199, 200 Scholars, secular endowment of, 76; dispute of, with regulars, 77; removal of, 77 Scholars of Ely, 78 _School of Pythagoras_, old Norman house known as, 27 Schools, monastic, of Northumbria and the South, 50, 51 Scott, Sir Gilbert, University library erected by, 144; hall of Christ's rebuilt by, 219; chapel of S. John's erected by, 238, 241 Sidney, Lady Frances, foundress of Sidney College, 266, 275-76; portrait of, 275 Simon, Montagu, Bishop of Ely, first code of statutes for Peterhouse by, 78 Spencer, Henry, Bishop of Norwich, revolt of towns-people quelled by, 133 _Star Chamber_, origin of name of, 46 Sterne, Laurence, portrait of, at Jesus, 207 Stourbridge Fair, earliest charter of, 18; comparison of, with Bunyan's "Vanity Fair," 19, 20 Symons, Ralph, architect of Emmanuel College, 269, 278 _Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs_, the Greek MS. of, 56 Tower of Erasmus, 165 Town and gown, ill feeling between, 132; riot arising from, 132, 133 Tusser, Thomas, residence of, at Trinity Hall, and verses by, 173 University, use of the term of, 60, 61 Venn, Henry, influence of, at Jesus, 208 _Via Devana_, or _Roman Way_, 15, 28, 32, 34 Walden, Abbey of, grant of, to Sir T. Audley, 252; association of, with Buckingham College, 252 Wharfs or river hithes, rights in regard to, 33 Wordsworth, William, lines by, on S. John's, 237, 238 Wren, Dr. Matthew, Master of Peterhouse, 90; chapel of, built by, 91 Wren, Sir Christopher, architect of library at Trinity Hall, 260; tables, chairs, and shelves designed by, 261 THE END Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. Edinburgh & London FOOTNOTES: [1] _Cf._ Baker MS. in the University Library. [2] See the very excellent map given in "Fenland Past and Present," by S. H. Miller and Sidney Skertchley (published, Longmans, 1878), a book full of information on the natural features of the Fen country, its geology, its antiquarian relics, its flora and fauna. [3] _Cf._ Paper by Professor Ridgway, _Proc. Cam. Antiq. Soc._, vii. 200. [4] _Cf._ Professor M'Kenny Hughes, _Proc. Cam. Antiq. Soc._, vol. viii. (1893), 173. _Cf._ also Freeman, "Norman Conquest," vol. i. 323, &c.; and also English Chronicle, under year MX. [5] The easiest way for those who are not much acquainted with phonetic laws to understand this rather difficult point is to observe the chronology of this place-name. It is thus condensed by Mr. T. D. Atkinson ("Cambridge Described and Illustrated," p. 4) from Professor Skeat's "Place-Names of Cambridgeshire," 29-30:--"The name of the town was _Grantebrycge_ in A.D. 875, and in Doomsday Book it is _Grentebrige_. About 1142 we first meet with the violent change _Cantebrieggescir_ (for the county), the change from _Gr_ to _C_ being due to the Normans. This form lasted, with slight changes, down to the fifteenth century. _Grauntbrigge_ (also spelt _Cauntbrigge_ in the name of the same person) survived as a surname till 1401. After 1142 the form _Cantebrigge_ is common; it occurs in Chaucer as a word of four syllables, and was Latinised as _Cantabrigia_ in the thirteenth century. Then the former _e_ dropped out; and we come to such forms as _Cantbrigge_ and _Cauntbrigge_ (fourteenth century); then _C[=a]nbrigge_ (1436) and _Cawnbrege_ (1461) with _n_. Then the _b_ turned the _n_ into _m_, giving _Cambrigge_ (after 1400) and _Caumbrege_ (1458). The long _a_, formerly _aa_ in _baa_, but now _ei_ in _vein_, was never shortened. The old name of the river, _Granta_, still survives. _Cant_ occurs in 1372, and _le Ee_ and _le Ree_ in the fifteenth century. In the sixteenth century the river is spoken of as the _Canta_, now called the _Rhee_; and later we find both _Granta_ and the Latinised form of _Camus_. _Cam_, which appears in Speed's map of 1610, was suggested by the written form _Cam-bridge_, and is a product of the sixteenth century, having no connection with the Welsh _Cam_, or the British _Cambos_, "crooked." [6] "The old spelling is Bernewell, in the time of Henry III. and later. Somewhat earlier is Beornewelle, in a late copy of a charter dated 1060 (Thorpe, _Diplom._, p. 383). So also in the Ramsey Cartulary. The prefix has nothing to do with the Anglo-Saxon _bearn_, 'a child,' as has often, I believe, been suggested; but represents _Beornan_, gen. of _Beorna_, a pet name for a name beginning with Beorn-.... The difference between the words, which are quite distinct, is admirably illustrated in the New Eng. Dict. under the words _berne_ and _bairn_."--SKEAT'S _Place-Names of Cambridgeshire_, p. 35. [7] "The Borough Boys" is a nickname still remembered as being applied to the men of the castle end by the dwellers in the east side of the river. A public-house, with the sign of "The Borough Boy," still stands in Northampton Street. [8] "Cambridge, Described and Illustrated," by T. D. Atkinson, p. 133. [9] _Cf._ "Customs of Augustinian Canons," by J. Willis Clark, p. xi. [10] _Lib. Mem._, Book i. chap. 9.--The principal authority for the history of Barnwell Priory is a manuscript volume in the British Museum (MSS. Harl. 3601) usually referred to as the "Barnwell Cartulary" or the "Barnwell Register." The author's own title, however, "Liber Memorandorum Ecclesiæ de Bernewelle," is far more appropriate, for the contents are by no means confined to documents relating to the property of the house, but consist of many chapters of miscellanea dealing with the history of the foundation from its commencement down to the forty-fourth year of Edward III. (1370-71). [11] At the time of the Dissolution, Dugdale states the gross yearly value of the estates to have been £351, 15s. 4d., that of Ely to have been £1084, 6s. 9d. [12] Such a small matter, for example, in the domestic economy of a modern college as the separate rendering of a "buttery bill" and a "kitchen bill," containing items of expenditure which the puzzled undergraduate might naturally have expected to find rendered in the same weekly account, finds its explanation when we learn that in the economy of the monastery also the roll of "the celererarius" and the roll of the "camerarius" were always kept rigidly distinct. So also more serious and important customs may probably be traced to monastic origin. [13] The others are: S. Sepulchre at Northampton, c. 1100-1127; Little Maplestead in Essex, c. 1300; The Temple Church in London, finished 1185. To these may be added the chapel in Ludlow Castle, c. 1120. [14] "Cambridge Described," by T. D. Atkinson, p. 164. [15] _Cf._ Neubauer's _Collectanea_, ii. p. 277 _sq._ [16] _Cf._ Rashdall's "Universities of Europe," vol. i. p. 347. [17] The earliest notice of this practice occurs in the University Accounts for 1507-8, when carpenters are employed to carry the materials used for the stages from the schools to the Church of the Franciscans, to set them up there, and to carry them back again to the schools. Similar notices are to be found in subsequent years. [18] _Cf._ "The Cambridge Modern History," vol. i. p. 584, &c. [19] Cooper's "Annals," i. 42. [20] Willis and Clark, "Architectural History of the University of Cambridge," Introduction, vol. i. p. xiv. [21] _Cf._ List of names given in "Willis and Clark," vol. i. pp. xxv.-xxvii. [22] Jubinal's "Rutebeuf," quoted by Wright in his _Biographia Britannica Litteraria_, p. 40. [23] Stubbs, "Lectures on Mediæval and Modern History," p. 166. [24] Anstey, _Munimenta Academica_, i. pp. 204-5. [25] "Commiss. Docts.," ii. 1. [26] "Documents," ii. 78. [27] The actual expression is, of course, _scholares_, but it is best to translate the word by the later title of _fellows_ to avoid the erroneous impression which would otherwise be given. That the _scholares_ were occasionally called _fellows_ even in Chaucer's day may be inferred from his lines-- "Oure corne is stole, men woll us fooles call, Both the warden and our fellowes all." [28] Document II. 1-42, quoted from Mullinger's "University of Cambridge," i. 232. [29] "Annals of the University," i. 95. [30] "Documents," ii. 72. [31] British Museum, Cole, MSS. xxxv. 112. [32] Prynne, "Canterbury's Doom," quoted from Willis a. d. Clark, i. 46. [33] _Philobiblon_, c. 9. [34] Cooper's "Memorials," ii. p. 196. [35] Cooper's "Memorials," vol. i. p. 30. [36] _Cf._ Rogers' "Six Centuries of Work and Wages," p. 224. "The disease made havoc among the secular and regular clergy, and we are told that a notable decline of learning and morals was thenceforward observed among the clergy, many persons of mean acquirements and low character stepping into the vacant benefices. Even now the cloister of Westminster Abbey is said to contain a monument in the great flat stone, which we are told was laid over the remains of the many monks who perished in the great death.... Some years ago, being at Cambridge while the foundations of the new Divinity Schools were being laid, I saw that the ground was full of skeletons, thrown in without any attempt at order, and I divined that this must have been a Cambridge plague pit." [37] _Cf._ Clarke, "Cambridge," pp. 85, 86. [38] _Cf._ Mullinger, "Cambridge," vol. i., footnote, p. 237. [39] The poet Gray, it is said, occupied the rooms on the ground floor at the west end of the Hitcham building. Above them are those subsequently occupied by William Pitt. [40] Cooper's "Memorials," i. p. 99. [41] "Cambridge Described," by T. D. Atkinson, p. 326. [42] Willis and Clark, i. 177. [43] Cooper's "Annals," 140. [44] Fuller's "History of the University," p. 255. [45] Fuller's "History of the University," p. 98. [46] _Cf._ Introduction by Professor Maitland to the "Cambridge Borough Charters," p. xvii. [47] Miss Mary Bateson, "Introduction to Cambridge Gild Records," published by Cambridge Antiquarian Society, 1903. [48] Josselin, _Historiola_, § 2. [49] Fuller's "History of Cambridge," p. 116. [50] Stubbs, "Constitutional History," vol. iii. p. 130. [51] Robert Bridges. [52] _Second Part of King Henry VI._, Act i. sc. 3. [53] J. W. Clark, "Cambridge," p. 145. [54] G. Gilbert Scott, "History of English Architecture," p. 181. [55] J. W. Clarke, "Cambridge," p. 171. [56] Fuller, "University of Cambridge," p. 161. [57] "History of Queens'," p. 154. [58] Erasmus, _Novum Instrumentum_, leaf aaa. 3 to bbb. [59] _Anglia Sacra_, i. 650. [60] In the Ely "Obedientary Rolls" I find, for example, the following entries for the expenses of these Cambridge Scholars of the Monastery in the account of the chamberlain: "20, Ed. III. scholaribus pro obolo de libra, 6-1/2d. 31, 32, Ed. III. fratri S. de Banneham scholari pro pensione sua 1/1-1/2. 40, Ed. III. Solut' 3 scholar' studentibus apud Cantabrig' 3/4-1/2. Simoni de Banham incipienti in theologia 2 3, viz. 1d. de libra. 9, Hen. IV. dat' ffratri Galfrido Welyngton ad incepcionem suam in canone apud cantabrig' 6/8. 4, Hen. V. ffratribus Edmundo Walsingham et Henry Madingley ad incepcionem 3/4." [61] Warren, Appendix cxvi. [62] "Care of Books," pp. 168-69. [63] Vol. ii. 30. [64] "Jesus College," by A. Gray, p. 32. [65] "History of Jesus," A. Gray, p. 16. [66] "History of Jesus," A. Gray, p. 18. [67] Willis and Clark's "Architectural History of Cambridge," vol. ii. p. 123. [68] Erasmus, _Roberto Piscatori_, Epist. xiv. [69] Mullinger, "History of the University of Cambridge," vol. i. p. 439. [70] Cooper's "Annals," vol. i. p. 273. [71] Mullinger, "History of the University," vol. i. p. 44. [72] Fuller's "History of Cambridge," p. 182. [73] Dr. Peile's "History of Christ's College," p. 29. [74] Cf. Milton's "Apology for Smectymnus," 1642. [75] It might almost be supposed that the officials who drew royal charters kept a "model form" to meet the case of a suppressed religious house, altering the name and place to fit the occasion. [76] Caxton, as he worked at his printing press in the Almonry, which she had founded, and who was under her special protection, said "the worst thing she ever did" was trying to draw Erasmus from his Greek studies at Cambridge to train her untoward stepson, James Stanley, to be Bishop of Ely. [77] Mullinger's "History of S. John's College," p. 17. [78] Froude's "History of England," vol. ii. p. 266. [79] Mullinger's "History of the University," vol. i. p. 628. [80] Edition of Furnivall, p. 88. [81] "English Universities," vol. i. p. 307. [82] Fuller, "History of Cambridge," p. 196. [83] This absurdity is traceable to that _Skeletos Cantabrigiensis_ by Richard Parker, to which I drew attention in my first chapter. [84] Nichol's "Progress of Queen Elizabeth," v. i. p. 182. [85] Cooper's "Memorials," v. ii. p. 135. [86] Fuller's "History of Cambridge," p. 236. [87] "Tom Quad," the great court of Christ Church, Oxford, has an area of 74,520 square feet. [88] "National Dictionary of Biography," vol. iv. p. 312. [89] MSS. Barker, vi. 85; MSS. Harl. Mus. Brit., 7033; quoted, Willis and Clark, ii. 700. [90] "Documents," iii. 524, quoted by Mullinger, i. 314. [91] Mullinger, vol. i. p. 318. [92] Fuller's "History of Cambridge," p. 291. [93] This portrait in crayons by Samuel Cooper (1609-72) was presented to the College in January 1766 by Thomas Hollis. In Hollis's papers underneath his memorandum of his present to the College are three lines of Andrew Marvell-- "I freely declare it, I am for old Noll; Though his government did a tyrant resemble, He made England great, and her enemies tremble." Mr. Hollis also gave to Christ's College four copies of the "Paradise Lost," two of them first editions. In 1761 he sent to Trinity his portrait of Newton. He also presented books to the libraries of Harvard, Berne and Zurich: chiefly Republican literature of the seventeenth century. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: thus serve to mark=> thus serves to mark {pg 43} his death in 1509=> his death in 1589 {pg 89} four widows=> four windows {pg 151} Rennaisance=> Renaissance {pg 267} great exent frustrated=> great extent frustrated {pg 272} 
4510	----	by Al Haines. WATERSPRINGS BY ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON "For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert" 1913 CONTENTS I. THE SCENE II. RESTLESSNESS III. WINDLOW IV. THE POOL V. ON THE DOWN VI. THE HOME CIRCLE VII. COUNTRY LIFE VIII. THE INHERITANCE IX. THE VICAR X. WITH MAUD ALONE XI. JACK XII. DIPLOMACY XIII. GIVING AWAY XIV. BACK TO CAMBRIDGE XV. JACK'S ESCAPADE XVI. THE VISIT XVII. SELF-SUPPRESSION XVIII. THE PICNIC XIX. DESPONDENCY XX. HIGHMINDEDNESS XXI. THE AWAKENING XXII. LOVE AND CERTAINTY XXIII. THE WEDDING XXIV. DISCOVERIES XXV. THE NEW KNOWLEDGE XXVI. LOVE IS ENOUGH XXVII. THE NEW LIFE XXVIII. THE VICAR'S VIEW XXIX. THE CHILD XXX. CAMBRIDGE AGAIN XXXI. MAKING THE BEST OF IT XXXII. HOWARD'S PROFESSION XXXIII. ANXIETY XXXIV. THE DREAM-CHILD XXXV. THE POWER OF LOVE XXXVI. THE TRUTH WATERSPRINGS I THE SCENE The bright pale February sunlight lay on the little court of Beaufort College, Cambridge, on the old dull-red smoke-stained brick, the stone mullions and mouldings, the Hall oriel, the ivied buttresses and battlements, the turrets, the tiled roofs, the quaint chimneys, and the lead-topped cupola over all. Half the court was in shadow. It was incredibly picturesque, but it had somehow the look of a fortress rather than of a house. It did not exist only to be beautiful, but had a well-worn beauty of age and use. There was no domestic adornment of flower-bed or garden-border, merely four squares of grass, looking like faded carpets laid on the rather uncompromising pebbles which floored the pathways. The golden hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten, and the chimes uttered their sharp, peremptory voices. Two or three young men stood talking at the vaulted gateway, and one or two figures in dilapidated gowns and caps, holding books, fled out of the court. A firm footstep came down one of the stairways; a man of about forty passed out into the court--Howard Kennedy, Fellow and Classical Lecturer of the College. His thick curly brown hair showed a trace of grey, his short pointed beard was grizzled, his complexion sanguine, his eyebrows thick. There were little vague lines on his forehead, and his eyes were large and clear; an interesting, expressive face, not technically handsome, but both clever and good-natured. He was carelessly dressed in rather old but well-cut clothes, and had an air of business-like decisiveness which became him well, and made him seem comfortably at home in the place; he nodded and smiled to the undergraduates at the gate, who smiled back and saluted. He met a young man rushing down the court, and said to him, "That's right, hurry up! You'll just be in time," a remark which was answered by a gesture of despair from the young man. Then he went up the court towards the Hall, entered the flagged passage, looked for a moment at the notices on the screen, and went through into the back court, which was surrounded by a tiny cloister. Here he met an elderly man, clean-shaven, fresh-coloured, acute-looking, who wore a little round bowler hat perched on a thick shock of white hair. He was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, with a black tie, and wore rather light grey trousers. One would have taken him for an old-fashioned country solicitor. He was, as a matter of fact, the Vice-Master and Senior Fellow of the College--Mr. Redmayne, who had spent his whole life there. He greeted the younger man with a kindly, brisk, ironical manner, saying, "You look very virtuous, Kennedy! What are you up to?" "I am going for a turn in the garden," said Howard; "will you come with me?" "You are very good," said Mr. Redmayne; "it will be quite like a dialogue of Plato!" They went down the cloister to a low door in the corner, which Howard unlocked, and turned into a small old-fashioned garden, surrounded on three sides by high walls, and overlooking the river on the fourth side; a gravel path ran all round; there were a few trees, bare and leafless, and a big bed of shrubs in the centre of the little lawn, just faintly pricked with points of green. A few aconites showed their yellow heads above the soil. "What are those wretched little flowers?" said Mr. Redmayne, pointing at them contemptuously. "Oh, don't say that," said Howard; "they are always the first to struggle up, and they are the earliest signs of spring. Those are aconites." "Aconites? Deadly poison!" said Mr. Redmayne, in a tone of horror. "Well, I don't object to them,--though I must say that I prefer the works of man to the works of God at all times and in all places. I don't like the spring--it's a languid and treacherous time; it always makes me feel that I wish I were doing something else." They paced for some minutes round the garden gossiping, Redmayne making very trenchant criticisms, but evidently enjoying the younger man's company. At something which he said, Howard uttered a low laugh, which was pleasant to hear from the sense of contented familiarity which it gave. "Ah, you may laugh, my young friend," said Redmayne, "but when you have reached my time of life and see everything going to pieces round you, you have occasionally to protest against the general want of backbone, and the sentimentality of the age." "Yes, but you don't REALLY object," said Howard; "you know you enjoy your grievances!" "Well, I am a philosopher," said Mr. Redmayne, "but you are overdoing your philanthropics. Luncheon in Hall for the boys, dinner at seven-thirty for the boys, a new cricket-ground for the boys; you pamper them! Now in my time, when the undergraduates complained about the veal in Hall, old Grant sent for us third-year men, and said that he understood there were complaints about the veal, of which he fully recognised the justice, and so they would go back to mutton and beef and stick to them, and then he bowed us out. Now the Bursar would send for the cook, and they would mingle their tears together." Howard laughed again, but made no comment, and presently said he must go back to work. As they went in, Mr. Redmayne put his hand in Howard's arm, and said, "Don't mind me, my young friend! I like to have my growl, but I am proud of the old place, and you do a great deal for it." Howard smiled, and tucked the old man's hand closer to his side with a movement of his arm. "I shall come and fetch you out again some morning," he said. He got back to his rooms at ten o'clock, and a moment afterwards a young man appeared in a gown. Howard sat down at his table, pulled a chair up to his side, produced a corrected piece of Latin prose, made some criticisms and suggestions, and ended up by saying, "That's a good piece! You have improved a good deal lately, and that would get you a solid mark." Then he sat for a minute or two talking about the books his pupil was reading, and indicating the points he was to look out for, till at half-past ten another youth appeared to go through the same process. This went on until twelve o'clock. Howard's manner was kindly and business-like, and the undergraduates were very much at their ease. One of them objected to one of his criticisms. Howard turned to a dictionary and showed him a paragraph. "You will see I am right," he said, "but don't hesitate to object to anything I say--these usages are tricky things!" The undergraduate smiled and nodded. Just before twelve o'clock he was left alone for five minutes, and a servant brought in a note. Howard opened it, and taking a sheet of paper, began to write. At the hour a youth appeared, of very boyish aspect, curly-haired, fresh-looking, ingenuous. Howard greeted him with a smile. "Half a minute, Jack!" he said. "There's the paper--not the Sportsman, I'm afraid, but you can console yourself while I just finish this note." The boy sat down by the fire, but instead of taking the paper, drew a solemn-looking cat, which was sitting regarding the hearth, on to his knee, and began playing with it. Presently Howard threw his pen down. "Come along," he said. The boy, still carrying the cat, came and sat down beside him. The lesson proceeded as before, but there was a slight difference in Howard's manner of speech, as of an uncle with a favourite nephew. At the end, he pushed the paper into the boy's hand, and said, "No, that isn't good enough, you know; it's all too casual--it isn't a bit like Latin: you don't do me credit!" He spoke incisively enough, but shook his head with a smile. The boy said nothing, but got up, vaguely smiling, and holding the cat tucked under his arm--a charming picture of healthy and indifferent youth. Then he said in a rich infantile voice, "Oh, it's all right. I didn't do myself justice this time. You shall see!" At this moment the old servant came in and asked Howard if he would take lunch. "Yes; I won't go into Hall," said Howard. "Lunch for two--you can stay and lunch with me, Jack; and I will give you a lecture about your sins." The boy said, "Yes, thanks very much; I'd love to." Jack Sandys was a pupil of Howard's in whom he had a special interest. He was the son of Frank Sandys, the Vicar of the Somersetshire parish where Mrs. Graves, Howard's aunt, lived at the Manor-house. Frank Sandys was a cousin of Mrs. Graves' deceased husband. She had advised the Vicar to send Jack to Beaufort, and had written specially commending him to Howard's care. But the boy had needed little commendation. From the first moment that Jack Sandys had appeared, smiling and unembarrassed, in Howard's room, a relation that was almost filial and paternal had sprung up between them. He had treated Howard from the outset with an innocent familiarity, and asked him the most direct questions. He was not a particularly intellectual youth, though he had some vague literary interests; but he was entirely healthy, good, and quite irresistibly charming in his naivete and simplicity. Howard had a dislike of all sentimentality, but the suppressed paternal instinct which was strong in him had been awakened; and though he made no emotional advances, he found himself strangely drawn to the boy, with a feeling for which he could not wholly account. He did not care for Jack's athletic interests; his tastes and mental processes were obscure to him. Howard's own nature was at once intellectual and imaginative, but he felt an extreme delight in the fearless and direct confidence which the boy showed in him. He criticised his work unsparingly, he rallied him on his tastes, he snubbed him, but all with a sense of real and instinctive sympathy which made everything easy. The boy never resented anything that he said, asked his advice, looked to him to get him out of any small difficulties that arose. They were not very much together, and mostly met only on official occasions. Howard was a busy man, and had little time, or indeed taste, for vague conversation. Jack was a boy of natural tact, and he treated all the authorities with the same unembarrassed directness. Undergraduates are quick to remark on any sort of favouritism, but only if they think that the favoured person gets any unfair advantage by his intimacy. But Howard came down on Jack just as decisively as he came down on anyone else whose work was unsatisfactory. It was known that they were a sort of cousins; and, moreover, Jack Sandys was generally popular, though only in his first year, because he was free from any touch of uppishness, and of an imperturbable good-humour. But his own feeling for the boy surprised Howard. He did not think him very interesting, nor had they much in common except a perfect goodwill. It was to Howard as if Jack represented something beyond and further than himself, for which Howard cared--as one might love a house for the sake of someone that had inhabited it, or because of events that had happened there. He tried vaguely to interest Jack in some of the things he cared about, but wholly in vain. That cheerful youth went quietly on his own way--modest, handsome, decided, knowing exactly what he liked, with very material tastes and ambitions, not in the least emotional or imaginative, and yet with a charm of which all were conscious. He was bored by any violent attempts at friendship, and quite content in almost anyone's company, naturally self-contained and temperate, making no claims and giving no pledges; and yet Howard was deeply haunted by the sense that Jack stood for something almost bewilderingly fine which he himself could not comprehend or interpret, and of which the boy himself was wholly and radiantly unconscious. It gave him, indeed, a sudden warmth about the heart to see Jack in the court, or even to think of him as living within the same walls; but there was nothing jealous or exclusive about his interest, and when they met, there was often nothing particular to say. Presently lunch was announced, and Howard led the way to a little panelled parlour which looked out on the river. They both ate with healthy appetites; and presently Jack, looking about him, said, "This room is rather nice! I don't know how you make your rooms so nice?" "Mostly by having very little in them except what I want," said Howard. "These panelled rooms don't want any ornaments; people spoil rooms by stuffing them, just as you spoil my cat,"--Jack was feeding the cat with morsels from his plate. "It's a nice cat," said Jack; "at least I like it in your rooms. I wouldn't have one in my rooms, not if I were paid for it--it would be what the Master calls a serious responsibility." Presently, after a moment's silence, Jack said, "It's rather convenient to be related to a don, I think. By the way, what sort of screw do they give you--I mean your income--I suppose I oughtn't to ask?" "It isn't usually done," said Howard, "but I don't mind your asking, and I don't mind your knowing. I have about six hundred a year here." "Oh, then I was right," said Jack. "Symonds said that all the dons had about fifteen hundred a year out of the fees; he said that it wouldn't be worth their while to do it for less. But I said it was much less. My father only gets about two hundred a year out of his living, and it all goes to keep me at Cambridge. He says that when he is vexed about things; but he must have plenty of his own. I wish he would really tell me. Don't you think people ought to tell their sons about their incomes?" "I am afraid you are a very mercenary person," said Howard. "No, I'm not," said Jack; "only I think one ought to know, and then one could arrange. Father's awfully good about it, really; but if ever I spend too much, he shakes his head and talks about the workhouse. I used to be frightened, but I don't believe in the workhouse now." When luncheon was over, they went back to the other room. It was true that, as Jack had said, Howard managed to make something pleasant out of his rooms. The study was a big place looking into the court; it was mostly lined with books, the bookcases going round the room in a band about three feet from the floor and about seven feet high. It was a theory of Howard's that you ought to be able to see all your books without either stooping or climbing. There was a big knee-hole table and half a dozen chairs. There was an old portrait in oils over the mantelpiece, several arm-chairs, one with a book-rest. Half a dozen photographs stood on the mantelpiece, and there was practically nothing else in the room but carpets and curtains. Jack lit a cigarette, sank into a chair, and presently said, "You must get awfully sick of the undergraduates, I should think, day after day?" "No, I don't," said Howard; "in fact I must confess that I like work and feel dull without it--but that shows that I am an elderly man." "Yes, I don't care about my work," said Jack, "and I think I shall get rather tired of being up here before I have done with it. It's rather pointless, I think. Of course it's quite amusing; but I want to do something real, make some real money, and talk about business. I shall go into the city, I think." "I don't believe you care about anything but money," said Howard; "you are a barbarian!" "No, I don't care about money," said Jack; "only one must have enough--what I like are REAL things. I couldn't go on just learning things up till I was twenty-three, and then teaching them till I was sixty-three. Of course I think it is awfully good of you to do it, but I can't think why or how you do it." "I suppose I don't care about real things," said Howard. "No, I can't quite make you out," said Jack with a smiling air, "because of course you are quite different from the other dons--nobody would suppose you were a don--everyone says that." "It's very kind of you to say so," said Howard, "but I am not sure that it is a compliment--a tradesman ought to be a tradesman, and not to be ashamed of it. I'm a sophist, of course." "What's a sophist?" said Jack. "Oh, I know. You lectured about the sophists last term. I don't remember what they were exactly, but I thought the lecture awfully good--quite amusing! They were a sort of parsons, weren't they?" "You are a wonderful person, Jack!" said Howard, laughing. "I declare I have never had such extraordinary things said to me as you have said in the last half-hour." "Well, I want to know about people," said Jack, "and I think it pays to ask them. You don't mind, do you? That's the best thing about you, that I can say what I think to you without putting my foot in it. But you said you were going to lecture me about my sins--come on!" "No," said Howard, "I won't. You are not serious enough to-day, and I am not vexed enough. You know quite well what I think. There isn't any harm in you; but you are idle, and you are inquisitive. I don't want you to be very different, on the whole, if only you would work a little more and take more interest in things." "Well," said Jack, "I do take interest--that's the mischief; there isn't time to work--that's the truth! I shall scrape through the Trip, and then I shall have done with all this nonsense about the classics; it really is humbug, isn't it? Such a fuss about nothing. The books I like are those in which people say what they might say, not those in which they say what they have had days to invent. I don't see the good of that. Why should I work, when I don't feel interested?" "Because whatever you do, you will have to do things in which you are not interested," said Howard. "Well, I think I will wait and see," said Jack. "And now I must be off. I really have said some awful things to you to-day, and I must apologise; but I can't help it when I am with you; I feel I must say just what comes into my head; I must fly; thank you for lunch; and I truly will do better, but mind only for YOU, and not because I think it's any good." He put down the cat with a kiss. "Good-bye, Mimi," he said; "remember me, I beseech you!" and he hurried away. Howard sat still for a minute or two, looking at the fire; then he gave a laugh, got up, stretched himself, and went out for a walk. Even so quiet a thing as a walk was not unattended by a certain amount of ceremonial. Howard passed some six or seven men of his acquaintance, some of whom presented a stick or raised a stiff hand without a smile or indeed any sign of recognition; one went so far as to say, "Hullo, Kennedy!" and one eager conversationalist went so far as to say, "Out for a walk?" Howard pushed on, walking lightly and rapidly, and found himself at last at Barton, one of those entirely delightful pastoral villages that push up so close to Cambridge on every side; a vague collection of quaint irregular cottages, whitewashed and thatched, with bits of green common interspersed, an old manorial farm with its byres and ricks, surrounded by a moat fringed with little pollarded elms. The plain ancient tower of the church looked gravely out over all. In the distance, over pastoral country, rose low wolds, pleasantly shaped, skirted with little hamlets, surrounded by orchards; the old untroubled necessary work of the world flows on in these fields and villages, peopled with lives hardly conscious of themselves, with no aims or theories, just toiling, multiplying, dying, existing, it would seem, merely to feed and clothe the more active part of the world. Howard loved such little interludes of silence, out in the fresh country, when the calm life of tree and herb, the delicate whisper of dry, evenly-blowing breezes, tranquillised and hushed his restless thoughts. He lost himself in a formless reverie, exercising no control over his trivial thoughts. By four o'clock he was back, made himself some tea, put on a cap and gown, and walked out to a meeting. In a high bare room in the University offices the Committee sat. The Vice-Chancellor, a big, grave, solid man, Master of St. Benedict's, sat in courteous state. Half a dozen dons sat round the great tables, ranged in a square. The business was mostly formal. The Vice-Chancellor read the points from a paper in his resonant voice, comments and suggestions were made, and the Secretary noted down conclusions. Howard was struck, as he often had been before, to see how the larger questions of principle passed almost unnoticed, while the smaller points, such as the wording of a notice, were eagerly and humorously debated by men of acute minds and easy speech. It was over in half an hour. Howard strolled off with one of the members, and then, returning to his rooms, wrote some letters, and looked up a lecture for the next day, till the bell rang for Hall. Beaufort was a hospitable and sociable College, and guests often appeared at dinner. On this night Mr. Redmayne was in the chair, at the end of a long table; eight or ten dons were present. A gong was struck; an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin Grace from a board which he held in his hand. The tables filled rapidly with lively young men full of talk and appetite. Howard found himself sitting next one of his colleagues, on the other side of him being an ancient crony of Mr. Redmayne's, the Dean of a neighbouring College. The talk was mainly local and personal, diverging at times into politics. It was brisk, sensible, good-natured conversation, by no means unamusing. Mr. Redmayne was an unashamed Tory, and growled denunciations at a democratic Government, whom he credited with every political vice under the sun, depicting the Cabinet as men fishing in troubled seas with philanthropic baits to catch votes. One of the younger dons, an ardent Liberal, made a mild protest. "Ah," said Mr. Redmayne, "you are still the prey of idealistic illusions. Politics are all based, not on principles or programmes, but on the instinctive hatred of opponents." There was a laugh at this. "You may laugh," said Mr. Redmayne, "but you will find it to be true. Peace and goodwill are pretty words to play with, but it is combativeness which helps the world along; not the desire to be at peace, but the wish to maul your adversary!" It was the talk of busy men who met together, not to discuss, but to eat, and conversed only to pass the time. But it was all good-humoured enough, and even the verbal sharpness which was employed was evidence of much mutual confidence and esteem. Howard thought, looking down the Hall, when the meal was in full fling, what a picturesque, cheerful, lively affair it all was. The Hall was lighted only by candles in heavy silver candlesticks, which flared away all down the tables. In the dark gallery a couple of sconces burned still and clear. The dusty rafters, the dim portraits above the panelling, the gleam of gilded cornices were a pleasant contrast to the lively talk, the brisk coming and going, the clink and clatter below. It was noisy indeed, but noisy as a healthy and friendly family party is noisy, with no turbulence. Once or twice a great shout of laughter rang out from the tables and died away. There was no sign of discipline, and yet the whole was orderly enough. The carvers carved, the waiters hurried to and fro, the swing-doors creaked as the men hurried out. It was a very business-like, very English scene, without any ceremony or parade, and yet undeniably stately and vivid. The undergraduates finished their dinners with inconceivable rapidity, and the Hall was soon empty, save for the more ceremonious and deliberate party at the high table. Presently these adjourned in procession to the Parlour, a big room, comfortably panelled, opening off the Hall, where the same party sat round the fire at little tables, sipped a glass of port, and went on to coffee and cigarettes, while the talk became more general. Howard felt, as he had often felt before, how little attention even able and intellectual Englishmen paid to the form of their talk. There was hardly a grammatical sentence uttered, never an elaborate one; the object was, it seemed, to get the thought uttered as quickly and unconcernedly as possible, and even the anecdotes were pared to the bone. A clock struck nine, and Mr. Redmayne rose. The party broke up, and Howard went off to his rooms. He settled down to look over a set of compositions. But he was in a somewhat restless frame of mind to-night, and a not unpleasant mood of reflection and retrospect came over him. What an easy, full, lively existence his was! He seemed to himself to be perfectly contented. He remembered how he, the only son of rather elderly parents, had gone through Winchester with mild credit. He had never had any difficulties to contend with, he thought. He had been popular, not distinguished at anything--a fair athlete, a fair scholar, arousing no jealousies or enmities. He had been naturally temperate and self-restrained. He had drifted on to Beaufort as a Scholar, and it had been the same thing over again--no ambitions, no failures, friends in abundance. Then his father had died, and it had been so natural for him, on being elected to a Fellowship, just to carry on the same life; he had to settle to work at once, as his mother was not well off and much invalided. She had not long survived his father. He had taught, taken pupils, made a fair income. He had had no break of travel, no touch with the world; a few foreign tours in the company of an old friend had given him nothing but an emotional tincture of recollections and associations--a touch of varnish, so to speak. Suddenly the remembrance of some of the things which Jack Sandys had said that morning came back to him; "real things" the boy had said, so lightly and yet so decisively. He wondered; had he himself ever had any touch with realities at all? He had been touched by no adversity or tragedy, he had been devastated by no disappointed ambitions, shattered by no emotions. His whole life had been perfectly under his control, and he had grown into a sort of contempt for all unbalanced people, who were run away with by their instincts or passions. It had been a very comfortable, sheltered, happy life; he was sure of that; he had enjoyed his work, his relations with others, his friendships; but had he ever come near to any fulness of living at all? Was it not, when all was said and done, a very empty affair--void of experience, guarded from suffering? "Suffering?" he hardly knew the meaning of the word. Had he ever felt or suffered or rebelled? Yes, there was one little thing. He had had a small ambition once; he had studied comparative religion very carefully at one time to illustrate some lectures, and a great idea had flashed across him. It was a big, a fruitful thought; he had surveyed that strange province of human emotion, the deepest strain of which seemed to be a disgust for mingling with life, a loathing of bodily processes and instincts, which drove its votaries to a deliberate sexlessness, and set them at variance with the whole solid force of Nature, the treacherous and alluring devices by which she drove men to reproduction with an insatiable appetite; that mystical strain, which appeared at all times and in all places, a spiritual rebellion against material bondage, was not that the desperate cry of the fettered spirit? The conception of sin, by which Nature traversed her own activities and made them void--there was a great secret hidden here. He had determined to follow this up, and to disguise with characteristic caution and courtesy a daring speculation under the cloak of orthodox research. He had begun his work in a great glow of enthusiasm; but it had been suspended time after time. He had sketched his theory out; but it lay there in one of his table-drawers, a skeleton not clothed with words. Why had he let this all drop? Why had he contented himself with the easy, sociable life? Effective though he was as a teacher, he had no real confidence in the things which he taught. They only seemed to him a device of reason for expending its energies, just as men deprived by complex life of manual labour sought to make up for the loss by the elaborate pursuit of games. He did not touch the springs of being at all. He had collapsed, he felt, into placid acquiescence; Nature had been too strong for him. He had fitted so easily into the pleasant scheme of things, and he was doing nothing in the world but helping to prolong the delusion, just as men set painted glass in a window to shut out the raincloud and the wind. He was a conformist, he felt, in everything--in religion, intellect, life--but a sceptic underneath. Was he not perhaps missing the whole object and aim of life and experience, in a fenced fortress of quiet? The thought stung him suddenly with a kind of remorse. He was doing no part of the world's work, not sharing its emotions or passions or pains or difficulties; he was placidly at ease in Zion, in the comfortable city whose pleasures were based on the toil of those outside. That was a hateful thought! Had not the boy been right after all? Must one not somehow link one's arm with life and share its pilgrimage, even in weariness and tears? There came a tap at the door, and one of his shyest pupils entered--a solitary youth, poor and unfriended, who was doing all he could to get a degree good enough to launch him in the world. He came to ask some advice about work. Howard entered into his case as well as he could, told him it was important that he should get certain points clear, gave him an informal lecture, distinctly and emphatically, and made a few friendly remarks. The man beamed with unexpressed gratitude. "What solemn nonsense I have been talking!" thought Howard to himself as the young man slipped away. "Of course he must learn all this--but what for? To get a mastership, and to retail it all over again! It's a vicious circle, this education which is in touch with nothing but the high culture of a nation which lived in ideas; while with us culture is just a plastering of rough walls--no part of the structure! Why cannot we put education in touch with life, try to show what human beings are driving at, what arrangements they are making that they may live? It is all arrangements with us--the frame for the picture, the sheath for the sword--and we leave the picture and the sword to look after themselves. What a wretched dilettante business it all is, keeping these boys practising postures in the anteroom of life! Cannot we get at the real thing, teach people to do things, fill their minds with ideas, break down the silly tradition of needless wealth and absurd success? And I must keep up all this farce, simply because I am fit for nothing else--I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed. Oh, hold your tongue, you ass!" said Howard, apostrophising his rebellious mind. "Don't you see where you are going? You can't do anything--it is all too big and strong for you. You must just let it alone." II RESTLESSNESS A few days later the term drew to an end, and both dons and undergraduates, whose tempers had been wearing a little thin, got suddenly more genial, like guests when a visit draws to a close, and disposed to think rather better of each other. Howard had made no plans; he did not wish to stay on at Cambridge, but he did not want to go away: he had no relations to whose houses he naturally drifted; he did not like the thought of a visit; as a rule he went off with an undergraduate or two to some lonely inn, where they fished or walked and did a little work. But just now he had a vague feeling that he wanted to be alone; that he had something to face, some reckoning to cast up, and yet he did not know what it was. One afternoon--the spring was certainly advancing, and there was a touch of languor in the air, that heavenly languor which is so sweet a thing when one is young and hopeful, so depressing a thing when one is living on the edge of one's nervous force--he paid a call, which was not a thing he often did, on a middle-aged woman who passed for a sort of relation; she was a niece of his aunt's deceased husband, Monica Graves by name. She was a woman of independent means, who had done some educational work for a time, but had now retired, lived in her own little house, and occupied herself with social schemes of various sorts. She was a year or two older than Howard. They did not very often meet, but there was a pleasant camaraderie between them, an almost brotherly and sisterly relation. She was a small, quiet, able woman, whose tranquil manner concealed great clear-headedness and decisiveness. Howard always said that it was a comfort to talk to her, because she always knew what her own opinion was, and did what she intended to do. He found her alone and at tea. She welcomed him drily but warmly. Presently he said, "I want your advice, Monnie; I want you to make up my mind for me. I have a feeling that I need a change. I don't mean a little change, but a big one. I am suddenly aware that I am a little stale, and I wish to be freshened up." Monica looked at him and said, "Yes, I expect you are right! You know I think we ought all to have one big change in our lives, about your age, I mean. Why don't you put in for a head-mastership? I have often thought you have rather a gift that way." "I might do that," said Howard vaguely, "but I don't want a change of work so much as a change of mind. I have got suddenly bored, and I am a little vexed with myself. I have always rather held with William Morris that people ought to live in the same place and do the same things; and I had no intention of being bored--I have always thought that very feeble! But I have fallen suddenly into the frame of mind of knowing exactly what all my friends here are going to say and think, and that rather takes the edge off conversation; and I have learned the undergraduate mind too. It's an inconsequent thing, but there's a law in inconsequence, and I seem to have acquired a knowledge of their tangents." "I must consider," said Monica with a smile, "but one can't do these things offhand--that is worse than doing nothing. I'll tell you what to do NOW. Why not go and stay with Aunt Anne? She would like to see you, I know, and I have always thought it rather lazy of you not to go there--she is rather a remarkable woman, and it's a pretty country. Have you ever been there?" "No," said Howard, "not to Windlow; I stayed with them once when I was a boy, when Uncle John was alive--but that was at Bristol. What sort of a place is Windlow? I suppose Aunt Anne is pretty well off?" "I'm not very good at seeing the points of a place," said Monica; "but it's a beautiful old house, though it is rather too low down for my taste; and she lives very comfortably, so I think she must be rich; I don't know about that; but she is an interesting woman--one of the few really religious people I know. I am not very religious myself, but she makes it seem rather interesting to me--she has experiences--I don't quite know what they are; but she is a sort of artist in religion, I think. That's a bad description, because it sounds self-conscious; and she isn't that--she has a sense of humour, and she doesn't rub things in. You know how if one meets a real artist in anything--a writer, a painter, a musician--and finds them at work, it seems almost the only thing worth doing. Well, Aunt Anne gives me the same sort of sense about religion when I am with her; and yet when I come away, and see how badly other people handle it, it seems a very dull business." "That's interesting," said Howard musingly; "but I am really ashamed to suggest going there. She has asked me so often, and I have sent such idiotic excuses." "Oh, you needn't mind that," said Monica; "she isn't a huffy person. I know she would like to see you--she said to me once that the idea of coming didn't seem to amuse you, but she seemed disposed to sympathise with you for that. Just write and say you would like to go." "I think I will," said Howard, "and I have another reason why I should like to go. You know Jack Sandys, your cousin, now my pupil. He is rather a fascinating youth. His father is parson there, isn't he?" "Yes," said Monica; "there are two hamlets, Windlow and Windlow Malzoy, both in the same parish. The church and vicarage are at Malzoy; but Frank is rather a terror--my word, how that man talks! But I like Jack, though I have only seen him half a dozen times--that reminds me that I must have him to dinner or something--and I like his sister even better. But I am afraid that Jack may turn out a bore too--he is rather charming at present, because he says whatever comes into his head; and it's all quite fresh; but that is what poor Cousin Frank does--only it's not at all fresh! However, there's nothing like living with a bore to teach one the merits of holding one's tongue. Poor old Frank! I thought he would be the death of us all one evening at Windlow. He simply couldn't stop, and he had a pathetic look in his eye, as if he was saying, 'Can't anyone assist me to hold my tongue?'" Howard laughed and got up. "Well," he said, "I'll take your advice. I don't know anyone like you, Monnie, for making up one's mind. You crystallise things. I shall like to see Aunt Anne, and I shall like to see Jack at home; and meanwhile will you think the matter over, and give me a lead? I don't want to leave Cambridge at all, but I would rather do that than go sour, as some people do!" "Yes," said Monica, "when you get beneath the surface, Cambridge is rather a sad place. There are a good many disappointed men here--people who wake up suddenly in middle life, and realise that if they had gone out into the world they would have done better; but I like Cambridge; you can do as you like here--and then the rainfall is low." Howard went back to his rooms and wrote a short note to Mrs. Graves to suggest a visit; he added that he felt ashamed of himself for never coming, "but Monica says that you would like to see me, and Monica is generally right." That evening Jack came in to say good-bye. He did not look forwards to the vacation at all, he said; "Windlow is simply the limit! I believe it's the dullest place in the kingdom!" "What would you feel if I told you that we shall probably meet?" said Howard. "I am going to stay with Mrs. Graves--that is, if she will have me. I don't mind saying that the fact that you are close by is a considerable reason why I think of going." "That's simply splendid!" said Jack; "we will have no end of a time. Do you DO anything in particular--fish, I mean, or shoot? There's some wretched fishing in the river, and there is some rabbit-shooting on the downs. Mrs. Graves has a keeper, a shabby old man who shoots, as they say, for the house. I believe she objects to shooting; but you might persuade her, and we could go out together." "Yes," said Howard, "I do shoot and fish in a feeble way. We will see what can be done." "There are things to see, I believe," said Jack, "churches and houses, if you like that sort of thing--I don't; but we might get up some expeditions--they are rather fun. I think you won't mind my sister. She isn't bad for a woman. But women don't understand men. They are always sympathising with you or praising you. They think that is what men like, but it only means that it is what they would like. Men like to be left alone--but I daresay she thinks I don't understand her. Then there's my father! He is quite a good sort, really; but by George, how he does talk! I often think I'd like to turn him loose in the Combination Room. No one would have a chance. Redmayne simply wouldn't be in it with my father. I've invented rather a good game when he gets off. I try to see how many I can count before I am expected to make a remark. I have never quite got up to a thousand, but once I nearly let the cat out by saying nine hundred and fifty, nine hundred and fifty-one, when my father stopped for breath. He gave me a look, I can tell you, but I don't think he saw what I was after. Maud was seized with hysterics. But he isn't a bad sort of parent, as they go; he fusses, but he lets one do as one wants. I suppose I oughtn't to give my people away; but I never can see why one shouldn't talk about one's people just as if they were anybody else. I don't think I hold things sacred, as the Dean says: 'Reticence, reticence, the true characteristic of the English gentleman and the sincere Christian!'" and Jack delivered himself of some paragraphs of the Dean's famous annual sermon to freshmen. "It's abominable, the way you talk," said Howard; "you will corrupt my ingenuous mind. How shall I meet your father if you talk like this about him?" "You'll have to join in my game," said Jack. "By George, what sport; we shall sit there counting away alternately, and we will have some money on the run. You have got to say all the figures quite distinctly to yourself, you know!" Presently Jack said, "Why shouldn't we go down together? No, I suppose you would want to go first? I can't run to that. But you must come as soon as you can, and stay as long as you can. I had half promised to go and stay a week with Travers. But now I won't. By George, there isn't another don I would pay that compliment to! It would simply freeze my blood if the Master turned up there. I shouldn't dare to show my face outside the house; that man does make me sweat! The very smell of his silk gown makes me feel faint." "I'll tell you what I will do," said Howard, "I'll give you some coaching in the mornings. If anyone ever wanted coaching, it is you!" Jack looked rather blue at this, but he said, "It will have to be gratis, though! I haven't a cent. Besides, I am going to do better. I have a growing sense of duty!" "It's not growing very FAST!" said Howard, "and it's a feeble motive at best, you will find; you will have to get a better reason than that--it won't carry you far. Why not do it to please me?" "All right," said Jack; "will you scribble me a list of books to take down? I had meant to have a rest; but I would do a good deal of work to get a reasonable person down at Windlow. I simply daren't ask my friends there; my father would talk their hindlegs off but he isn't a bad old bird." III WINDLOW Mrs. Graves wrote back by return of post that she was delighted to think that Howard was coming. "I am getting an old woman," she said, "and fond of memories: and what I hear of you from your enthusiastic pupil Jack makes me wish to see my nephew, and proud of him too. This is a quiet house, but I think you would enjoy it; and it's a real kindness to me to come. I am sure I shall like you, and I am not without hopes that you may like me. You need not tie yourself down to any dates; just come when you can, and go when you must." Howard liked the simplicity of the letter, and determined to go down at once. He started two days later. It was a fine spring day, and it was pleasant to glide through the open country all quickening into green. He arrived in the afternoon at the little wayside station. It was in the south-east corner of Somersetshire, and Howard liked the look of the landscape, the steep green downs, with their wooded dingles breaking down into rich undulating plains, dappled with hedgerow trees and traversed by gliding streams. He was met at the station by an old-fashioned waggonette, with an elderly coachman, who said that Mrs. Graves had hoped to come herself, but was not very well, and thought that Mr. Kennedy would prefer an open carriage. Howard was astonished at the charm of the whole countryside. They passed through several hamlets, with beautiful old houses, built of a soft orange stone, weathering to a silvery grey, with evidences of careful and pretty design in their mullioned windows and arched doorways. The churches, with their great richly carved towers, pierced stone shutters, and clustered pinnacles, pleased him extremely, and he liked the simple and courteous greetings of the people who passed them. He had a sense, long unfamiliar to him, as though he were somehow coming home. The road entered a green valley among the downs. To the left, an outstanding bluff was crowned with the steep turfed bastions of an ancient fort, and as they went in among the hills, the slopes grew steeper, rich with hanging woods and copses, and the edges of the high thickets were white with bleached flints. At last they passed into a hamlet with a church, and a big vicarage among shrubberies; this was Windlow Malzoy, the coachman said, and that was Mr. Sandys' house. Howard saw a girl wandering about on the lawn--Jack's sister, he supposed, but it was too far off for him to see her distinctly; five minutes later they drove into Windlow. It lay at the very bottom of the valley; a clear stream ran beneath the bridge. There were but half a dozen cottages, and just ahead of them, abutting on the road, appeared the front of a beautiful simple house of some considerable size, with a large embowered garden behind it bordering on the river; Howard was astonished to see what a large and ancient building it was. The part on the road was blank of windows, with the exception of a dignified projecting oriel; close to which was a high Tudor archway, with big oak doors standing open. There were some plants growing on the coping--snapdragon and valerian--which gave it a look of age and settled use. The carriage drove in under the arch, and a small courtyard appeared. There was a stable on the right, with a leaded cupola; the house itself was very plain and stately, with two great traceried windows which seemed to belong to a hall, and a finely carved outstanding porch. The whole was built out of the same orange stone of which the churches were built, stone-tiled, all entirely homelike and solid. He got down at the door, which stood open. An old man-servant appeared, and he found himself in a flagged passage, with a plain wooden screen on his left, opening into the hall. It had a collegiate air which he liked. Then he was led out at the opposite end of the vestibule, the servant saying, "Mrs. Graves is in the garden, sir." He stepped out on to a lawn bordered with trees; opposite him was a stone-built Jacobean garden-house, with stone balls on the balustraded coping. Two ladies were walking on the gravel path; the older of the two, who walked with a stick, came up to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and gave him a kiss in a simple and motherly way, saying, "So here you actually are, my dear boy, and very much welcome." She then presented the other lady, a small, snub-nosed, middle-aged woman, saying, "This is Miss Merry, who lives with me, and keeps me more or less in order; she is quite excited at meeting a don; she has a respect for learning and talent, which is unhappily rare nowadays." Miss Merry shook hands as a spaniel might give its paw, and looked reverentially at Howard. His aunt put her hand through his arm, and said, "Let us walk about a little. I live by rule, you must know--that is, by Miss Merry's rule; and we shall have tea in a few minutes." She pointed out one or two of the features of the house, and said, in answer to Howard's loudly expressed admiration, "Yes, it is a nice old house. Your uncle had a great taste for such things in days when people did not care much about them. He bought this very cheap, I believe, and was much attached to it; but he did not live long to enjoy it, you know. He died nearly thirty years ago. I meant to sell it, but somehow I did not, and now I hope to end my days here. It is not nearly as big as it looks, and a good deal of it consists of unused granaries and farm buildings. I sometimes think it is selfish of me to go on occupying it--it's a house that wants CHILDREN; but one isn't very consistent; and somehow the house is used to me, and I to it; and, after all, it is only waiting, which isn't the worst thing in the world!" When Howard found an opportunity of scrutinising his aunt, which he did as she poured out tea, he saw a very charming old lady, who was not exactly handsome, but was fresh-coloured and silvery-haired, and had a look of the most entire tranquillity and self-possession. She looked as if she had met and faced trouble at some bygone time; there were traces of sorrow about the brow and eyes, but it was a face which seemed as if self had somehow passed out of it, and was yet strong with a peculiar kind of fearless strength. She had a lazy and contented sort of laugh, and yet gave an impression of energy, and of a very real and vivid life. Her eyes had a great softness and brilliancy, and Howard liked to feel them dwelling upon him. As they sat at tea she suddenly put her hand on his and said, "My dear boy, how you remind me of your mother! I suppose you hardly even remember her as a young woman; but though you are half hidden in that beard of yours, you are somehow just like her, and I feel as if I were in the schoolroom again at Hunsdon in the old days. No, I am not sentimental. I don't want it back again, and I don't hate the death that parts us. One can't go back, one must go forward--and, after all, hearts were made to love with, and not to break!" They spent a quiet evening in the still house. Mrs. Graves said to Howard, "I know that men always want to go and do something mysterious after tea; but to-night you must just sit here and get used to me. You needn't be afraid of having to see too much of me. I don't appear before luncheon, and Jane looks after me; and you must get some exercise in the afternoons. I don't go further than the village. I expect you have lectures to write; and you must do exactly what you like." They sat there, in the low panelled room, and talked easily about old recollections. They dined in simple state in the big hall with its little gallery, at a round table in the centre, lighted by candles. The food was simple, the wine was good. "Marengo chicken," said Mrs. Graves as a dish was handed round. "That's one of Jane's historical allusions. If you don't know why it is called Marengo, Jane will rejoice to enlighten you." After the meal she begged him to smoke. "I like it," said Mrs. Graves; "I have even smoked myself in seclusion, but now I dare not--it would be all over the parish to-morrow." After dinner they went back to the drawing-room, and Miss Merry turned out to be quite a good pianist, playing some soft old music at the end of the gently lighted room. Mrs. Graves went off early. "You had better stop and smoke here," she said to Howard. "There's a library where you can work and smoke to-morrow; and now good night, and let me say how I delight to have you here--I really can't say how much!" Howard sat alone in the drawing-room. He had an almost painful faculty of minute observation, and the storage of new impressions was a real strain to him. To-day it seemed that they had poured in upon him in a cataract, and he felt dangerously wakeful; why had he been such a fool as to have missed this beautiful house, and this home atmosphere of affection? He could not say. A stupid persistence in his own plans, he supposed. Yet this had been waiting for him, a home such as he had never owned. He thought with an almost terrified disgust of his rooms at Beaufort, as the logs burned whisperingly in the grate, and the smoke of his cigarette rose on the air. Was it not this that he had been needing all along? At last he rose, put out the candles, and made his way to the big panelled bedroom which had been given him. He lay long awake, wondering, in a luxurious repose, listening to the whisper of the breeze in the shrubberies, and the faint murmur of the water in the full-fed stream. IV THE POOL Very early in the morning Howard woke to hear the faint twittering of the birds begin in bush and ivy. It was at first just a fitful, drowsy chirp, a call "are you there? are you there?" until, when all the sparrows were in full cry, a thrush struck boldly in, like a solo marching out above a humming accompaniment of strings. That was a delicious hour, when the mind, still unsated of sleep, played softly with happy, homelike thoughts. He slept again, but the sweet mood lasted; his breakfast was served to him in solitude in a little panelled parlour off the Hall; and in the fresh April morning, with the sunlight lying on the lawn and lighting up the old worn detail of the carved cornices, he recovered for a time the boyish sense of ecstasy of the first morning at home after the return from school. While he was breakfasting, a scribbled note from Jack was brought in. "Just heard you arrived last night; it's an awful bore, but I have to go away to-day--an old engagement made, I need hardly say, FOR me and not BY me; I shall turn up to-morrow about this time. No WORK, I think. A day of calm resolution and looking forward manfully to the future! My father and sister are going to dine at the Manor to-night. I shall be awfully interested to hear what you think of them. He has been looking up some things to talk about, and I can tell you, you'll have a dose. Maud is frightened to death.--Yours "Jack. "P.S.--I advise you to begin COUNTING at once." A little later, Miss Merry turned up, to ask Howard if he would care to look round the house. "Mrs. Graves would like," she said, "to show it you herself, but she is easily tired, and can't stand about much." They went round together, and Howard was surprised to find that it was not nearly as large a house as it looked. Much space was agreeably wasted in corridors and passages, and there were huge attics with great timbered supports, needed to sustain the heavy stone tiling, which had never been converted into living rooms. There was the hall, which took up a considerable part of one side; out of this, towards the road, opened the little parlour where he had breakfasted, and above it was a library full of books, with its oriel overhanging the road, and two windows looking into the garden. Then there was the big drawing-room. Upstairs there were but a half a dozen bedrooms. The offices and the servants' bedrooms were in the wing on the road. There was but little furniture in the house. Mr. Graves had had a preference for large bare rooms; and such furniture as there was, was all for use and not for ornament, so that there was a refreshing lack of any aesthetic pose about it. There were but few pictures, but most of the rooms were panelled and needed no other ornament. There was a refreshing sense of space everywhere, and Howard thought that he had never seen a house he liked so well. Miss Merry chirped away, retailing little bits of history. Howard now for the first time learned that Mr. Graves had retired early from business with a considerable fortune, and being fond of books and leisure, and rather delicate in health, had established himself in the house, which had taken his fancy. There were some fifteen hundred acres of land attached, divided up into several small farms. Miss Merry was filled with a reverential sort of adoration of Mrs. Graves; "the most wonderful person, I assure you! I always feel she is rather thrown away in this remote place." "But she likes it?" said Howard. "Yes, she likes everything," said Miss Merry. "She makes everyone feel happy: she says very little, but you feel somehow that all is right if she is there. It's a great privilege, Mr. Kennedy, to be with her; I feel that more and more every day." This artless praise pleased Howard. When he was left alone he got out his papers; but he found himself restless in a pleasant way; he strolled through the garden. It was a singular place, of great extent; the lawn was carefully kept, but behind the screen of shrubs the garden extended far up the valley beside the river in a sort of wilderness; and he could see by the clumps of trees and the grassy mounds that it must have once been a great formal pleasaunce, which had been allowed to follow its own devices; at the far end of it, beside the stream, there was a long flagged terrace, with a stone balustrade looking down upon the stream, and beyond that the woods closed in. He left the garden and followed the stream up the valley; the downs here drew in and became steeper, till he came at last to one of the most lovely places he thought he had ever set eyes upon. The stream ended suddenly in a great clear pool, among a clump of old sycamores; the water rose brimming out of the earth, and he could see the sand fountains rising and falling at the bottom of the basin; by the side of it was a broad stone seat, with carved back and ends. There was not a house in sight; beyond there was only the green valley-end running up into the down, which was here densely covered with thickets. It was perfectly still; and the only sound was the liquid springing of the water in the pool, and the birds singing in the bushes. Howard had a sudden sense that the place held a significance for him. Had he been there before, in some dream or vision? He could not tell; but it was strangely familiar to him. Even so the trees had leaned together, and the clear ripples pulsed upon the bank. Something strange and beautiful had befallen him there. What was it? The mind could not unravel the secret. He sat there long in the sun, his eyes fixed upon the pool, in a blissful content that was beyond thought. Then he slowly retraced his steps, full of an intense inner happiness. He found his aunt in the garden, sitting out in the sun. He bent down to kiss her, and she detained his hand for a moment. "So you are at home?" she said, "and happy?--that is what I had wished and hoped. You have been to the pool--yes, that is a lovely spot. It was that, I think, which made your uncle buy the place; he had a great love of water--and in my unhappy days here, when I had lost him, I used often to go there and wish things were otherwise. But that is all over now!" After luncheon, Miss Merry excused herself and said she was going to the village to see a farm-labourer's wife, who had lost a child and was in great distress. "Poor soul!" said Mrs. Graves. "Give her my love, and ask her to come and see me as soon as she can." Presently as they sat together, Howard smoking, she asked him something about his work. "Will you tell me what you are doing?" she said. "I daresay I should not understand, but I like to know what people are thinking about--don't use technical terms, but just explain your idea!" Howard was just in the frame of mind, trying to revive an old train of thought, in which it is a great help to make a statement of the range of a subject; he said so, and began to explain very simply what was in his mind, the essential unity of all religion, and his attempt to disentangle the central motive from outlying schemes and dogmas. Mrs. Graves heard him attentively, every now and then asking a question, which showed that she was following the drift of his thought. "Ah, that's very interesting and beautiful," she said at last. "May I say that it is the one thing that attracts me, though I have never followed it philosophically. Now," she went on, "I am going to reduce it all to practical terms, and I don't want to beat about the bush--there's no need for that! I want to ask you a plain question. Have you any religion or faith of your own?" "Ah," said Howard, "who can say? I am a conformist, certainly, because I recognise in religion a fine sobering, civilising force at work, and if one must choose one's side, I want to be on that side and not on the other. But religion seems to me in its essence a very artistic thing, a perception of effects which are hidden from many hearts and minds. When a man speaks of definite religious experience, I feel that I am in the presence of a perception of something real--as real as music and painting. But I doubt if it is a sense given to all, or indeed to many; and I don't know what it really is. And then, too, one comes across people who hold it in an ugly, or a dreary, or a combative, or a formal way; and then sometimes it seems to me almost an evil thing." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "I understand that. May I give you an instance, and you will see if I perceive your thought. The good Vicar here, my cousin Frank, Jack's father--you will meet him to-night--is a man who holds a rigid belief, or thinks he holds it. He preaches what he calls the sinew and bone of doctrine, and he is very stern in the pulpit. He likes lecturing people in rows! But in reality he is one of the kindest and vaguest of men. He preached a stiff sermon about conversion the other day--I am pretty sure he did not understand it himself--and he disquieted one of my good maids so much that she went to him and asked what she could do to get assurance. He seems to have hummed and hawed, and then to have said that she need not trouble her head about it--that she was a good girl, and had better be content with doing her duty. He is the friendliest of men, and that is his real religion; he hasn't an idea how to apply his system, which he learned at a theological college, but he feels it his duty to preach it." "Yes," said Howard, "that is just what I mean; but there must be some explanation for this curious outburst of forms and doctrines, so contradictory in the different sects. Something surely causes both the form of religion and the force of it?" "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "just as in an engine something causes both the steam and the piston-rod; it's an intelligence somewhere that fits the one to the other. But then, as you say, what is the cause of all this extravagance and violence of expression?" "That is the human element," said Howard--"the cautious, conservative, business-like side that can't bear to let anything go. All religion begins, it seems to me, by an outburst of moral force, an attempt to simplify, to get a principle; and then the people who don't understand it begin to make it technical and defined; uncritical minds begin to attribute all sorts of vague wonders to it--things unattested, natural exaggerations, excited statements, impossible claims; and then these take traditional shape and the poor steed gets hung with all sorts of incongruous burdens." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "but the force is there all the time; the old hard words, like regeneration and atonement, do not mean DEFINITE things--that is the mischief; they are the receipts made up by stupid, hard-headed people who do not understand; but they stand for large and wonderful experiences and are like the language of children telling their dreams. The moral genius who sees through it all and gives the first impulse is trying to deal with life directly and frankly; and the difficulty arises from people who see the attendant circumstances and mistake them for the causes. But I do not see it from that side, of course! I understand what you are aiming at. You are trying to disentangle all the phenomena, are you not, and referring them to their real causes, instead of lumping them all together as the phenomena of religion?" "Yes," said Howard, "that is what I am doing. I suppose I am naturally sceptical; but I want to put aside all that stands on insecure evidence, and all the sham terminology that comes from a muddled delight in the supernatural. I want to give up and clear away all that is not certain--material things must be brought to the test of material laws--and to see what is left." "Well," said Mrs. Graves, "now I will tell you my own very simple experience. I began, I think, with a very formal religion, and I tried in my youth to attach what was really instinctive to religious motives. It got me into a sad mess, because I did not dare to go direct to life. I used to fret because your uncle seemed so indifferent to these things. He was a wise and good man, and lived by a sort of inner beauty of character that made all mean cruel spiteful petty things impossible to him. Then when he died, I had a terrible time to go through. I felt utterly adrift. My old system did not give me the smallest help. I was trying to find an intellectual solution. It was then that I met Miss Gordon, the great evangelist. She saw I was unhappy, and she said to me one day: 'You have no business to be unhappy like this. What you want is STRENGTH, and it is there all the time waiting for you! You are arguing your case with God, complaining of the injustice you have received, trying to excuse yourself, trying to find cause to blame Him. Your life has been broken to pieces, and you are trying to shelter yourself among the fragments. You must cast them all away, and thank God for having pierced through the fortress in which you were imprisoned. You must just go straight to Him, and open your heart, as if you were opening a window to the sun and air.' She did not explain, or try to give me formulas or phrases, she simply showed me the light breaking round me. "It came to me quite suddenly one morning in my room upstairs. I was very miserable indeed, missing my dear husband at every turn, quite unable to face life, shuddering and shrinking through the days. I threw it all aside, and spoke to God Himself. I said, 'You made me, You put me here, You sent me love, You sent me prosperity. I have cared for the wrong things, I have loved in the wrong way. Now I throw everything else aside, and claim strength and light. I will sorrow no more and desire no more; I will take every day just what You send me, I will say and do what You bid me. I will make no pretences and no complaints. Do with me what You will.' "I cannot tell you what happened to me, but a great tide of strength and even joy flowed into my whole being; it was the water of life, clear as crystal; and yet it was myself all the time! I was not different, but I was one with something pure and wise and loving and eternal. "That has never left me. You will ask why I have not done more, bestirred myself more; because that is just what one cannot do. All that matters nothing. The activities which one makes for oneself, they are the delusions which hide God from us. One must not strive or rebuke or arrange; one must simply love and be. Let me tell you one thing. I was haunted all my early life with a fear of death. I liked life so well, every moment of it, every incident, that I could not bear to think it should ever cease; now, though I shrink from pain as much as ever, I have no shrinking whatever from death. It is the perfectly natural and simple change, and one is with God there as here. The soul and God--those are the two imperishable things; one has not either to know or to act--one has only to feel." She ceased speaking, and sat for a moment upright in her chair. Then she went on. "Now the moment I saw you, my dear boy, I loved you--indeed I have always loved you, I think, and I have always felt that some day in His good time God would bring us together. But I see too that you have not found the strength of God. You are not at peace. Your life is full and active and kind; you are faithful and pure; but your self is still unbroken, like a crystal wall all round you. I think you will have to suffer; but you will believe, will you not, that you have not seen a half of the wonder of life? You are full of happy experience, but you have begun to feel the larger need. And I knew that when you began to feel that need, you would be brought to me, not to be given it, but to be shown it. That is all I can say to you now, but you will know the fulness of life. It is not experience, action, curiosity, ambition, desire, as many think, that is fulness of life; those are delusions, things through which the soul has to pass, just that it may learn not to rest in them. The fulness of life is the stillest, quietest, inner joy, which nothing can trouble or shadow; love is a part of it, but not quite all--for there is a shadow even in love; and this is the larger peace." Howard sat amazed at the fire and glow of the words that came to him. He did not fully understand all that was said, but he had a sense of being brought into touch with a very tremendous and overwhelming force indeed. But he could not for the moment revise his impressions; he only perceived that he had come unexpectedly upon a calm and radiating centre of energy, and it seemed in his mind that the pool which he had seen that morning was an allegory of what he had now heard. The living water, breaking up so clearly from underground in the grassy valley, and passing downwards to gladden the earth! It would be used, be tainted, be troubled, but he saw that no soil or stain, no scattering or disruption, could ever really intrude itself into that elemental purity. The stream would reunite itself, the impregnable atom would let the staining substance fall unheeded. He would have to consider all that, scrutinise his life in a new light. He felt that he had been living on the surface of things, relying on impression, living in impression, missing the strong central current all the time. He rose, and taking his aunt's hand, kissed her cheek. "Those are my thanks!" he said smiling. "I can't express my gratitude, but you have given me so much to think about and to ponder over that I can say no more now. I do indeed feel that I have missed what is perhaps the greatest thing in the world. But I ask myself, Can I attain to this, is it for me? Am I not condemned by temperament to live in the surface-values?" "No, dear child," said Mrs. Graves, looking at him, so that for an instant he felt like a child indeed at a mother's knee; "we all come home thus, sooner or later; and the time has come for you. I knew it the moment I opened your letter. He is at the gate, I said, and I may have the joy of being beside him when the door is opened." V ON THE DOWN Howard was very singularly impressed by this talk. It seemed to him, not certainly indeed, but possibly, that he had stumbled, almost as it were by accident, upon a great current of force and emotion running vehemently through the world, under the calm surface of things. How many apparently unaccountable events it might explain! one saw frail people doing fine things, sensitive people bearing burdens of ill-health or disappointment, placidly and even contentedly, men making gallant, unexpected choices, big expansive natures doing dull work and living cheerfully under cramped conditions. He had never troubled to explain such phenomena, beyond thinking that for some reason such a course of action pleased and satisfied people. Of course everyone did not hide the struggle; there were men he knew who had a grievance against the world, for ever parading a valuation of themselves with which no one concurred. But there were many people who had the material for far worse grievances, who never seemed to nourish them. Had they fought in secret and prevailed? Had they been floated into some moving current of strength by a rising tide? Were they, like the man in the Gospel, conscious of a treasure hidden in a field which made all other prizes tame by comparison? Was the Gospel in fact perhaps aiming at that--the pearl of price? To be born again--was that what had happened? The thought cast a light upon his own serene life, and showed him that it was essentially a pagan sort of life, temperate perhaps and refined, but still unlit by any secret fire. It was not that his life was wrong, or that an abjuration was needed; it was still to be lived, and lived more intently, but no longer merely self-propelled. . . . He needed to be alone, to consider, to focus his thought; he went off for a walk by himself among the hills, past the spring, up the valley, till he came to a place where the down ran out into the plain, the bluff crowned with a great earthwork. An enormous view lay spread out before him. To left and right the smooth elbows of the uplands ran down into the plain, their skirts clothed with climbing woods and orchards, hamlets half-hidden, with the smoke going up from their chimneys; further out the cultivated plain rose and fell, field beyond field, wood beyond wood, merging at last in a belt of deep rich colour, and beyond that, blue hills of hope and desire, and a pale gleam of sea beyond all. The westering sun filled the air with a golden haze, and enriched the land with soft rich shadows. There was life spread out before him, just so and not otherwise, life organised and constructed into toil and a certain order, out of what dim concourse and strife! For whatever reason, it was there to be lived; one could not change the conditions of it, the sun and the rain, the winter and the spring; but behind all that definite set of forces, was there perhaps a stronger and larger force still, a brimming tide of energy, that clasped life close and loved it, and yet regarded something through it and beyond it that was not yet? His heart seemed full of a great longing, not to avoid life, but to return and live it in a larger way, at once more engaged in it, and more detached from it, each quality ministering to the other. It seemed to him that afternoon that there was something awaiting him greater than anything which had yet befallen him--an open door, through which he might pass to see strange things. VI THE HOME CIRCLE He returned somewhat late, to find tea over and Mrs. Graves gone to her room; but there was tea waiting for him in the library; he went there, and for a while turned over his book, which seemed to him now to be illumined with a new light. It was this that he had been looking for, this gift of power; it was that which lay behind his speculations; he had suspected it, inferred it, but not perceived it; he saw now whither his thought had been conducting him, and why he had flagged in the pursuit. He went up to dress for dinner, and came down as soon as the bell rang. He found that Jack's father and sister had arrived. He went into the dimly lighted room. Mr. Sandys, a fine-looking robust man, clean-shaven, curly-haired, carefully and clerically dressed, was standing by Mrs. Graves; he came forward and shook hands. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy," he said, "though indeed I seem to know a great deal about you from Jack. You are quite a hero of his, you know, and I want to thank you for all your kindness to him. I am looking forward to having a good talk with you about his future. By the way, here is my daughter, Maud, who is quite as anxious to see you as I am." A figure sitting in a corner, talking to Miss Merry, rose up, came forward into the light, and held out her hand with rather a shy smile. Howard was amazed at what he saw. Maud had an extraordinary likeness to her brother, but with what a difference! Howard saw in an instant what it was that had haunted him in the aspect of Jack. This was what he seemed to have discerned all the time, and what had been baffling him. He knew that she was nineteen, but she looked younger. She was not, he thought, exactly beautiful--but how much more than beautiful; she was very finely and delicately made, and moved with an extraordinary grace; pale and fair, but with a look of perfect health; her features were very small, and softly rather than finely moulded; she had the air of some flower--a lily he thought--which was emphasised by her simple white dress. The under-lip was a little drawn in, which gave the least touch of melancholy to the face; but she had clear blue trustful eyes, the expression of which moved him in a very singular manner, because they seemed to offer a sweet and frank confidence. Her self-possession gave the least little sense of effort. He took the small firm and delicate hand in his, and was conscious of something strong and resolute in the grasp of the tiny fingers. She murmured something about Jack being so sorry to be away; and Howard to recover himself said: "Yes, he wrote to me to explain--we are going to do some work together, I believe." "Yes, it's most kind of you," said Mr. Sandys, putting his arm within his daughter's with a pleasant air of fatherliness. "I am afraid industry isn't Jack's strong point? Of course I am anxious about his future--you must be used to that sort of thing! but we will defer all this until after dinner, when Mrs. Graves will allow us to have a good talk." "We will see," said Mrs. Graves, rising; "Howard is here for a holiday, you know. Howard, will you lead the way; you don't know how my ceremonial soul enjoys having a real host to preside!" Maud took Howard's arm, and the touch gave him a quite unreasonable thrill of pleasure; but he felt too quite insupportably elderly. What could he find to talk to this enchanting child about? He wished he had learned more about her tastes and ideas. Was this the creature of whom Jack had talked so patronisingly? He felt almost angry with his absent pupil for not having prepared him for what he would meet. As soon as they were seated Mr. Sandys launched into the talk, like an eagle dallying with the wind. He struck Howard as an extremely good-natured, sensible, buoyant man, with a perpetual flow of healthy interests. Nothing that he said had the slightest distinction, and his power of expression was quite unequal to the evident vividness of his impressions. He had a taste for antithesis, but no grasp of synonyms. Every idea in Mr. Sandys' mind fell into halves, but the second clause was produced, not to express any new thought, but rather to echo the previous clause. He began at once on University topics. He had himself been a Pembroke man, and it had cost him an effort, he said, to send Jack elsewhere. "I don't take quite the orthodox view of education," he said, "in fact I am decidedly heterodox about its aims and the object that it has. It ought not to fall behind its object, and all this specialisation seems to me to be dangerous, and in fact decidedly perilous. My own education was on the old classical lines--an excellent gymnastic, I think, and distinctly fortifying. The old masterpieces, you know, Thucydides and so forth--they should be the basis--the foundation so to speak. But we must not forget the superstructure, the house of thought, if I may use the expression. You must forgive my ventilating these crude ideas, Mr. Kennedy. I went in myself, after taking my degree, for a course of general reading. Goethe and Schiller, you know. Yes, how fine that all is, though I sometimes feel it is a little Teutonic? One needs to correct the Teutonic bias, and it is just there that the gymnastic of the classics comes in; it gives one a standard--a criterion in fact. One must have a criterion, mustn't one, or it is all loose, and indeed, so to speak, illusive? I am all for formative education; and it is there that women--I speak frankly in the presence of three intelligent women--it is there that they suffer. Their education is not formative enough--not formal enough, in fact! Now, I have tried with dear Maud to communicate just that touch of formality. You would be surprised, Mr. Kennedy, to know what Maud has read under my guidance. Not learned, you know--I don't care for that--but with a standard, or if I may revert to my former expression, a criterion." He paused for a moment, saw that he was belated, and finished his soup hastily. "Yes," said Howard, "of course that is the real problem of education--to give a standard, and not to extinguish the taste for intellectual things, which is too often what we contrive to do." "Now we must not be too serious all at once," said Mrs. Graves. "If we exhaust ourselves about education, we shall have nothing to fall back upon--we shall be afraid to condescend. I am deplorably ill-educated myself. I have no standard whatever. I have to consult dear Jane, have I not? Jane is my intellectual touchstone, and saves me from entire collapse." "Well, well," said Mr. Sandys good-humouredly, "Mr. Kennedy and I will fight it out together sometime. He will forgive an old Pembroke man for wanting to know what is going forward; for scenting the battle afar off, in fact." Mr. Sandys found no lack of subjects to descant upon; but voluble, and indeed absurd as he was, Howard could not help liking him; he was a good fellow, he could see, and managed to diffuse a geniality over the scene. "I am interested in most things," he said, at the end of a breathless harangue, "and there is something in the presence of a real live student, from the forefront of the intellectual battle, which rouses all my old activities--stimulates them, in fact. This will be a memorable evening for me, Mr. Kennedy, and I have abundance of things to ask you." He did indeed ask a good many things, but he was content to answer them himself. Once indeed, in the course of an immense tirade, in which Mr. Sandys' intellectual curiosity took a series of ever-widening sweeps, Howard caught his neighbour regarding him with a half-amused look, and became aware that she was wondering if he were playing Jack's game. Their eyes met, and he knew that she knew that he knew. He smiled and shook his head. She gave him a delighted little smile, and Howard had that touch of absurd ecstasy, which visits men no longer young, when they find themselves still in the friendly camp of the young, and not in the hostile camp of the middle-aged. Presently he said to her something about Jack, and how much he enjoyed seeing him at Cambridge. "He is really rather a wonderful person," he added. "There isn't anyone at Beaufort who has such a perfectly defined relation to everyone in the college, from the master down to the kitchen-boys. He talks to everyone without any embarrassment, and yet no one really knows what he is thinking! He is very deep, really, and I think he has a fine future before him." Maud lighted up at this, and said: "Do you really think so?" and added, "You know how much he admires you?" "I am glad to be assured of it," said Howard; "you would hardly guess it from some of the things he says to me. It's awful, but he can't be checked--and yet he never oversteps the line, somehow." "He's a queer boy," said Maud. "The way he talked to the Archdeacon the other day was simply fearful; but the Archdeacon only laughed, and said to papa afterwards that he envied him his son. The Archdeacon was giggling half the afternoon; he felt quite youthful, he said." "It's the greatest gift to be able to do that," said Howard; "it's a sort of fairy wand--the pumpkin becomes a coach and four." "Jack's right ear must be burning, I think," said Maud, "and yet he never seems to want to know what anyone thinks about him." That was all the talk that Howard had with her at dinner. After the ladies had gone, Mr. Sandys became very confidential about Jack's prospects. "I look upon you as a sort of relation, you see," he said, "in fact I shall make bold to drop the Mr. and I hope you will do the same? May we indeed take a bold step into intimacy and be 'Howard' and 'Frank' henceforth? I can't, of course, leave Jack a fortune, but when I die the two dear children will be pretty well off--I may say that. What do you think he had better go in for? I should like him to take holy orders, but I don't press it. It brings one into touch with human beings, and I like that. I find human beings very interesting--I am not afraid of responsibility." Howard said that he did not think Jack inclined to orders. "Then I put that aside," cried the good-natured Mr. Sandys. "No compulsion for me--the children may do as they like, live as they like, marry whom they like. I don't believe in checking human nature. Of course if Jack could get a Fellowship, I should like him to settle down at Cambridge. There's a life for you! In the forefront of the intellectual battle! It is what I should have liked myself, of all things. To hear what is going on in the intellectual line, to ventilate ideas, to write, to teach--that's a fine life--to be able to hold one's own in talk and discussion--that's where we country people fail. I have plenty of ideas, you know, myself, but I can't put them into shape, into form, so to speak." "I think Jack would rather like a commercial career," said Howard. "It's the only thing he has ever mentioned; and I am sure he might do well if he could get an opening; he likes real things, he says." "He does!" said Mr. Sandys enthusiastically--"that's what he always says. Do you know, if you won't think me very vain, Howard, I believe he gets that from me. Maud is different--she takes after her dear mother--whose loss was so irreparable a calamity--my dear wife was full of imagination; it was a beautiful mind. I will show you some of her sketches when you come to see us--I am looking forward to that--not much technique, perhaps, but a real instinct for beauty; to be just, a little lacking in form, but full of feeling. Well, Jack, as I was saying, likes reality. So do I! A firm hold on reality--that's the best thing; I was not intellectual enough for the life of thought, and I fell back on humanity--vastly engrossing! I assure you, though you would hardly think it, that even these simple people down here are most interesting: no two of them alike. My old friends say to me sometimes that I must find country people very dull, but I always say, 'No two of them alike!' Of course I try to keep my intellectual tastes alive--they are only tastes, of course, not faculties, like yours--but we read and talk and ventilate our ideas, Maud and I; and when we are tired of books, why I fall back on the great book of humanity. We don't stagnate--at least I hope not--I have a horror of stagnation. I said so to the Archdeacon the other day, and he said that there was nothing stagnant about Windlow." "No, I am quite sure there is not," said Howard politely. "It's very good of you to say so, Howard," said Mr. Sandys delightedly. "Really quite a compliment! And I assure you, you don't know what a pleasure it is to have a talk like this with a man like yourself, so well-read, so full of ideas. I envy Jack his privileges. I do indeed. Now dear old Pembroke was not like that in my days. There was no one I could talk to, as Jack tells me he talks to you. A man like yourself is a vast improvement on the old type of don, if I may say so. I'm very free, you see! And so you think Jack might do well in commerce? Well, I quite approve. All I want is that he should not be out of touch with human beings. I'm not a metaphysician, but it seems to me that that is what we are here for--touch with humanity--of course on Church of England lines. I'm tolerant, I hope, and can see the good side of other creeds; but give me something comprehensive, and that is the glory of our English Church. Well, you have given me a lot to think of, Howard; I must just take it all away and think it over. It's well to do that, I think? Not to be in a hurry, try to see all round a question? That is my line always!" They walked into the drawing-room together; and Howard felt curiously drawn to the warm-hearted and voluble man. Perhaps it was for the sake of his children, he thought. There must be something fine about a man who had brought up two such children--but that was not all; the Vicar was enthusiastic; he revelled in life, he adored life; and Howard felt that there was a real fund of sense and even judgment somewhere, behind the spray of the cataract. He was a man whom one could trust, he believed, and whom it was impossible not to like. When they reached the drawing-room, Mrs. Graves called the Vicar into a corner, and began to talk to him about someone in the village; Howard heard his talk plunge steadily into the silence. Miss Merry flitted about, played a few pieces of music; and Howard found himself left to Maud. He went and sate down beside her. In the dim light the girl sate forward in a big arm-chair; there was nothing languorous or listless about her. She seemed all alert in a quiet way. She greeted him with a smile, and sate turned towards him, her chin on her hand, her eyes upon him. Her shining hair fell over the curves of her young and pure neck. She was holding a flower, which Mrs. Graves had given her, in her other hand, and its fragrance exhaled all about her. Once or twice she checked him with a little gesture of her hand, when Miss Merry began to play, and he could see that she was much affected by the music. "It seems to me so wrong to talk during music," she said; "perhaps it wasn't polite of me to stop you, but I can't bear to interrupt music--it's like treading on flowers--it can't come again just like that!" "Yes," said Howard, "I know exactly what you mean; but I expect it is a mistake to think of a beautiful thing being wasted, if we don't happen to hear or see it. It isn't only meant for us. It is the light or the sound or the flower, I think, being beautiful because it is glad." "Yes," said the girl, "perhaps it is that. That is what Mrs. Graves thinks. Do you know, it seems to me strange that you have never been here before, though you are almost her only relation. She is the most wonderful person I have ever seen. The only person I know who seems always right, and yet never wants anyone else to know she is right." "Yes," said Howard, "I feel that I have been very foolish--but it has been going on all the time, like the music and the light. It hasn't been wasted. I have had a wonderful talk with her to-day--the most wonderful talk, I think, I have ever had. I can't understand it all yet--but she has given me the sense of some fine purpose--as if I had been kept away for a purpose, because I was not ready; and as if I had come here for a purpose now." The girl sate looking at him with open eyes, and with some strange sense of surprise. "Yes," she said, "it is just like that; but that you could have seen it so soon amazes me. I have known her all my life, and could never have put that into words. Do you know how things seem to come and go and shift about without any meaning? It is never so with her; she sees what it all means. I cannot explain it." They sate in silence for a moment, and then Howard said: "It is very curious to be here; you know, or probably you don't know, how much interested I am in Jack; and somehow in talking to him I felt that there was something behind--something more to know. All this"--he waved his hand at the room--"my aunt, your father, yourself--it does not seem to me new and unfamiliar, but something which I have always known. I can't tell you in what a dream I have seemed to be moving ever since I came here. I have been here for twenty-four hours, and yet it seems all old and dear to me." "I know that feeling," said the girl, "one dips into something that has been going on for ever and ever--I feel like that to-night. It seems odd to talk like this, but you must remember that Jack tells me most things, and I seem to know you quite well. I knew it would be all easy somehow." "Well, we are a sort of cousins," said Howard lightly. "That's such a comfort; it needn't entail anything, but it can save one all sorts of fencing and ceremony. I want to talk to you about Jack. He is a little mysterious to me still." "Yes," she said, "he is mysterious, but he really is a dear: he was the most aggravating boy that ever lived, and I sometimes used really to hate him. I am afraid we used to fight a great deal; at least I did, but I suppose he was only pretending, for he never hurt me, and I know I used to hurt him--but then he deserved it!" "What a picture!" said Howard, smiling; "no wonder that boys go to their private schools expecting to have to fight for their lives. I never had a sister; and that accounts perhaps for my peaceful disposition." He had a sudden sense as he spoke that he was talking as if to an undergraduate in friendly irony. To his surprise and pleasure he saw that his thought had translated itself. "I suppose that is how you talk to your pupils," said the girl, smiling; "I recognise that--and that's what makes it easy to talk to you as Jack does--it's like an easy serve at lawn-tennis." "I am glad it is easy," said Howard, "you don't know how many of my serves go into the net!" "Lawn-tennis!" said Mr. Sandys from the other side of the room. "There's a good game, Howard! I am not much of a hand at it myself, but I enjoy playing. I don't mind making a spectacle of myself. One misses many good things by being afraid of looking a fool. What does it matter, I say to myself, as long as one doesn't FEEL a fool? You will come and play at the vicarage, I hope. Indeed, I want you to go and come just as you like. We are relations, you know, in a sort of way--at least connections. I don't know if you go in for genealogy--it's rather a hobby of mine; it fills up little bits of time, you know. I could reel you off quite a list of names, but Mrs. Graves doesn't care for genealogy, I know." "Oh, not that!" said Mrs. Graves. "I think it is very interesting. But I rather agree with the minister who advised his flock to pray for good ancestors." "Ha! ha!" said Mr. Sandys, "excellent, that; but it is really very curious you know, that the further one goes back the more one's ancestors increase. Talk of over-population; why if one goes back thirty or forty generations, the world would be over-populated with the ancestors of any one of us. I remember posing a very clever mathematician with that once; but, as a fact, it's quite the reverse, one finds. Are you interested in neolithic men, Howard? There are graves of them all over the down--it is not certain if they were neolithic, but they had very curious burial customs. Knees up to the chin, you know. Well, well, it's all very fascinating, and I should like to drive you over to Dorchester to look at the museum there--there are some questions I should like to ask you. But we must be off. A delightful evening, cousin Anne; a delightful evening, Howard. I feel quite rejuvenated--such a lot to ponder over." Howard went to the door to see them off, and was rewarded by a parting smile from Maud, which made him feel curiously elated. He went back to the drawing-room with that faint feeling of flatness which comes of parting with lively guests; and yet it somehow gave him a pleasant sense of being at home. "Well," said Mrs. Graves, "so now you have seen the Sandys interior. Dear Frank, how he does chatter, to be sure! but he is all alive too in his own way, and that is what matters. What did you think of Maud? I want you to like her--she is a great friend of mine, and really a fine creature. Not very happy just now, perhaps. But while dear old Frank never sees past the outside of things--what a lot of things he does see!--she sees inside, I think. But I am tired to death. I always feel after talking to Frank as if I had been driving in a dog-cart over a ploughed field!" VII COUNTRY LIFE Howard woke early, after sweet and wild dreams of great landscapes and rich adventures; as his thoughts took shape, he began to feel as if he had passed some boundary yesterday; escaped, as a child escapes from a familiar garden into great vague woodlands. There was his talk with Mrs. Graves first--that had opened up for him a new region, indeed, of the mind and soul, and had revealed to him an old force, perhaps long within his grasp, but which he had never tried to use or wield. And the vision too of Maud crossed his mind--a perfectly beautiful thing, which had risen like a star. He did not think of it as love at all--that did not cross his mind--it was just the thought of something enchantingly and exquisitely beautiful, which disturbed him, awed him, threw his mind off its habitual track. How extraordinarily lovely, simple, sweet, the girl had seemed to him in the dim room, in the faint light; and how fearless and frank she had been! He was conscious only of something adorable, which raised, as beautiful things did, a sense of something unapproachable, some yearning which could not be satisfied. How far away, how faded and dusty his ordinary contented Cambridge life now seemed to him! He breakfasted alone, read a few letters which had been forwarded to him, and went to the library. A few minutes later Miss Merry tapped at the door, and came in. "Mrs. Graves asked me to say--she was sorry she forgot to mention it--that if you care for shooting or fishing, the keeper will come in and take your orders. She thinks you might like to ask Jack to luncheon and go out with him; she sends you her love, and wants you to do what you like." "Thank you very much!" said Howard, "I rather expect Jack will be round here and I will ask him. I know he would like it, and I should too--if you are sure Mrs. Graves approves." "Oh, yes," said Miss Merry, smiling, "she always approves of people doing what they like." Miss Merry still hesitated at the door. "May I ask you another question, Mr. Kennedy--I hope I am not troublesome--I wonder if you could suggest some books for us to read? I read a good deal to Mrs. Graves, and I am afraid we get rather into a groove. We ought to read some of the new books; we want to know what people are saying and thinking--we don't want to get behind." "Why, of course," said Howard, "I shall be delighted--but I am afraid I am not likely to be of much use; I don't read as much as I ought; but if you will tell me the sort of things you care about, and what you have been reading, we will try to make out a list. Won't you sit down and see what we can do?" "Oh, I don't like to interrupt you," said Miss Merry. "But if you would be so kind." She sat down at the far end of the table, and Howard was dimly and amusedly conscious that this tete-a-tete was of the nature of a romantic adventure to the little lady. He was surprised, when they came to talk, to find how much they appeared to have read of a solid kind. He asked if they had any plan. "No, indeed," said Miss Merry, "we just wander on; one thing suggests another. Mrs. Graves likes LONG books; she says she likes to get at a subject quietly--that there ought not to be too many good things in books; she likes them slow and spacious." "I am afraid one has to go back a good way for that!" said Howard. "People can't afford now to know more than a manual of a couple of hundred pages can tell them about a subject. I can tell you some good historical books, and some books of literary criticism and biography. I can't do much about poetry or novels; and philosophy, science, and theology I am no use at all for. But I could get you some advice if you like. That's the best of Cambridge, there are so many people about who are able to tell what to read." While they were making out a list, Jack arrived breathlessly, and Miss Merry shamefacedly withdrew. Howard said: "Perhaps that will do to go on with--we will have another talk to-morrow. I begin to see the sort of thing you want." Jack was in a state of high excitement. "What on earth were you doing," he said, as the door closed, "with that sedate spinster?" "We were making out a list of books!" "Ah," said Jack with a profound air, "books are dangerous things--that's the intellectual way of making love! You must be a great excitement here, with all your ideas!--but now," he went on, "here I am--I hurried back the moment breakfast was over. I have been horribly bored--a lawn-tennis party yesterday, the females much to the fore--it's no good that, it's not the game; at least it's not lawn-tennis; it's a game all right, but I much suspect it has to do with love-making rather than exercise." "You seem very suspicious this morning," said Howard; "you accuse me of flirting to begin with, and now you suspect lawn-tennis." Jack shook his head. "I do hate love-making!" he said, "it spoils everything--it gets in the way, and makes fools of people; the longer I live, the more I see that most of the things that people do are excuses for doing something else! But never mind that! I said I had got to get back to be coached; I said that one of our dons was staying in the village and had his eye on me. What I want to know is whether you have made any arrangements about shooting or fishing? You said you would if you could." "The keeper is coming in," said Howard, "and we will have a talk to him; but mind, on one condition--work in the morning, exercise in the afternoon; and you are to stop to lunch." "Cousin Anne is bursting into hospitality," said Jack, "because Maud is coming in for the afternoon. I haven't had time to pump Maud yet about you, but, by George, I'm going to pump you about her and father. Did you have a very thick time last night? I could see father was rather licking his lips." "Now, no more chatter," said Howard; "you go and get some books, and we will set to work at once." Jack nodded and fled. When he came back the keeper was waiting, a friendly old man, who seemed delighted at the idea of some sport. Jack said, "Look here, I have arranged it all. Shooting to-day, and you can have father's gun; he hardly ever uses it, and I have my own. Fishing to-morrow, and so on alternately. There are heaps of rabbits up the valley--the place crawls with them." Howard taught Jack for an hour, as clearly and briskly as he could, making him take notes. He found him quick and apt, and at the end, Jack said, "Now if I could only do this every day at Cambridge, I should soon get on. My word, you do do it well! It makes me shudder to think of all the practice you must have had." Howard set Jack down to prepare some further work by himself, and attacked his own papers; and very soon it was time for lunch. Mrs. Graves greeted Jack with much affectionateness, and asked what they had arranged for the afternoon. Howard told her, and added that he hoped she did not object to shooting. "No, not at all," said Mrs. Graves, "if YOU can do it conscientiously--I couldn't! As usual I am hopelessly inconsistent. I couldn't kill things myself, but as long as I eat meat, I can't object. It's no good arguing about these things. If one begins to argue about destroying life, there are such excellent reasons for not eating anything, or wearing anything, or even crossing the lawn! I have long believed that plants are conscious, but we have got to exist somehow at each other's expense. Instinct is the only guide for women; if they begin to reason, they get run away with by reason; that is what makes fanatics. I won't go so far as to wish you good sport, but you may as well get all the rabbits you can; I'll send them round the village, and try to salve my conscience so." They talked a little about the books Howard had been recommending, but Mrs. Graves was bent on making much of Jack. "I don't get you here often by yourself," she said. "I daren't ask a modern young man to come and see two old frumps--one old frump, I mean! But I gather that you have views of your own, Jack, and some day I shall try to get at them. I suppose that in a small place like this we all know a great deal more about each other than we suspect each other of knowing. What a comfort that we have tongues that we can hold! It wouldn't be possible to live, if we knew that all the absurdities we pride ourselves on concealing were all perfectly well known and canvassed by all our friends. However, as long as we only enjoy each other's faults, and don't go in for correcting them, we can get on. I hope you don't DISAPPROVE of people, Jack! That's the hopeless attitude." "Well, I hate some people," said Jack, "but I hate them so much that it is quite a pleasure to meet them and to think how infernal they are; and when it's like that, I should be sorry if they improved." "I won't go as far as that," said Howard. "The most I do is to be thankful that their lack of improvement can still entertain me. One can never be thankful enough for really grotesque people. But I confess I don't enjoy seeing people spiteful and mean and vicious. I want to obliterate all that." "I want it to be obliterated," said Mrs. Graves; "but I don't feel equal to doing it. Oh, well, we mustn't get solemn over it; that's the mischief! But I mustn't keep you gentlemen from more serious pursuits--'real things,' I believe, Jack?" "Mr. Kennedy has been sneaking on me," said Jack. "I don't like to see people mean and spiteful. It gives me pain. I want all that obliterated." "This is what happens to my pupils," said Howard. "Come on, Jack, you shall not expose my methods like this." They went off with the old keeper, who carried a bag of writhing ferrets, and was accompanied by a boy with a spade and a line and a bag of cartridges. As they went on, Jack catechised Howard closely. "Did my family behave themselves?" he said. "Did you want them obliterated? I expect you had a good pull at the Governor, but don't forget he is a good chap. He is so dreadfully interested, but you come to plenty of sense last of all. I admit it is last, but it's there. It's no joke facing him if there's a row! he doesn't say much then, and that makes it awful. He has a way of looking out of the window, if I cheek him, for about five minutes, which turns me sick. Up on the top he is a bit frothy--but there's no harm in that, and he keeps things going." "Yes," said Howard, "I felt that, and I may tell you plainly I liked him very much, and thought him a thoroughly good sort." "Well, what about Maud?" said Jack. Howard felt a tremor. He did not want to talk about Maud, and he did not want Jack to talk about her. It seemed like laying hands on something sacred and secluded. So he said, "Really, I don't know as yet--I only had one talk with her. I can't tell. I thought her delightful; like you with your impudence left out." "The little cat!" said Jack; "she is as impudent as they make them. I'll be bound she has taken the length of your foot. What did she talk about? stars and flowers? That's one of her dodges." "I decline to answer," said Howard; "and I won't have you spoiling my impressions. Just leave me alone to make up my mind, will you?" Jack looked at him,--he had spoken sharply--nodded, and said, "All right! I won't give her away. I see you are lost; but I'll get it all out of you some time." They were by this time some way up the valley. There were rabbit burrows everywhere among the thickets. The ferrets were put in. Howard and Jack were posted below, and the shooting began. The rabbits bolted well, and Howard experienced a lively satisfaction, quite out of proportion, he felt, to the circumstances, at finding that he could shoot a great deal better than his pupil. The old knack came back to him, and he toppled over his rabbits cleanly and in a masterly way. "You are rather good at this!" said Jack. "Won't I blazon it abroad up at Beaufort. You shall have all the credit and more. I can't see how you always manage to get them in the head." "It's a trick," said Howard; "you have got to get a particular swing, and when you have got it, it's difficult to miss--it's only practice; and I shot a good deal at one time." Howard was unreasonably happy that afternoon. It was a still, sunny day, and the steep down stretched away above them, an ancient English woodland, with all its thorn-thickets and elder-clumps. It had been like this, he thought, from the beginning of history, never touched by the hand of man. The expectant waiting, the quick aim, the sudden shot, took off the restlessness of his brain; and as they stood there, often waiting for a long time in silence, a peculiar quality of peace and contentment enveloped his spirit. It was all so old, so settled, so quiet, that all sense of retrospect and prospect passed from his mind. He was just glad to be alive and alert, glad of his friendly companion, robust and strong. A few pictures passed before his mind, but he was glad just to let his eyes wander over the scene, the steep turf ramparts, the close-set dingles, the spring sunshine falling softly over all, as the sun passed over and the shadows lengthened. At last a ferret got hung up, and had to be dug out. Howard looked at his watch, and said they must go back to tea. Jack protested in vain that there was plenty of light left. Howard said they were expected back. They left the keeper to recover the ferret, and went back quickly down the valley. Jack was in supreme delight. "Well, that's an honest way of spending time!" he said. "My word, how I dangle about here; it isn't good for my health. But, by George, I wish I could shoot like you, Mr. Kennedy, Sir." "Why this sudden obsequiousness?" said Howard. "Oh, because I never know what to call you," said Jack. "I can't call you by your Christian name, and Mr. Kennedy seems absurd. What do you like?" "Whatever comes naturally," said Howard. "Well, I'll call you Howard when we are together," said Jack. "But mind, not at Beaufort! If I call you anything, it will have to be Mr. Kennedy. I hate men fraternising with the Dons. The Dons rather encourage it, because it makes them feel youthful and bucks them up. The men are just as bad about Christian names. Gratters on getting your Christian name, you know! It's like a girls' school. I wonder why Cambridge is more like a girls' school than a public school is? I suppose they are more sentimental. I do loathe that." When they got back they found Maud at tea; she had been there all the afternoon; she greeted Howard very pleasantly, but there was a touch of embarrassment created by the presence of Jack, who regarded her severely and called her "Miss." "He's got some grudge against me," said Maud to Howard. "He always has when he calls me Miss." "What else should I call you?" said Jack; "Mr. Kennedy has been telling me that one should call people by whatever name seems natural. You are a Miss to-day, and no mistake. You are at some game or other!" "Now, Jack, be quiet!" said Mrs. Graves; "that is how the British paterfamilias gets made. You must not begin to make your womankind uncomfortable in public. You must not think aloud. You must keep up the mysteries of chivalry!" "I don't care for mysteries," said Jack, "but I'll behave. My father says one mustn't seethe the kid in its mother's milk. I will leave Miss to her conscience." "Did you enjoy yourself?" said Mrs. Graves to Howard. "Yes, I'm afraid I did," said Howard, "very much indeed." "Some book I read the other day," said Mrs. Graves, "stated that men ought to do primeval things, eat under-done beef, sleep in their clothes, drink too much, kill things. It sounds disgusting; but I suppose you felt primeval?" "I don't know what it was," said Howard. "I felt very well content." "My word, he can shoot!" said Jack to Mrs. Graves; "I'm a perfect duffer beside him; he shot four-fifths of the bag, and there's a perfect mountain of rabbits to come in." "Horrible, horrible!" said Mrs. Graves, "but are there enough to go round the village?" "Two apiece," said Jack, "to every man a damsel or two! Now, Maud, come on--ten o'clock, to-morrow, Sir--and perhaps a little fishing later?" "You had better stay to lunch, whenever you come and work in the morning, Jack," said Mrs. Graves; "and I'll turn you inside out before very long." Howard went off to his work with a pleasant sense of the open air. They dined together quietly; after dinner he went and sate down by Mrs. Graves. "Jack's a nice boy," she said, "very nice--don't make him pert!" "I am afraid I shan't MAKE him anything," said Howard. "He will go his own way, sure enough; but he isn't pert--he comes to heel, and he remembers. He is like the true gentleman--he is never unintentionally offensive." Mrs. Graves laughed, and said, "Yes, that is so." Howard went on, "I have been thinking a great deal about our talk yesterday, and it's a new light to me. I do not think I fully understand, but I feel that there is something very big behind it all, which I want to understand. This great force you speak of--is it an AIM?" "That's a good question," said Mrs. Graves. "No, it's not an aim at all. It's too big for that; an aim is quite on a lower level. There's no aim in the big things. A man doesn't fall ill with an aim--he doesn't fall in love with an aim. It just comes upon him." "But then," said Howard, "is it more than a sort of artistic gift which some have and many have not? I have known a few real artists, and they just did not care for anything else in the world. All the rest of life was just a passing of time, a framework to their work. There was an artist I knew, who was dying. The doctor asked him if he wanted anything. 'Just a full day's work,' he said." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "it is like that in a way; it is the one thing worth doing and being. But it isn't a conscious using of minutes and opportunities--it isn't a plan; it is just a fulness of life, rejoicing to live, to see, to interpret, to understand. It doesn't matter what life you live--it is how you live it. Life is only the cup for the liquor which must else be spilled. I can only use an old phrase--it is being 'in the spirit': when you ask whether it is a special gift, of course some people have it more strongly and consciously than others. But it is the thing to which we are all tending sooner or later; and the mysterious thing about it is that so many people do not seem to know they have it. Yet it is always just the becoming aware of what is there." "How do you account for that?" said Howard. "Why," said Mrs. Graves, "to a great extent because religion is in such an odd state. It is as if the people who knew or suspected the secret, did all they could to conceal it--just as parents try to keep their children ignorant of the ideas of sex. Religion has got so horribly mixed up with other things, with respectability, social order, conventions, doctrines, metaphysics, ceremony, music--it has become so specialised in the hands of priests who have a great institution to support, that dust is thrown in people's eyes--and just as they begin to think they perceive the secret, they are surrounded by tiresome dogmatists saying, 'It is this and that--it is this doctrine, that tradition.' Well, that sort of religion IS a very special accomplishment--ecclesiastical religion. I don't deny that it has artistic qualities, but it is a poor narrow product; and then the technically religious make such a fuss if they see the shoal of fish escaping the net, and beat the water so vehemently that the fish think it safer to stay where they are, and so you get sardines in tins!" said Mrs. Graves with a smile--"by which I mean the churches." "Yes," said Howard, "that is perfectly true! Christianity was at first the most new, radical, original, anarchical force in the world--it was the purest individualism; it was meant to over-ride all human combinations by simply disregarding them; it was not a social reform, and still less a political reform; it was a new spirit, and it was meant to create a new kind of fellowship, the mere existence of which would do away with the need for organisation; it broke meekly, like water, through all human partitions, and I suppose it has been tamed." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "it is not now the world against religion. It is organised religion against real religion, because religion is above and apart from all institutions. Christ said, 'When they persecute you in one city, flee into another'; and the result of that is the Monroe doctrine!" "But are you not a Christian?" said Howard. "I believe myself to be one," said Mrs. Graves; "and no doubt you will say, 'Why do you live in wealth and comfort?' That's a difficulty, because Christ meant us to be poor. But if one hands over one's money to Christian institutions now, one is subsidising the forces of the world--at least so I think. It's very difficult. Christ said that we should bestow our goods upon the poor; but if I were to divide my goods to-morrow among my neighbours, they would be only injured by it--it would not be Christian of them to take them--they have enough. If they have not, I give it them. It does less harm to me than to them. But this I know is very irrational; and the point is not to be affected by that. I could live in a cottage tomorrow, if there was need." "Yes, I believe you could," said Howard. "As long as one is not dependent upon money," said Mrs. Graves, "it doesn't very much matter. The real point is to take the world as it comes, and to be sure that one is on the side of what is true and simple and sincere; but I do not pretend to have solved everything, and I am hoping to learn more. I do learn more every day. One can't interfere with the lives of people; poverty is not the worst evil. It is nice to be clean, but I sometimes think that the only good I get from money is cleanliness--and that is only a question of habit! The real point is to be in life, to watch life, to love it, to live it; to be in direct relations with everyone, not to be superior, not to be KIND--that implies superiority. I just plod along, believing, fearing, hoping, loving, glad to live while I may, not afraid to die when I must. The only detachment worth having is the detachment from the idea of making things one's own. I can't appropriate the sunset and the spring, the loves and cares of others; it is all divided up, more fairly than we think. I have had many sorrows and sufferings; but I am more interested than ever in life, glad to help and be helped, ready to change, desiring to change. It isn't a great way of living; but one must not want that--and believe me, dear Howard, it is the only way." VIII THE INHERITANCE The first day or two of Howard's stay at Windlow seemed like a week, the succeeding week seemed like a day, as soon as he had settled down to a certain routine of life. He became aware of a continued sympathetic and quite unobtrusive scrutiny of him, his ways, his tastes, his thoughts, on the part of his aunt--her questions were subtle, penetrating, provocative enough for him to wish to express an opinion. He did not dislike it, and used no diplomacy himself; he found his aunt's mind shrewd, fresh, unaffected, and at the same time inspiring. She habitually spoke with a touch of irony--not bitter irony, but the irony that is at once a compliment and a sign of affection, such as Socrates used to the handsome boys that came about him. She was not in the smallest degree cynical, but she was very decidedly humorous. Howard thought that she did people even more than justice, while she was frankly delighted if they also provided her with amusement. She held nothing inconveniently sacred, and Howard admired the fine balance of interest and detachment which she showed, her delight in life, her high faith in something large, eternal, and advancing. Her health was evidently very frail, but she made light of it--it was almost the only thing she did not seem to find interesting. How could this clever, vivacious woman, Howard asked himself, retain this wonderful freshness and sweetness of mind in such solitude and dulness of life? He could imagine her the centre of a salon--she had all the gifts of a saloniste, the power of keeping a talk in hand, of giving her entire thought to her neighbour, and yet holding the whole group in view. Solitary, frail, secluded as she was, she was like an unrusted sword, and lavished her wit and her affection on all alike, callers, villagers, servants; and yet he never saw her tired or depressed. She took life as she found it, and was delighted with its simplest combinations. He found her company entirely absorbing and inspiring. He told her, in answer to her frank interest--she seemed to be interested on her own account, and not to please him--more about his own life than he had ever told a human being. She always wanted facts, impressions, details: "Enlarge that--describe that--tell me some more particulars," were phrases often on her lips. And he was delighted, too, by the belief that her explorations into his mind and life pleased and satisfied her. It dawned on him gradually that she was a woman of rich experience, and that her tranquillity was an aftergrowth, a development--"That was in my discontented days," she said once. "It is impossible to think of you as discontented," he had said. "Ah," she said lightly, "I had my dreams, like everyone else; but I saw at last that one must TAKE life--one can't MAKE it--and accept its limitations with enjoyment." One morning, when he was called, the butler gave him a letter--he had been there about a fortnight--from his aunt. He opened it, expecting that it was to say that she was ill. He found that it ran as follows: "MY DEAR BOY,--I always think that business is best done by letter and not by conversation. I am getting an old woman and my life is uncertain. I want to make a statement of intentions. I may tell you that I am a comparatively wealthy woman; my dear husband left me everything he had; including what he spent on this place, it came to about sixty thousand pounds. Now I intend to leave that back to his family; there are several sisters of his alive, and they are not wealthy people; but I have saved money too; and it is my wish to leave you this house and the residue of my fortune, after arranging for some small legacies. The estate is not worth very much--a great deal of it is wild downland. But you would have the place, when I died, and about twelve hundred a year. It would be understood that you should live here a certain amount--I don't believe in non-resident landlords. But I do not mean to tie you down to live here altogether. It is only my wish that you should do something for your tenants and neighbours. If you stayed on at Cambridge you could come here in vacations. But my hope would be that you might marry. It is a house for a family. If you do not care to live here, I would rather it were sold. While I live, I hope you will be content to spend some time here, and make acquaintance with our neighbours, by which I mean the village people. I shall tell Cousin Frank my intentions, and that will probably suffice to make it known. I have a very great love for the place, and as far as I can see, you will be likely to have the same. "You need not feel overburdened with gratitude. You are my only near relation; and indeed I may say that if I were to die before I have signed my will, you would inherit all my fortune as next-of-kin. So you will see that instead of enriching you, I am to a great extent disinheriting you! Just tell me simply if you acquiesce. I want no pledges, nor do I want to bind you in any way. I will not say more, except that it has been a very deep delight to me to find a son in my old age. I had always hoped it would turn out so; and in my experience, God is very careful to give us our desires, just or unjust, great or small.--Your loving Aunt, "ANNE GRAVES." Howard was stupefied for a moment by this communication, but he was more affected by the love and confidence it showed than by the prospect of wealth--wealth was not a thing he had ever expected, or indeed thought much about; but it was a home that he had found. The great lack of his life had been a local attachment, a place where he had reason to live. Cambridge with all its joys had never been quite that. A curious sense of emotion at the thought that the sweet place, the beautiful old house, was to be his own, came over him; and another far-off dream darted into his mind as well, which he did not dare to shape. He got up and wrote a short note. "MY DEAR AUNT,--Your letter fills me with astonishment. I can only say that I accept in love and gratitude what you offer me. The feeling that I have found a home and a mother, so suddenly and so unexpectedly, fills me with joy and happiness. I think with sadness of all the good years I have missed, by a sort of stupid perversity; but I won't regard that now. I will only thank you once more with all my heart for the proof of affection which your letter gives me.--Your grateful and affectionate nephew, "HOWARD KENNEDY." The old house had a welcoming air as he passed through it that morning; it seemed to hold him in its patient embrace, to ask for love. He spent the morning with Jack, but in a curiously distracted mood. "What has happened to you?" said Jack at the end of the morning. "You have not been thinking about what you are doing. You seem like a man who has been stroking a winning crew. Has the Master been made a Dean, and have you been elected Master? They say you have a chance." Howard laughed and said, "You are very sharp, Jack! I have NOT been attending. Something very unexpected has happened. I mustn't tell you now, but you will soon know. I have drawn a prize. Now don't pump me!" "Here's another prize!" said Jack. "You are to lunch with us to-morrow, and to discuss my future career. There's glory for you! I am not to be present, and father is scheming to get me invited to luncheon here. If he fails, I am to take out some sandwiches and to eat them in the kitchen garden. Maud is to be present, and 'CONFER,' he says, 'though without a vote'!" Howard met Mrs. Graves in the drawing-room; she kissed him, and holding his hand for a moment said, "Thank you for your note, my dear boy. That's all settled, then! Well, it's a great joy to me, and I get more than I give by the bargain. It's a shameless bribe, to secure the company of a charming nephew for a sociable old woman. Some time I shall want to tell you more about the people here--but I won't bore you; and let us just get quietly used to it all. One must not be pompous about money; it is doing it too much honour; and the best of it is that I have found a son." Howard smiled, kissed the hand which held his, and said no more. The Vicar turned up in the afternoon, and apologised to Mrs. Graves for asking Howard to luncheon on the following day. "The fact is," he said, "that I am anxious to have the benefit of his advice about Jack's future. I think we ought to look at things from all sorts of angles, and Howard will be able, with his professional knowledge of young men, to correct the tendency to parental bias which is so hard to eliminate. I am a fond father--fond, but I hope not foolish--and I trust we shall be able to arrive at some conclusion." "Then Jack and Maud can come and lunch with me," said Mrs. Graves; "you won't want them, I am sure." "You are a sorceress," said Mr. Sandys, "in the literary sense of course--you divine my thought!"--but it was evident that he had much looked forward to using a little diplomacy, and was somewhat disappointed. He went on, "It will be very kind of you to have Jack, but I think I shall want Maud's assistance. I have a great belief in the penetration--in the observation of the feminine mind; more than I have, if you will excuse my frankness, in their power of dealing with a practical situation. Woman to interpret events, men to foresee contingencies. Woman to indicate, man to predicate--perhaps I mean predict! No matter; the thought, I think, is clear. Well, then, that is settled! I claim Howard for luncheon--a very simple affair--and for a walk; and by five o'clock we shall have settled this important matter, I don't doubt." "Very well," said Mrs. Graves; "but before you go, I must claim YOU for a short stroll. I have something to tell you; and as Howard and Jack are dying to get away to deprive some innocent creatures of the privilege of life, they had better go and leave us." That evening Howard had a long, quiet talk to his aunt. She said, "I am not going to talk business. Our lawyer is coming over on Saturday, and you had better get all the details from him. You must just go round the place with him, and see if there is anything you would like to see altered. It will be an immense comfort to put all that in your hands. Mind, dear boy," she said, "I want you to begin at once. I shall be ready to do whatever is necessary." Then she went on in a different strain. "But there is one other thing I want to say now, and that is that I should above all things like to see you married--don't, by the way, fall in love with dear Jane, who worships the ground you tread on! I have been observing you, and I feel little doubt that marriage is what you most need. I don't expect it has been in your mind at all! Perhaps you have not had enough to marry on, but I am not sorry for that, for a special reason; and I think, too, that men who have the care of boys and young men have their paternal instinct to a large extent satisfied; but that is only a small part of marriage! It isn't only that I want this house to be a home--that's merely a sentimental feeling--but you need to love and be loved, and to have the anxious care of someone close to you. There is nothing like marriage. It probably is not quite as transcendental an affair as you think. That's the mistake which intellectual people so often make--it's a very natural and obvious thing--and of course it means far more to a woman than to a man. But life is not complete without it. It is the biggest fact which happens to us. I only want you just to keep it in your mind as a possibility. Don't be afraid of it! My husband was your age when he married me, and though I was very unreasonable in those days, I am sure it was a happy thing for him, though he thought he was too old. There, I don't want to press you, in this or in anything. I do not think you will be happy living here without a wife, even if you go on with Cambridge. But one can't mould things to one's wishes. My fault is to want to organise everything for everybody, and I have made all my worst blunders so. I hope I have given up all that. But if I live to see it, the day when you come and tell me that you have won a wife will be the next happiest day to the day when I found a son of my heart. There, dear boy, I won't sentimentalise; but that's the truth; I shall wake up to-morrow and for many days, feeling that some good fortune has befallen me; but we should have found each other some time, even if I had been a poor and miserable old woman. You have given me all that I desired; give me a daughter too, if you can!" "Well," said Howard, smiling, "I have no theory on the subject. I never regarded marriage as either impossible or possible. It seemed to me that one was either caught away in a fiery chariot, or else was left under one's juniper tree; and I have been very comfortable there. I thought I had all I wanted; and I feel a little dizzy now at the way in which my cup of life has suddenly been seized and filled with wine to the brim. One doesn't find a home and a mother and a wife in a fortnight!" "I don't know!" said Mrs. Graves, smiling at him. "Some of the best marriages I know have been made in haste. I remember talking to a girl the other day who was engaged to a man within ten days of the time they had met. I said, 'Well, you have not wasted time.' 'Oh,' she said, apparently rather hurt, 'I kept Henry waiting a long time. I had to think it all over. I wasn't by any means sure I wanted to marry him.' I quoted a saying of an old friend of mine who when he was asked why he had proposed to a girl he had only known three days, said, 'I don't know! I liked her, and thought I should like to see more of her!'" "I think I must make out a list of possible candidates," said Howard, smiling. "I dare say your Jane would help me. I could mark them for various qualities; we believe in marks at Cambridge. But I must have time to get used to all my new gifts." "Oh, one doesn't take long to get used to happiness," said Mrs. Graves. "It always seems the most natural thing in the world. Tennyson was all wrong about sorrow. Sorrow is always the casual mistress, and not the wife. One recovers from everything but happiness; that is one's native air." IX THE VICAR The Vicarage was a pleasant house, with an air of comfort and moderate wealth about it. It was part of Frank Sandys' sense, thought Howard, that he was content to live so simple and retired a life. He did not often absent himself, even for a holiday. Howard was shown into the study which Mr. Sandys had improved and enlarged. It was a big room, with an immense, perfectly plain deal table in the middle, stained a dark brown; and the Vicar showed Howard with high glee how each of the four sides of the table was consecrated to a different avocation. "My accounts end!" he said, "my sermon side! my correspondence end! my genealogical side!" There were a number of small dodges, desks for holding books, flaps which could be let up and down, slits in the table through which papers could be dropped into drawers, a cord by which the bell could be rung without rising from his place, a cord by which the door could be bolted. "Not very satisfactory, that last," said the Vicar, "but I am on the track of an improvement. The worst of it is," said the good man, "that I have so little time. I make extracts from the books I read for my sermons, I cut out telling anecdotes from the papers. I like to raise questions every now and then in the Guardian, and that lets me in for a lot of correspondence. I even, I must confess, sometimes address questions to important people about their public utterances, and I have an interesting volume of replies, mostly from secretaries. Then I am always at work on my Somersetshire genealogies, and that means a mass of letters. The veriest trifles, of course, they will seem to a man like yourself; but I fail in mental grasp--I keep hammering away at details; that is my line; and after all it keeps one alert and alive. You know my favourite thesis--it is touch with human nature that I value, and I am brought into contact with many minds. I don't exaggerate the importance of my work, but I enjoy it; and after all, that is the point! I daresay it would be more dignified if I pretended to be a disappointed man," said the Vicar, with a smile which won Howard's heart, "but I am not--I am a very happy man, as busy as the fabled bee! I shouldn't relish a change. There was some question, I may tell you, at one time, of my becoming Archdeacon, but it was a relief to me when it was settled and when Bedington was appointed. I woke up in the morning, I remember, the day after his appointment was announced, and I said to myself--'Why, it's a relief after all!' I don't mean that I shouldn't have enjoyed it, but it would have meant giving up some part of my work. I really have the life I like, and if my dear wife had been spared to me, I should be the happiest of men; but that was not to be--and by the way, I must recollect to show you some of her drawings. But I must not inflict all this upon you--and by the way," said the Vicar, "Mrs. Graves did me the honour of telling me yesterday her intentions with regard to yourself, and I told her I was heartily glad to hear it. It is an immense thing for the place to have some one who will look into things a little, and bring a masculine mind to bear on our simple problems. For myself, it will be an untold gain to be brought in touch with a more intellectual atmosphere. I foresee a long perspective of stimulating discussions. I will venture to say that you will be warmly welcomed here, and indeed you seem quite one of us already. But now we must go and get our luncheon--we have much to discuss; and you will not mind Maud being present, I know; the children are devoted to each other, and though I have studied their tastes and temperaments very closely, yet 'crabbed age and youth' you know, and all that--she will be able, I think, to cast some light on our little problem." They went together into the drawing-room, a pleasant old-fashioned room--"a temple of domestic peace," said the Vicar, "a pretty phrase of Carlyle's that! Maud has her own little sitting-room--the old schoolroom in fact--which she will like to show you. I think it very necessary that each member of a family should if possible have a sanctum, a private uninvaded domain--but in this room the separate strains unite." Maud was sitting near the window when the two came in. She got up and came quickly forward, with a smile, and shook hands with Howard. She had just the same look of virginal freshness and sweetness in the morning light--a little less mysterious, perhaps; but there came upon Howard a strange feeling, partly of intense admiration, partly a sort of half-jealousy that he should know so little of the girl's past, and a half-terror of all other influences and relations in the unknown background of her life. He wanted to know whom and what she cared about, what her hopes were, what her thoughts rested upon and concerned themselves with. He had never felt any such emotion before, and it was not wholly agreeable to him. He felt thrown off his balance, interfered with, diverted from his normal course. He wanted to do and say something which could claim her attention and confidence; and the frank and almost sisterly regard she gave him was not wholly to his mind. This was mingled, too, with a certain fear of he knew not what; he feared her criticism, her disapproval; he felt his own dulness and inelasticity. He seemed to himself empty, heavy, awkward, disconcerted by her quiet and expectant gaze. This came and went like a flash, and gave him an almost physical uneasiness. "Well, here we are," said the Vicar. "I must say this is very comfortable--a sort of family council, with matters of importance to discuss." Maud led the way to the dining-room. "I said we would have everything put on the table," said the Vicar, "and wait on ourselves; that will leave us quite free to talk. It's not a lack of any respect, Howard--quite the contrary; but these honest people down here pick up all sorts of gossip--in a quiet life, you know, a little gossip goes a long way; and even my good maids are human--I should be so in their place! Howard, a bit of this chicken--our own chickens, our own vegetables, our country cider--everything home-grown; and now to business, and we will settle Master Jack in a turn. My own belief is, in choosing a profession, to think of all possibilities and eliminate them one by one." "Yes," said Howard, "but we are met by this initial difficulty; that one might settle a dozen professions for Jack, and there is not the smallest guarantee that he would choose any of them. I think he will take his own line. I never knew anyone who knew so definitely what he intended to do, and what he did not intend to do!" "You have hit it," said the Vicar, "and I do not think you could have said anything which could please me more. He is independent; it is my own temperament over again! You will forgive a touch of vanity, Howard, but that is me all over. And that simplifies our plan of action very considerably, you know!" "Yes," said Howard, "it undoubtedly does. I have no doubt from what Jack told me that he intends to make money. It isn't, in him, just the vague desire to have the command of money, which most young men have. I have to talk over their careers with a good many young men, and it generally ends in their saying they would like a secretaryship, which would give them interesting work and long holidays and the command of much of their time, and lead on to something better, with a prospect of early retirement on a pension." The Vicar laughed loudly at this. "Excellent!" he said, "a very human view; that's a real bit of human nature." "But Jack," said Howard, "isn't like that. He enjoys his life and gets what fun out of it he can; but he thinks Cambridge a waste of time. I don't know any young man who is so perfectly clear that he wants real work. He is not idle as many young men are idle, prolonging the easy days as long as they can. He is an extraordinary mixture; he enjoys himself like a schoolboy, and yet he wants to get to work." "Well, I think that a very encouraging picture!" said the Vicar; "there is something very sensible about that. I confess I have mostly seen the schoolboy side of Jack, and it delights one to know that there is a serious side! Let us hear what Maud thinks; this kind of talk is really very enjoyable." "Yes," said Maud, looking up. "I am sure that Mr. Kennedy is quite right. I believe that Jack would like to go into an office to-morrow." "There," said the Vicar, "you see she agrees with you. It is really a pleasure to find oneself mistaken. I confess I had not discerned this quality in Jack; he had seemed to me much set on amusement." "Oh yes," said Howard, "he likes his fun, and he is active enough; but it is all passing the time." "Well, this is really most satisfactory," said the Vicar. "So you really think he is cut out for business; something commercial? Well, I confess I had rather hankered after something more definitely academic and scholastic--something more intellectual! But I bow to your superior knowledge, Howard, and we must think of possible openings. Well, I shall enjoy that. My own money, what there is of it, was made by my grandfather in trade--the manufacture of cloth, I believe. Would cloth now, the manufacture of cloth, appear to provide the requisite opening? I have some cousins still in the firm." "I think it would do as well as anything else," said Howard, "and if you have any interest in a particular business, it would be worth while to make inquiries." "Before I go to bed to-night," said the Vicar, "I will send a statement of the case to my cousin; that will set the ball rolling." "Won't you have a talk with Jack first?" said Howard. "You may depend upon it he will have some views." "The very thing," said the Vicar. "I will put aside all my other work, and talk to Jack after tea; if any difficulty should arise, I may look to you for further counsel. This is really most satisfactory. This matter has been in my mind in a nebulous way for a long time; and you enter the scene with your intellectual grip, and your psychological penetration--if that is not too intricate a word--and the situation is clear at once. Well, I am most grateful to you." The talk then became general, or rather passed into the Vicar's hands. "I have ventured," he said, "to indicate to Maud what Cousin Anne was good enough to tell me last night--she laid no embargo on the news--and a few particulars about your inheritance will not be lacking in interest--and on our walk this afternoon, to which I am greatly looking forward, we will explore your domains." This simple compliment produced a curious effect on Howard. He realised as he had not done before the singular change in his position that his aunt's announcement had produced: a country squire, a proprietor--he could not think of himself in that light--it was like a curious dream. After luncheon, Mr. Sandys excused himself for a few minutes; he had to step over and speak to the sexton. Maud would take Howard round the garden, show him her room, "just our simple background--we want you to realise that!" As soon as they were alone together, Howard said to Maud, "We seem to have settled Jack's affairs very summarily. I hope you do agree with me?" "Yes," said Maud, "I do indeed. It is wonderful to me that you should know so much about him, with all your other pupils to know. He isn't a boy who talks much about himself, though he seems to; and I don't think my father understood what he was feeling. Jack doesn't like being interfered with, and he was getting to resent programmes being drawn up. Papa is so tremendously keen about anything he takes up that he carries one away; and then you come and smooth out all the difficulties. It isn't always easy--" she broke off suddenly, and added, "That is what Jack wants, what he calls something REAL. He is bored with the life here, and yet he is always good about it." "Do you like the life here?" said Howard. "I can't tell you what an effect it all produces on me; it all seems so simple and beautiful. But I know that one mustn't trust first impressions. People in picturesque surroundings don't always feel picturesque. It is very pleasant to make a drama out of one's life and to feel romantic--but one can't keep it up--at least I can't. That must come of itself." Howard felt that the girl was watching him with a look of almost startled interest. She said in a moment, "Yes, that's quite true, and it IS a difficulty. I should like to be able to talk to you about those things--I hear so much about you, you know, from Jack, that you are not like a stranger at all. Now papa has got the gift of romance; every bit of his life is interesting and exciting to him--it's perfectly splendid--but Jack has not got that at all. I seem to understand them both, and yet I can't explain them to each other. I don't mean they don't get on, but neither can quite see what the other is aiming at. And I have felt that I ought to be able to do something. I can't understand how you have cleared it up; but I am very glad and grateful about it: it has been a trouble to me. Cousin Anne is wonderful about it, but she seems able to let things alone in a way I can't dare to." "Oh, one learns that as one gets older," said Howard. "One can't argue things straight. One can only go on hoping and wishing, and if possible understanding. I used to make a great mess of it with my pupils at one time, by thinking one could talk them round; but one can't persuade people of things, one can only just suggest, and let it be; and after all no one ever resents finding himself interesting to some one else; only it has got to be interest, and not a sense of duty." "That is what Cousin Anne says," said Maud, "and when I am with her, I think so too; and then something tiresome happens and I meddle, I meddle! Jack says I like ruling lines, but that it is no good, because people won't write on them." X WITH MAUD ALONE They were suddenly interrupted by the inrush of the Vicar. "Maud," he said with immense zest, "I find old Mrs. Darby very ill--she had a kind of faint while I was there. I have sent off Bob post haste for Dr. Grierson." The Vicar was evidently in the highest spirits, like a general on the eve of a great battle. "There isn't a moment to be lost," he continued, his eye blazing with energy. "Howard, my dear fellow, I fear our walk must be put off. I must go back at once. There she lies, flat on her back, just where I laid her! I believe," said the Vicar, "it's a touch of syncope. She is blue, decidedly blue! I charged them to do nothing, but if I don't get back, there's no knowing what they won't pour down her throat--decoction of pennyroyal, I dare say; and if the woman coughs, she is lost. This is the sort of thing I enjoy--of course it is very sad--but it is a tussle with death. I know a good deal about medicine, and Grierson has more than once complimented me on my diagnosis--he said it was masterly--forgive a touch of vanity! But you mustn't lose your walk. Maud, dear, you take Howard out--I am sure he won't mind for once. You could walk round the village, or you could go and find Jack. Now then, back to my post! You must forgive me, Howard, but my flock are paramount." "But won't you want me, papa?" said Maud. "Couldn't I be of use?" "Certainly not," said the Vicar; "there's nothing whatever to be done till Grierson arrives--just to ward off the ministrations of the relatives. There she must lie--I feel no doubt it is syncope; every symptom points to syncope--poor soul! A very interesting case." He fled from the room like a whirlwind, and they heard him run down the garden. The two looked at each other and smiled. "Poor Mrs. Darby!" said Maud, "she is such a nice old woman; but papa will do everything that can be done for her; he really knows all about it, and he is splendid in illness--he never loses his head, and he is very gentle; he has saved several lives in the village by knowing what to do. Would you really like to go out with me? I'll be ready in a minute." "Let us go up on the downs," said Howard, "I should like that very much. I daresay we shall hear Jack shooting somewhere." Maud was back in a moment; in a rough cloak and cap she looked enchanting to Howard's eyes. She walked lightly and quickly beside him. "You must take your own pace," said Howard, "I'll try to keep up--one gets very lazy at Cambridge about exercise--won't you go on with what you were saying? I know your father has told you about my aunt's plan. I can't realise it yet; but I want to feel at home here now--indeed I do feel that already--and I like to know how things stand. We are all relations together, and I must try to make up for lost time. I seem to know my aunt so well already. She has a great gift for letting one see into her mind and heart--and I know your father too, and Jack, and I want to know you; we must be a family party, and talk quite simply and freely about all our concerns." "Oh, yes, indeed I will," said Maud--"and I find myself wondering how easy it is to talk to you. You do seem like a relation; as if you had always been here, indeed; but I must not talk too much about myself--I do chatter very freely to Cousin Anne; but I don't think it is good for one to talk about oneself, do you? It makes one feel so important!" "It depends who one talks to," said Howard, "but I don't believe in holding one's tongue too much, if one trusts people. It seems to me the simplest thing to do; I only found it out a few years ago--how much one gained by talking freely and directly. It seems to me an uncivilised, almost a savage thing to be afraid of giving oneself away. I don't mind who knows about my own concerns, if he is sufficiently interested. I will tell you anything you like about myself, because I should like you to realise how I live. In fact, I shall want you all to come and see me at Cambridge; and then you will be able to understand how we live there, while I shall know what is going on here. And I am really a very safe person to talk to. One gets to know a lot of young men, year by year--and I'm a mine of small secrets. Don't you know the title so common in the old Methodist tracts--'The life and death and Christian sufferings of the Rev. Mr. Pennefather.' That's what I want to know about people--Christian sufferings and all." Maud smiled at him and said, "I am afraid there are not many Christian sufferings in my life; but I shall be glad to talk about many things here. You know my mother died more than ten years ago--when I was quite a little girl--and I don't remember her very well; I have always said just what I thought to Jack, and he to me--till quite lately; and that is what troubles me a little. Jack seems to be rather drifting away from me. He gets to know so many new people, and he doesn't like explaining; and then his mind seems full of new ideas. I suppose it is bound to happen; and of course I have very little to do here; papa likes doing everything, and doing it in his own way. He can't bear to let anything out of his hands; so I just go about and talk to the people. But I am not a very contented person. I want something, I think, and I don't know what it is. It is difficult to take up anything serious, when one is all alone. I should like to go to Newnham, but I can't leave father by himself; books don't seem much use, though I read a great deal. I want something real to do, like Jack! Papa is so energetic; he manages the house and pays all the bills; and there doesn't seem any use for me--though if I were of use, I should find plenty of things to do, I believe." "Yes," said Howard, "I quite understand, and I am glad you have told me. You know I am a sort of doctor in these matters, and I have often heard undergraduates say the same sort of thing. They are restless, they want to go out into life, they want to work; and when they begin to work all that disquiet disappears. It's a great mercy to have things to do, whether one likes it or not. Work is an odd thing! There is hardly a morning at Cambridge when, if someone came to me and offered me the choice of doing my ordinary work or doing nothing for a day, I shouldn't choose to do nothing. And yet I enjoy my work, and wouldn't give it up for anything. It is odd that it takes one so long to learn to like work, and longer still to learn that one doesn't like idleness. And yet it is to win the power of being idle that makes most people work. Idleness seems so much grander and more dignified." "It IS curious," said Maud, "but I seem to have inherited papa's taste for occupation, without his energy. I wish you would advise me what to do. Can't one find something?" "What does my aunt say?" said Howard. "Oh, she smiles in that mysterious way she has," said Maud, "and says we have to learn to take things as they come. She knows somehow how to do without things, how to wait; but I can't do that without getting dreary." "Do you ever try to write?" said Howard. "Yes," said Maud, laughing, "I have tried to write a story--how did you guess that? I showed it to Cousin Anne, and she said it was very nice; and when I showed it to Jack, and told him what she had said, he read a little, and said that that was exactly what it was." "Yes," said Howard, smiling, "I admit that it was not very encouraging! But I wish you would try something more simple. You say you know the people here and talk to them. Can't you write down the sort of things they say, the talks you have with them, the way they look at things? I read a book once like that, called Country Conversations, and I wondered that so few people ever tried it. Why should one try to write improbable stories, even NICE stories, when the thing itself is so interesting? One doesn't understand these country people. They have an idea of life as definite as a dog or a cat, and it is not in the least like ours. Why not take a family here; describe their house and possessions, what they look like, what they do, what their history has been, and then describe some talks with them? I can't imagine anything more interesting. Perhaps you could not publish them at present; but they wouldn't be quite wasted, because you might show them to me, and I want to know all about the people here. You mustn't pass over things because they seem homely and familiar--those are just the interesting things--what they eat and drink and wear, and all that. How does that strike you?" "I like the idea very much indeed," said Maud. "I will try--I will begin at once. And even if nothing comes of it, it will be nice to think it may be of use to you, to know about the people." "Very well," said Howard, "that is a bargain. It is exactly what I want. Do begin at once, and let me have the first instalment of the Chronicles of Windlow." They had arrived by this time at a point high on the downs. The rough white road, full of flints, had taken them up by deep-hedged cuttings, through coverts where the spring flowers were just beginning to show in the undergrowth, and out on to the smooth turf of the downs. They were near the top now, and they could see right down into Windlow Malzoy, lying like a map beneath them; the top of the Church tower, its leaden roof, the roofs of the Vicarage, the little straggling street among its orchards and gardens; farther off, up the valley, they could see the Manor in its gardens; beyond the opposite ridge, a far-off view of great richness spread itself in a belt of dark-blue colour. It was a still day; on the left hand there was a great smooth valley-head, with a wood of beeches, and ploughed fields in the bottom. They directed their steps to an old turfed barrow, with a few gnarled thorn trees, wind-swept and stunted round it. "I love this place," said Maud; "it has a nice name, the 'Isle of Thorns.' I suppose it is a burial-place--some old chief, papa says--and he is always threatening to have him dug up; but I don't want to disturb him! He must have had a reason for being buried here, and I suppose there were people who missed him, and were sorry to lay him here, and wondered where he had gone. I am sure there is a sad old story about it; and yet it makes one happy in a curious way to think about it all." "Yes," said Howard, "'the old, unhappy, far-off things,' that turn themselves into songs and stories! That is another puzzle; one's own sorrows and tragedies, would one like to think of them as being made into songs for other people to enjoy? I suppose we ought to be glad of it; but there does not seem anything poetical about them at the time; and yet they end by being sweeter than the old happy things. The 'Isle of Thorns'! Yes, that IS a beautiful name." Suddenly there came a faint musical sound on the air, as sweet as honey. Howard held up his hand. "What on earth or in heaven is that?" he said. "Those are the chimes of Sherborne!" said Maud. "One hears them like that when the wind is in this quarter. I like to hear them--they have always been to me a sort of omen of something pleasant about to happen. Perhaps it is in your honour to-day, to welcome you!" "Well," said Howard, "they are beautiful enough by themselves; and if they will bring me greater happiness than I have, I shall not object to that!" They smiled at each other, and stood in silence for a little, and then Maud pointed out some neighbouring villages. "All this," she said, "is Cousin Anne's--and yours. I think the Isle of Thorns is yours." "Then the old chief shall not be disturbed," said Howard. "How curious it is," said Maud, "to see a place of which one knows every inch laid out like a map beneath one. It seems quite a different place! As if something beautiful and strange must be happening there, if only one could see it!" "Yes," said Howard, "it is odd how we lose the feeling that a place is romantic when we come to know it. When I first went up to Cambridge, there were many places there that seemed to me to be so interesting: walls which seemed to hide gardens full of thickets, strange doorways by which no one ever passed out or in, barred windows giving upon dark courts, out of which no one ever seemed to look. But now that I know them all from the inside, they seem commonplace enough. The hidden garden is a place where Dons smoke and play bowls; the barred window is an undergraduate's gyp-room; there's no mystery left about them now. This place as I see it to-day--well, it seems the most romantic place in the world, full of unutterable secrets of life and death; but I suppose it may all come to wear a perfectly natural air to me some day." "That is what I like so much about Cousin Anne," said Maud; "nothing seems to be commonplace to her, and she puts back the mystery and wonder into it all. One must learn to do that for oneself somehow." "Yes, she's a great woman!" said Howard; "but what shall we do now?" "Oh, I am sorry," said Maud, "I have been keeping you all this time--wouldn't you like to go and look for Jack? I think I heard a shot just now up the valley." "No," said Howard, looking at her and smiling, "we won't go and look for Jack to-day; he has quite enough of my company. I want your company to-day, and only yours. I want to get used to my new-found cousin." "And to get rid of the sense of romance about her?" said Maud with a smile; "you will soon come to the end of me." "I will take my chance of that," said Howard. "At present I feel on the other side of the wall." "But I don't," said Maud, laughing; "I can't think how you slip in and fit in as you do, and disentangle all our little puzzles as you have done. I thought I should be terrified of you--and now I feel as if I had known you ever so long. You are like Cousin Anne, you know." "Perhaps I am, a little," said Howard, "but you are not very much like Jack! Show me Mrs. Darby's house, by the way. I wonder how things are going." "There it is," said Maud, pointing to a house not far from the Vicarage, "and there is Dr. Grierson's dogcart. I am afraid I had not been thinking about her; but I do hope it's all right. I think she will get over this. Don't you always have an idea, when people are ill, whether they will get well or not?" "Yes," said Howard, "I do; but it doesn't always come right!" They lingered long on the hill, and at last Maud said that she must return for tea. "Papa will be sure to bring Dr. Grierson in." They went down the hill, talking lightly and easily; and to Howard it was more delightful than anything he had known to have a peep into the girl's frank and ingenuous mind. She was full of talk--spontaneous, inconsequent talk--like Jack; and yet with a vast difference. Hers was not a wholly happy temperament, Howard thought; she seemed oppressed by a sense of duty, and he could not help feeling that she needed some sort of outlet. Neither the Vicar nor Jack were people who stood in need of sympathy or affection. He felt that they did not quite understand the drift of the girl's mind, which seemed clear enough to him. And yet there fell on him, for all his happiness, a certain dissatisfaction. He would have liked to feel less elderly, less paternal; and the girl's frank confidence in him, treating him as she might have treated an uncle or an elder brother, was at once delightful and disconcerting. The day began to decline as they walked, and the light faded to a sombre bleakness. Howard went back to the Vicarage with her, and, at her urgent request, went in to tea. They found the Vicar and Dr. Grierson already established. Mrs. Darby was quite comfortable, and no danger was apprehended. The Vicar's diagnosis had been right, and his precautions perfect. "I could not have done better myself!" said Dr. Grierson, a kindly, bluff Scotchman. Howard became aware that the Vicar must have told the Doctor the news about his inheritance, and was subtly flattered at being treated by him with the empressement reserved for squires. Jack came in--he had been shooting all afternoon--and told Howard he was improving. "I shall catch you up," he said. He seemed frankly amused at the idea of Howard having spent the afternoon with Maud. "You have got the whole family on your back, it seems," he said. Maud was silent, but in her heightened colour and sparkling eye Howard discerned a touch of happiness, and he enjoyed the quiet attention she gave to his needs. The Vicar seemed sorry that they had not made a closer inspection of the village. "But you were right to begin with a general coup d'oeil," he said; "the whole before the parts! First the conspectus, then the details," he added delightedly. "So you have been to the Isle of Thorns?" he went on. "I want to rake out the old fellow up there some day--but Cousin Anne won't allow it--you must persuade her; and we will have a splendid field-day there, unearthing all the old boy's arrangements; I am sure he has never been disturbed." "I am afraid I agree with my aunt," said Howard, shaking his head. "Ah, Maud has been getting at you, I perceive," said the Vicar. "A very feminine view! Now in the interests of ethnology we ought to go forward--dear me, how full the world is of interesting things!" They parted in great good-humour. The whole party were to dine at the Manor next day; and Howard, as he said good-bye to Maud, contrived to add, "Now you must tell me to-morrow that you have made a beginning." She gave him a little nod, and a clasp of the hand that made him feel that he had a new friend. That evening he talked to his aunt about Maud. He told her all about their walk and talk. "I am very glad you gave her something to do," she said--"that is so like a man! That is just where I fail. She is a very interesting and delightful girl, Howard; and she is not quite happy at home. Living with Cousin Frank is like living under a waterfall; and Jack is beginning to have his own plans, and doesn't want anyone to share them. Well, you amaze me! I suppose you get a good deal of practice in these things, and become a kind of amateur father-confessor. I think of you at Cambridge as setting the lives of young men spinning like little tops--small human teetotums. It's very useful, but it is a little dangerous! I don't think you have suffered as yet. That's what I like in you, Howard, the mixture of practical and unpractical. You seem to me to be very busy, and yet to know where to stop. Of course we can't make other people a present of experience; they have to spin their own webs; but I think one can do a certain amount in seeing that they have experience. It would not suit me; my strength is to sit still, as the Bible says. But in a place like this with Frank whipping his tops--he whips them, while you just twirl them--someone is wanted who will listen to people, and see that they are left alone. To leave people alone at the right minute is a very great necessity. Don't you know those gardens that look as if they were always being fussed and slashed and cut about? There's no sense of life in them. One has to slash sometimes, and then leave it. I believe in growth even more than in organisation. Still, I don't doubt that you have helped Maud, and I am very glad of it. I wanted you to make friends with her. I think the lack in your life is that you have known so few women; men and women can never understand each other, of course; but they have got to live together and work together; and one ought to live with people whom one does not understand. You and your undergraduates don't yield any mysteries. You, no doubt, know exactly what they are thinking, and they know what you are thinking. It's all very pleasant and wholesome, but one can't get on very far that way. You mustn't think Maud is a sort of undergraduate. Probably you think you know a great deal about her already--but she isn't the least what you imagine, any more than I am. Nor are you what I imagine; but I am quite content with my mistaken idea of you." XI JACK The next day's dinner was a disappointment. The Vicar expatiated, Jack counted, and became so intent on his counting that he hardly said a word; indeed Howard was not sure that he was wholly pleased with the turn affairs had taken; he was rather touched by this than otherwise, because it seemed to him that Jack was really, if unconsciously, a little jealous. His whole visit had been rather too much of a success: Jack had expected to act as showman of his menagerie, and to play the principal part; and Howard felt that Jack suspected him of having taken the situation too much into his own hands. He felt that Jack was not pleased with his puppets; his father had needed no apologies or explanations, Maud had been forward, he himself had been donnish. The result was that Howard hardly got a word with Maud; she did indeed say to him that she had made a beginning, and he was aware of a pleasant sense of trustfulness about her; but the party had been involved in vague and general talk, with a disturbing element somewhere. Howard found himself talking aimlessly and flatly, and the net result was a feeling of dissatisfaction. When they were gone, Mrs. Graves said to Howard, "Jack is rather a masterful young man, I think. He has no sense of respect in his composition. Were you aware of the fact that he had us all under his thumb this evening?" "Yes," said Howard, "it was just what I was thinking!" "He wants work," said Mrs. Graves; "he ought not to dangle about at home and at Cambridge; he wants tougher material to deal with; it's no use snubbing him, because he is on the right tack; but he must not be allowed to interfere too much. He wants a touch of misfortune to bring him to himself; he has a real influence over people--the influence that all definite, good-humoured, outspoken people have; it is easier for others to do what he likes than to resist him; he is not irritable, and he is pertinacious. He is the sort of man who may get very much spoilt if he doesn't marry the right woman, because he is the sort of person women will tell lies to rather than risk displeasing him. If he does not take care he will be a man of the world, because he will not see the world as it is; it will behave to him as he wishes it to behave." "I think," said Howard, "that he has got good stuff in him; he would never do anything mean or spiteful; but he would do anything that he thought consistent with honour to get his way." "Well, we shall see," said Mrs. Graves; "but he is rather a bad influence for Maud just now. Maud doesn't suspect his strength, and I can't have her broken in. Mind, Howard, I look to you to help Maud along. You have a gift for keeping things reasonable; and you must use it." "I thought you believed in letting people alone!" said Howard. "In theory, yes," said Mrs. Graves, smiling; "I certainly don't believe in influencing people; but I believe very much in loving them: it's what I call imaginative sympathy that we want. Some people have imagination enough to see what other people are feeling, but it ends there: and some people have unintelligent sympathy, and that is only spoiling. But one must see what people are capable of, and what their line is, and help them to find out what suits them, not try to conform them to what suits oneself; and that isn't as easy as it sounds." XII DIPLOMACY A few days later Howard was summoned back to Cambridge. One of his colleagues was ill, and arrangements had to be made to provide for his work. It astonished him to find how reluctant he was to return; he seemed to have found the sort of life he needed in this quiet place. He had walked with the Vicar, and had been deluged with interesting particulars about the parish. Much of it was very trivial, but Howard saw that the Vicar had a real insight into the people and their ways. He had not seen Maud again to speak to, and it vexed him to find how difficult it was to create occasions for meeting. His mind and imagination had been taken captive by the girl; he thought of her constantly, and recalled her in a hundred charming vignettes; the hope of meeting her was constantly in his mind; he had taught Jack a good deal, but he became more and more aware that for some reason or other his pupil was not pleased with him. He and Jack were returning one day from fishing, and they had come nearer than Howard had liked to having a squabble. Howard had said something about an undergraduate, a friend of Jack's. Jack had seemed to resent the criticism, and said, "I am not quite sure whether you know so much about him as you think. Do you always analyse people like that? I sometimes feel with you as if I were in a room full of specimens which you were showing off, and that you knew more about them dead than alive." "That's rather severe!" said Howard; "I simply try to understand people--I suppose we all do that." "No, I don't," said Jack; "I think it's rather stuffy, if you want to know. I have a feeling that you have been turning everyone inside out here. I think one ought to let people alone." "Well," said Howard, "it all depends upon what one wants to do with people. I think that, as a matter of fact, you are really more inclined to deal with people, to use them for your own purposes, than I am. You know what you want, and other people have got to follow. Of course, up at Beaufort, it's my business to try to do that to a certain extent; but that is professional, and a matter of business." "But the worst of doing it professionally," said Jack, "is that you can't get out of the way of doing it unprofessionally. You seem to me to have rather purchased this place. I know you are to be squire, and all that; but you want to make yourself felt. I am not sure that you aren't rather a Jesuit." "Come," said Howard, "that's going too far--we can't afford to quarrel. I don't mind your saying what you think; but if you have the right to take your own line, you must allow the same right to others." "That depends!" said Jack, and was silent for a moment. Then he turned to Howard and said, "Yes, you are quite right! I am sorry I said all that. You have done no end for me, and I am an ungrateful little beast. It is rather fine of you not to remind me of all the trouble you have taken; there isn't anyone who would have done so much; and you have really laid yourself out to do what I liked here. I am sorry, I am truly sorry. I suppose I felt myself rather cock of the walk here, and am vexed that you have got the whole thing into your hands!" "All right," said Howard, "I entirely understand; and look here, I am glad you said what you did. You are not wholly wrong. I have interfered perhaps more than I ought; but you must believe me when I say this--that it isn't with a managing motive. I like people to like me; I don't want to direct them; only one can overdo trying to make people like one, and I feel I have overdone it. I ought to have gone to work in a different way." "Well, I have put my foot in it again," said Jack; "it's awful to think that I have been lecturing one of the Dons about his duty. I shall be trying to brighten up their lives next. The mischief is that I don't think I do want people to like me. I am not affectionate. I only want things to go smoothly." They drew near to the Manor, and Jack said, "I promised Cousin Anne I would go in to tea. She has designs on me, that woman! She doesn't approve of me; she says the sharpest things in her quiet way; one hardly knows she has done it, and then when one thinks of it afterwards, one finds she has drawn blood. I am cross, I think! There seems to be rather a set at me just now; she makes me feel as if I were in bed, being nursed and slapped." "Well," said Howard, "I shall leave you to her mercies. I shall go on to the Vicarage, and say good-bye. I shan't see them again this time. You don't mind, I hope? I will try not to use my influence." "You can't help it!" said Jack with a grimace. "No, do go. You will touch them up a bit. I am not appreciated there just now." Howard walked on up to the Vicarage. He was rather disturbed by Jack's remarks; it put him, he thought, in an odious light. Was he really so priggish and Jesuitical? That was the one danger of the life of the Don which he hoped he had successfully avoided. He was all for liberty, he imagined. Was he really, after all, a mild schemer with an ethical outlook? Was he bent on managing and uplifting people? The idea sickened him, and he felt humiliated. When he arrived at the Vicarage, he found the Vicar out. Maud was alone. This was, he confessed to himself with a strange delight, exactly what he most desired. He would not be paternal or formative. He would just make friends with his pretty cousin as he might with a sensible undergraduate. With this stern resolve he entered the room. Maud got up hastily from her chair--she was writing in a little note-book on her knee. "I thought I would just come in and say good-bye," he said. "I have to go back to Cambridge earlier than I thought, and I hoped I might just catch you and your father." "He will be so sorry," said Maud; "he does enjoy meeting you. He says it gives him so much to think about." "Oh, well," said Howard, "I hope to be here again next vacation--in June, that is. I have got to learn my duties here as soon as I can. I see you are hard at work. Is that the book? How do you get on? You have promised to send it me, you know, as soon as you have enough in hand." "Yes," said Maud, "I will send it you. It has done me good already, doing this. It is very good of you to have suggested it--and I like to think it may be of some use." "I have been with Jack all the afternoon," said Howard, "and I am afraid he is rather vexed with me. I can't have that. He drew a rather unpleasant picture of me; he seemed to think I have taken this place rather in hand from the Don's point of view. He thinks I should die if I were unable to improve the occasion." Maud looked up at him with a troubled and rather indignant air. "Jack is perfectly horrid just now," she said; "I can't think what has come over him; and considering that you have been coaching him every day, and getting him shooting and fishing, it seems to me quite detestable! I oughtn't to say that; but you mustn't be angry with him, Mr. Kennedy. I think he is feeling very independent just now, and he said to me that it made him feel that he was back at school to have to go up with his books to the Manor every morning. But he is all right really. I am sure he is grateful; it would be too shameful if he were not. Please don't be vexed with him." Howard laughed. "Oh, I am not vexed! Indeed, I am rather glad he spoke out--at my age one doesn't often get the chance of being sincerely scolded by a perfectly frank young man. One does get donnish and superior, no doubt, and it is useful to find it out, though it isn't pleasant at the time. We have made it up, and he was quite repentant; I think it is altogether natural. It often happens with young men to get irritated with one, no doubt, but as a rule they don't speak out; and this time he has got me between the joints of my armour." "Oh, dear me!" said Maud, "I think the world is rather a difficult place! It seems ridiculous for me to say that in a place like this, when I think what might be happening if I were poor and had to earn my living. It is silly to mind things so; but Jack accuses me of the same sort of thing. He says that women can't let people alone; he says that women don't really want to DO anything, but only to SEEM to have their way." "Well, then, it appears we are both in the same box," said Howard, "and we must console each other and grieve over being so much misunderstood." He felt that he had spoken rather cynically, and that he had somehow hurt and checked the girl. He did not like the thought; but he felt that he had spoken sensibly in not allowing the situation to become sentimental. There was a little silence; and then Maud said, rather timidly: "Do you like going back?" "No," said Howard, "I don't. I have become curiously interested in this place, and I am lazy. Just now the life of the Don seems to me rather intolerable. I don't want to teach Greek prose, I don't want to go to meetings; I don't want to gossip about appointments, and little intrigues, and bonfires, and College rows. I want to live here, and walk on the Downs and write my book. I don't want to be stuffy, as Jack said. But it will be all right, when I have taken the plunge; and after I have been back a week, this will all fade into a sort of impossibly pleasant dream." He was again conscious that he had somehow hurt the girl. She looked at him with a troubled face, and then said, "Yes, that is the advantage which men have. I sometimes wonder if it would not be better for me to have some work away from here. But there is nothing I could do; and I can't leave papa." "Oh, it will all come right!" said Howard feebly; "there are fifty things that might happen. And now I must be off! Mind, you must let me have the book some time; that will serve to remind me of Windlow in the intervals of Greek prose." He got up and shook hands. He felt he was behaving stupidly and unkindly. He had meant to tell Maud how much he liked the feeling of having made friends, and to have talked to her frankly and simply about everything. He had an intense desire to say that and more; to make her understand that she was and would be in his thoughts; to ascertain how she felt towards him; to assure himself of their friendship. But he would be wise and prudent; he would not be sentimental or priggish or Jesuitical. He would just leave the impression that he was mildly interested in Windlow, but that his heart was in his work. He felt sustained by his delicate consideration, and by his judicious chilliness. And so he turned and left her, though an unreasonable impulse seized him to take the child in his arms, and tell her how sweet and delicious she was. She had held the little book in her hand as they sate, as if she had hoped he would ask to look at it; and as he closed the door, he saw her put it down on the table with a half-sigh. XIII GIVING AWAY He was to go off the next day; that night he had his last talk to his aunt. She said that she would say good-bye to him then, and that she hoped he would be back in June. She did not seem quite as serene as usual, but she spoke very affectionately and gently of the delight his visit had been. Then she said, "But I somehow feel--I can't give my reasons--as if we had got into a mess here. You are rather a disturbing clement, dear Howard! I may speak plainly to you now, mayn't I? I think you have more effect on people than you know. You have upset us! I am not criticising you, because you have exceeded all my hopes. But you are too diffident, and you don't realise your power of sympathy. You are very observant, very quick to catch the drift of people's moods, and you are not at all formidable. You are so much interested in people that you lead them to reveal themselves and to betray themselves; and they don't find quite what they expect. You are afraid, I think, of caring for people; you want to be in close relation with everyone, and yet to preserve your own tranquillity. You are afraid of emotion; but one can't care for people like that! It doesn't cost you enough! You are like a rich man who can afford to pay for things, and I think you rather pauperise people. Here you have been for three weeks; and nobody here will be able to forget you; and yet I think you may forget us. One can't care without suffering, and I think that you don't suffer. It is all a pleasure and delight to you. You win hearts, and don't give your own. Don't think I am ungrateful. You have made a great difference already to my life; but you have made me suffer too. I know that like Telemachus in Tennyson's poem you will be 'decent not to fail in offices of tenderness'--I know I can depend on you to do everything that is kind and considerate and just. You won't disappoint me. You will do out of a natural kindliness and courtesy what many people can only do by loving. You don't claim things, you don't lay hands on things; and it looks so like unselfishness that it seems detestable of me to say anything. But you will have to give yourself away, and I don't think you have ever done that. I can say all this, my dear, because I love you, as a mother might; you are my son indeed; but there is something in you that will have to be broken; we have all of us to be broken. It isn't that you have anything to repent of. You would take endless trouble to help anyone who wanted help, you would be endlessly patient and tender and strong; but you do not really know what love means, because it does not hurt or wound you. You are like Achilles, was it not, who had been dipped in the river of death, and you are invulnerable. You won't, I know, resent my saying this? I know you won't--and the fact that you will not makes it harder for me to say it--but I almost wish it WOULD wound you, instead of making you think how you can amend it. You can't amend it, but God and love can; only you must dare to let yourself go. You must not be wise and forbearing. There, dear, I won't say more!" Howard took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you," he said, "thank you a hundred times for speaking so. It is perfectly true, every word of it. It is curious that to-day I have seen myself three times mirrored in other minds. I don't like what I see--I am not complacent--I am not flattered. But I don't know what to do! I feel like a patient with a hopeless disease, who has been listening to a perfectly kind and wise physician. But what can I do? It is just the vital impulse which is lacking. I will be frank too; it is quite true that I live in the surface of things. I am so much interested in books, ideas, thoughts, I am fascinated by the study of human temperament; people delight me, excite me, amuse me; but nothing ever comes inside. I don't excuse myself, but I say: 'It is He that hath made us and not we ourselves.' I am just so, as you have described, and I feel what a hollow-hearted sort of person I am. Yet I go on amusing myself with friendships and interests. I have never suffered, and I have never loved. Well, I would like to change all that, but can I?" "Ah, dear Howard," said his aunt, "that is the everlasting question. It is like you to take this all so sweetly and to speak so openly. But further than this no one can help you. You are like the young man whom Jesus loved who had great possessions. You do not know how much! I will not tell you to follow Him; and your possessions are not those which can be given away. But you must follow love. I had a hope, I have a hope--oh, it is more than that, because we all find our way sooner or later--and now that you know the truth, as I see you know it, the light will not be long in coming. God bless you, dearest child; there is pain ahead of you; but I don't fear that--pain is not the worst thing or the last thing!" XIV BACK TO CAMBRIDGE "I HAD a hope . . . I have a hope," these words of his aunt's echoed often through Howard's brain, in the wakeful night which followed. Nothing was plain to himself except the fact that things were tangled; the anxious exaltation which came to him from his talk with his aunt cleared off like the dying away of the flush of some beaded liquor. "I must see into this--I must understand what is happening--I must disentangle it," he said again and again to himself. He was painfully conscious, as he thought and thought, of his own deep lack both of moral courage and affection. He liked nothing that was not easy--easy triumph, easy relations. Somehow the threads of life had knotted themselves up; he had slipped so lightly into his place here, he had taken up responsibilities as he might have taken up a flower; he had meant to be what he called frank and affectionate all round, and now he felt that he was going to disappoint everyone. Not till the daylight began to outline the curtain-rifts did he fall asleep; and he woke with that excited fatigue which comes of sleeplessness. He came down, he breakfasted alone in the early morning freshness. The house was all illumined by the sun, but it spread its beauties in vain before him. The trap came to the door, and when he came out he found to his surprise that Jack was standing on the steps talking to the coachman. "I thought I would like to come to the station with you," said Jack. Howard was pleased at this. They got in together, and one by one the scenes so strangely familiar fled past them. Howard looked long at the Vicarage as he passed, wondering whether Maud was perhaps looking out. That had been a clumsy, stupid business--his talk with her! Presently Jack said, "Look here, I am going to say again that I was perfectly hateful yesterday. I don't know what came over me--I was thinking aloud." "Oh, it doesn't matter a bit!" said Howard; "it was my fault really. I have mismanaged things, I think; and it is good for me to find that out." "No, but you haven't," said Jack. "I see it all now. You came down here, and you made friends with everyone. That was all right; the fact simply is that I have been jealous and mean. I expected to have you all to myself--to run you, in fact; and I was vexed at finding you take an interest in all the others. There, it's better out. I am entirely in the wrong. You have been awfully good all round, and we shall be precious dull now that you are going. The truth is that we have been squabbling over you." "Well, Jack," said Howard, smiling, "it's very good of you to say this. I can't quite accept it, but I am very grateful. There WAS some truth in what you said--but it wasn't quite the whole truth; and anyhow you and I won't squabble--I shouldn't like that!" Jack nodded and smiled, and they went on to talk of other things; but Howard was pleased to see that the boy hung about him, determined to make up for his temper, looked after his luggage, saw him into the train, and waved him a very ingenuous farewell, with a pretence of tears. The journey passed in a listless dream for Howard, but everything faded before the thought of Maud. What could he do to make up for his brutality? He could not see his way clear. He had a sense that it was unfair to claim her affection, to sentimentalise; and he thought that he had been doubly wrong--wrong in engaging her interest so quickly, wrong in playing on her unhappiness just for his own enjoyment, and doubly wrong in trying to disengage their relation so roughly. It was a mean business; and yet though he did not want to hold her, he could not bear to let her go. As he came near Cambridge and in sight of the familiar landscape, the wide fields, the low lines of far-off wolds, he was surprised to find that instead of being depressed, a sense of comfort stole over him, and a feeling of repose. He had crammed too many impressions and emotions into his visit; and now he was going back to well-known and peaceful activities. The sight of his rooms pleased him, and the foregathering with the three or four of his colleagues was a great relief. Mr. Redmayne was incisive and dogmatic, but evidently pleased to see him back. He had not been away, and professed that holidays and change of scene were distracting and exhausting. "It takes me six weeks to recover from a holiday," he said. He had had an old friend to stay with him, a country parson, and he had apparently spent his time in elaborate manoeuvres to see as little of his guest as possible. "A worthy man, but tedious," he said, "wonderfully well preserved--in body, that is; his mind has entirely gone to pieces; he has got some dismal notions in his head about the condition of the agricultural poor; he thinks they want uplifting! Now I am all for the due subordination of classes. The poor are there, if I may speak plainly, to breed--that is their first duty; and their only other duty that I can discover, is to provide for the needs of men of virtue and intelligence!" Later on, Howard was left alone with him, and thought that it would please the old man to tell him of the change in his own position. "I am delighted to hear it," said Mr. Redmayne: "a landed proprietor, that's a very comfortable thing! Now how will that affect your position here? Ah yes, I see--only the heir-apparent at present. Well, you will probably find that the estate has all been run on very sentimental lines by your worthy aunt. You take my advice, and put it all on a business-like footing. Let it be clear from the first that you won't stand any nonsense. Ideas!" said Mr. Redmayne in high disdain, "that's the curse of the country. Ideas everywhere, about the empire, about civic rights and duties, about religion, about art"--he made a long face as though he had swallowed medicine. "Let us all keep our distance and do our work. Let us have no nonsense about the brotherhood of man. I hope with all my heart, Howard, that you won't permit anything of that kind. I don't feel as sure of you as I should like; but this will be a very good thing for you, if it shows you that all this stuff will not do in practice. I'm an honest Whig. Let everyone have a vote, and let them give their votes for the right people, and then we shall get on very well." XV JACK'S ESCAPADE The college slowly filled; the term began; Howard went back to his work, and the perplexities of Windlow rather faded into the background. He would behave very differently when he went there next. It should all be cool, friendly, unemotional. But in spite of everything, his aunt's words came sometimes into his mind, troubling it with a sudden thrill. "Power, spirit, the development of life,"--were these real things, had one somehow to put oneself into touch with them? Was the life of serene and tranquil work but marking time, wasting opportunity? Had one somehow to be stirred into action and reality? Was there something in the background, which did not insist or drive or interfere with one's inclinations, because it knew that it would be obeyed and yielded to some time? Was it just biding its time, waiting, impelling but not forcing one to change? It gave him an impulse to look closer at his own views and aims, to consider what his motives really were, how far he could choose, how much he could prevail, to what extent he could really do as he hoped and desired. He was often haunted by a sense of living in a mechanical unreality, of moving simply on lines of easy habit. That was a tame, a flat business, perhaps; but it was what seemed to happen. And yet all the time he was more and more haunted by the thought of Maud. He could not get her out of his head. Over and over again he lived through the scenes of their meetings. Against the background of the dusk, that slender figure outlined itself, the lines of her form, her looks, her smiles; he went again and again through his talks with her--the walk on the down, the sight of her in the dimly-lighted room; he could hear the very tones of her low voice, and see the childlike appeal of her eyes. Worst of all the scene at the Vicarage, the book held in her slender fingers, her look of bewilderment and distress--what a pompous ass he had been, how stupid and coarse! He thought of writing to her; he did write--but the dignified patronage of his elder-brotherly style sickened him, and he tore up his unfinished letter. Why could he not simply say that he cared for her, and was miserable at having hurt her? That was just, he thought, what he must not do; and yet the idea that she might be making other friends and acquaintances was a jealous horror to him. He thought of writing to his aunt about it--he did write regularly to her, but he could not explain what he had done. Strangest of all, he hardly recognised it as love. He did not face the idea of a possible life with Maud. It was to be an amiable and brotherly relation, with a frank confidence and an outspoken affection. He lost his old tranquil spirits in these reveries. It was painful to him to find how difficult it was becoming to talk to the undergraduates; his mild and jocose ironies seemed to have deserted him. He saw little of Jack; they were elaborately unaffected with each other, but each felt that there had been a sort of exposure, and it seemed impossible to regain the old relation. One morning he had an unpleasant surprise. The Dean of the College, Mr. Gretton, a tall, rather grimly handsome man, who was immensely conscientious and laborious, and did his work as well as a virtuous man could, who was not interested in education, and frankly bored by the irresponsibility of undergraduates, walked into his rooms one morning and said, "I hope I don't interrupt you? I want to have a word with you about Sandys, as he is your cousin. There was a dinner in College last night--a club, I think--Guthrie and that lot--and Sandys got undeniably drunk. They were making a horrible row about two o'clock, and I went down and dispersed them. There were some outside men there whose names I took; but Sandys was quite out of control, and spoke very impertinently to me. He must come and apologise, or I shall ask that he may be sent down. He is a respectable man on the whole, so I shall not push it to extremes. But he will be gated, of course, and I shall write to his father. I thought you had better see him, and try if you can do anything. It is a great nuisance, and the less said about it the better; but of course we can't stand this kind of thing, and it had better be stopped at once." "Yes, I will see him at once," said Howard. "I am very sorry. I did not think he would play the fool like that." "One never knows!" said the Dean; "to speak plainly, I don't think he is doing much good here. Rather too much a man of the world for my taste. But there is nothing particular against him, and I don't want to be hard on him." Howard sent for Jack at once. He came in, in an obviously rebellious frame of mind. "I know," he said. "Yes, of course I was a fool; but it isn't worth making a row about. I don't go in for soaking, like some of the men who don't get caught, and I have no intention of going to the bad, if that is what you mean." "You are an ass!" said Howard, "a real ass! Now don't say a word yet, till I have told you what I think. You may have your say afterwards. I don't care twopence about your getting drunk once in a way. It's a stupid thing to do, to my mind, and I don't see the point of it. I don't consider you a reprobate, nor am I going to take a high line about drunkenness; I know perfectly well that you are no more likely to take to drink than the Master is. But it isn't good enough. You put yourself on the wrong side, you give people a wrong idea of yourself. You get disapproved of by all the stupid and ordinary people who don't know you. Your father will be in an awful state of mind. It's an experiment, I suppose? I imagine you thought you would like to see how it felt to be drunk? Well, living at close quarters like this, that sort of thing can't be done. And then you were rude to Gretton. What's the point of that? He is a very good fellow, minds his own business, doesn't interfere, and keeps things very straight here. That part of it seems to me simply ungentlemanly. And in any case, you have no business to hurt the people who care for you, even if you think they ought not to be distressed. I don't say it is immoral, but I say it is a low business from beginning to end." Jack, who bore signs of his overnight experience, gave Howard a smile. "That's all right!" he said. "I don't object to that! You have rather taken the wind out of my sails. If you had said I was a sensual brute, I should have just laughed. It is such NONSENSE the way these men go on! Why I was lunching with Gretton the other day, and Corry told a story about Wordsworth as an undergraduate getting drunk in Milton's rooms at Christ's, and how proud the old man was of it to the end of his life. Gretton laughed, and thought it a joke; and then when one gets roaring drunk, they turn up their eyes and say it is unmanly and so on. Why can't they stick to one line? If you go to bump-suppers and dinners, and just manage to carry your liquor, they think you a good sort of fellow, with no sort of nonsense about you--'a little natural boyish excitement'--you know the sort of rot. One glass more, and you are among the sinners." "I know," said Howard, "and I perceive that I have had the benefit of your thought-out oration after all!" Jack smiled rather sheepishly, and then said, "Well, what's to be done? Am I to be sent down?" "Not if you do the right thing," said Howard. "You must just go to Gretton and say you are very sorry you got drunk, and still more sorry you were impertinent. If you can contrive to show him that you think him a good fellow, and are really vexed to have been such a bounder, so much the better. That I leave to your natural eloquence. But you will be gated, and he will write to your father." Jack whistled. "I say, can't you stop that?" he said. "Father will be fearfully upset." "No, I can't," said Howard, "and I wouldn't if I could. This is the music, and you have got to face it." "Very well," said Jack rather glumly, "I suppose I must pay the score. I'll go and grovel to Gretton. I was simply beastly to him. My frank nature expanded in his presence." Howard laughed. "Well, be off with you!" he said. "And I will tell you what. I will write to your father, and tell him what I think." "Then it will be all right," said Jack, greatly relieved. "Anything to stop the domestic howl. I'll write too. After all, it is rather convenient to have a cousin among the Dons; and, anyhow, you have had your innings now. I was a fool, I admit. It won't happen again." Howard wrote at once to the Vicar, and was rewarded by a long and grateful letter. "It is a disreputable affair," he wrote, "and it has upset me very much, and Maud even more. But you have put it in the right light, and I am very grateful to you for your good offices. I couldn't have believed it of Jack, but I look back to dear old Pembroke, and I remember there was one occasion--but I need not revive ancient memories, and I am sufficiently versed in human nature not to waste indignation over a boyish escapade. I have ventured to address letters to Mr. Gretton and the Master on the subject, apologising for Jack's misdemeanour, and saying how much I appreciate the excellence of the tone that prevails in the College." What, however, pleased Howard still more was that Gretton spoke to him after Hall and said, "I am much obliged to you, Kennedy, for your prompt action. Sandys came and apologised to me in a very proper manner, and entirely removed the disagreeable impression from my mind. I owe this to your kindly intervention; and I must honestly say that I thought well of Sandys. He did not attempt to excuse himself, or to extenuate his fault. He showed very good feeling, and I believe that henceforth his influence will be on the side of order. I was really pleased with him." Howard spoke to Jack again the following day, and said he was glad he had done the thing thoroughly. "Thoroughly?" said Jack; "I should think I did. I fairly licked the old man's boots. We had quite an affecting scene. I rather think he gave me his blessing, and I went away feeling that I had been almost recommended to repeat my performance. Gretton's a sensible man. This is a good College. The thing would have been mismanaged anywhere else; but now I have not only an unblemished character, but I am like gold tried in the furnace." "One more thing," said Howard; "why not get your people to come up for two or three days? It will clear off the whole affair. I think they would like to be asked, and I should be very glad to help to look after them." "It will be a bore," said Jack, making a grimace; "it wrecks my health to take people round to King's and Trinity. It simply knocks me up; but I expect you are right, and I will ask them. You won't fail me? When I go off duty, you will go on? If that is clearly understood, they shall come. I know Maud would like to realise my background, as she says; and my father will rush to the 'Varsity Library, and break the spirit of the Pemmer Dons. He'll have the time of his life; but he deserves a treat--he really wrote me a very decent letter. By George, though, these emotional experiences are not in my line, though they reveal the worth of suffering, as the Chaplain said in his Hospital Sermon last Sunday." Howard wrote a further note, saying that he hoped that Mr. Sandys and Maud would be able to come; and it was soon arranged that they should spend the inside of a week at Cambridge, before the May week, as the Vicar said he had little taste for social pleasures, and had some matters of considerable importance to turn up in the Library, to say nothing of the intellectual stimulus he anticipated. XVI THE VISIT THE visit began on the usual lines of such visits, the home team, so to speak--Howard and Jack--having to fit a round of festivities into a life which under normal circumstances was already, if anything, too full, with the result that, at all events, Howard's geniality was tense, and tended to be forced. Only in youth can one abandon oneself to high spirits; as one grows older one desires more to contemplate one's own mirth, and assure oneself that it is genuine. Jack met them at the station, and they had tea in his rooms, Howard refusing firmly to come. "You must just give them a chance of a private word or two!" he said. "Why, that's exactly what I want to avoid!" said Jack. "Besides, my family is never private--we haven't any company manners. But I expect you are right. Father will want one innings, and I think it's fair he should have it!" They were, however, to dine with Howard, who, contrary to his wont, lavished some care on flowers and decorations, to make the place unobtrusively pretty and home-like, and he determined that he would be as quiet and straightforward as he could, but promised himself at least one afternoon with Maud strolling round the place. But this was all to happen as if by chance, and with no scheming or diplomacy. They came; and Howard saw at once that Maud was timid and somewhat out of spirits; she looked tired, and this, so far from diminishing her charm, seemed to Howard to make it almost intolerably appealing to him. He would have desired to take her in his arms, like a child, to pet and caress her into happiness. Jack was evidently feeling the weight of his responsibilities, and was frankly bored; but never had Howard been more grateful for Mr. Sandys' flow of spirits than he was that evening. Mr. Sandys was thirsting for experience and research, and he was also in a state of jubilant sentimentality about Cambridge and his old recollections. He told stories of the most unemphatic kind in the most emphatic way, and Howard was amused at the radiant hues with which the lapse of time had touched the very simplest incidents of his career. Mr. Sandys had been, it seemed, a terrible customer at Cambridge--disobedient, daring, incisive, the hero of his contemporaries, the dread of the authorities; but all this on high-minded lines. Moreover, he had brought with him a note-book of queries, to be settled in the Library; while he had looked up in the list of residents everyone with whom he had been in the remotest degree acquainted, and a long vista of calls opened out before him. It was a very delightful evening to Howard, in spite of everything, simply because Maud was there; and he found himself extraordinarily conscious of her presence, observant of all she said and did, glad that her eyes should rest upon his familiar setting; and when they sat afterwards in his study and smoked, he saw that her eyes travelled with a curious intentness over everything--his books, his papers, his furniture. He had no private talk with her; but he was glad just to meet her glance and hear her low replies--glad too to find that, as the evening wore on, she seemed less distraite and tired. They went off early, Mr. Sandys pleading fatigue for Maud, and the necessity for himself of a good night's rest, that he might ride forth on the following day conquering and to conquer. The next day they lunched with Jack. When Howard came into the room he was not surprised to find that two undergraduates had been asked--Jack's chief allies. One was a big, good-humoured young man, who was very shy and silent; the other was one Fred Guthrie, who was one of the nicest men in the College; he was a Winchester boy, son of a baronet, a Member of Parliament, wealthy and distinguished. Guthrie had a large allowance, belonged to all the best clubs, played cricket with the chance of a blue ahead of him, and had, moreover, a real social gift. He had a quite unembarrassed manner and, what is rare in a young man, a strong sense of humour. He was a prominent member of the A. D. C., and had a really artistic gift of mimicry; but there was no touch of forwardness or conceit about him. He had been in for some examination or other; and when Howard came in he was describing his experiences. "What sort of questions?" he was saying. "Oh, you know the kind--an awful quotation, followed by the question, 'Who said this, and under what circumstances, and why did they let him?'" He made himself entirely at home, he talked to Mr. Sandys as if he were welcoming an old family friend, and he was evidently much attracted by Maud, who found it remarkably easy to talk to this pleasant and straightforward boy. He described with much liveliness an interview between Jack and the Master on the subject of reading the lessons in chapel, and imitated the suave tones of that courteous old gentleman to the life. "Far be it from me to deny it was dramatic, Mr. Sandys, but I should prefer a slightly more devotional tone." He related with great good-humour how a heavy, well-meaning, and rather censorious undergraduate had waited behind in his room on an evening when he had been entertaining the company with some imitations, and had said, "You are fond of imitating people, Guthrie, and you do it a great deal; but you ought to say who it is you are imitating, because one can't be quite sure!" Mr. Sandys was immensely amused by the young man, and had related some of his own experiences in elocution--how his clerk on the first occasion of reading the lesson at Windlow was reported to have said, "Why, you might think he had been THERE, in a manner of speaking." Guthrie was not in the least concerned to keep the conversation in his own hands, and received Mr. Sandys' stories with exactly the right amount of respectful interest and amusement. But the result of all this upon Howard was to make him feel extraordinarily heavy and elderly. He felt that he and Mr. Sandys were the make-weights of the party, and he was conscious that his own contributions were wanting in liveliness. Maud was extraordinarily amused by the bits of mimicry that came in, because it was so well done that it inspired everyone with the feeling that mimicry was the one art worth practising; and Mr. Sandys himself launched into dialect stories, in which Somersetshire rustics began by saying, "Hoots, mon!" and ended by saying, "The ould divil hissilf." After luncheon it became clear that Jack had given up the afternoon as a bad job, and suggested that they should all go down to the river. The rowing man excused himself, and Howard followed his example, pleading occupation of a vague kind. Mr. Sandys was enchanted at the prospect, and they went off in the charge of Guthrie, who was free, promising to return and have tea in his rooms. Guthrie, who was a friend of Howard's, included him in the invitation, but Howard said that he could not promise, but would look in if he could. As a matter of fact, he went out for a lonely walk, ashamed of himself for his stupidity. He could not put himself in the position, he dismally thought, of competing for Maud's attention. He walked off round by Madingley, hardly aware of what road he was taking. By the little chalk-pit just outside the village a rustic pair, a boy and girl, stood sheepishly clasped in a dull and silent embrace. Howard, to whom public exhibitions of emotion were distasteful, walked swiftly by with averted eyes, when suddenly a poignant thought came on him, causing him to redden up to the roots of his hair, and walk faster than ever. It was this, then, that was the matter with him--he was in love, he was jealous, he was the victim of the oldest, simplest, commonest, strongest emotion of humanity. His eyes were opened. How had he not seen it before? His broodings over the thought of Maud, the strange disturbance that came on him in her presence, that absurd desire to do or say something impressive, coupled with that wretched diffidence that kept him silent and helpless--it was love! He became half dizzy with the thought of what it all meant; and at the same instant, Maud seemed to recede from him as something impossibly pure, sweet, and unapproachable. All that notion of a paternal close friendship--how idiotic it was! He wanted her, at every moment, to share every thought with her, to claim every thought of hers, to see her, to clasp her close; and then at the same moment came the terrible disillusionment; how was he, a sober, elderly, stiff-minded professional person, to recommend himself? What was there in him that any girl could find even remotely attractive--his middle-aged habits, his decorous and conventional mind, his clumsy dress, his grizzled hair? He felt of himself that he was ravaged with age and decrepitude, and yet in his folly he had suggested this visit, and he had thrown the girl he loved out of her lonely life, craving for sympathy and interest, into a set of young men all apt for passion and emotion. The thought of Guthrie with his charm, his wealth, his aplomb, fell cold on his heart. Howard's swift imagination pictured the mutual attraction of the two, the enchanting discoveries, the laughing sympathy. Guthrie would, no doubt, come down to Windlow. It was exactly the kind of match that Mr. Sandys would like for Maud; and this was to be the end of this tragic affair. How was he to endure the rest of the days of the visit? This was Tuesday, and they were not to go till Saturday; and he would have to watch the budding of a romance which would end in his choosing Maud a wedding-present, and attending at Windlow Church in the character of the middle-aged squire, beaming through his glasses on the young people. In such abject reflections the walk passed away. He crept into College by the side-entrance, settled down to his evening work with grim tenacity, and lost himself in desperate imaginings of all the pleasant things that might be happening to the party. They were to dine at a restaurant, he believed, and probably Guthrie would be free to join them. Late that night Jack looked in. "Is anything the matter?" he said. "Why didn't you come to Guthrie's? Look here, you are going to play fair, aren't you? I can't do all the entertaining business myself. I really must have a day off to-morrow, and get some exercise." "All right," said Howard, "I'll take them on. Suppose you bring them to luncheon here. And I will tell you what I will do. I will be responsible for to-morrow afternoon. Then on Thursday you shall come and dine here again; and on Friday I will try to get the Master to lunch--that will smooth things over a bit." "Thanks very much," said Jack; "that's splendid! I wish we hadn't let ourselves in for quite so much. I'm not fit to lead a double life like this. I'm sure I don't grudge them their outing, but, by George, I shall be glad to see the last of them, and I daresay you will be too. It's the hardest work I've had for a long time." The two came and lunched with Howard. After luncheon he said, "Now, I am absolutely free to-day--Jack has got a lawn-tennis match on--what shall we do?" "Well," said Mr. Sandys genially, "I will be entirely selfish for once. I have come on the track of some very important matters in the Library, and I see they are going to take up my time. And then I am going in to have a cup of tea at Pembroke with the Dean, an old friend of mine. There, I make no excuses! I did suggest to Herries that I had a daughter with me; but he rather pointedly didn't ask her. Women are not in his line, and he will like a quiet talk with me. Now, what do you say to that, Howard?" "Well, if Miss Maud will put up with me," said Howard, "we will stroll about, and we might go to King's Chapel together. I should like to show her that, and we will go to see Monica Graves, and get some tea there." "Give Monica my love," said Mr. Sandys, "and make what excuses you can. Better tell her the truth for once! I will try to look in upon her before I go." Maud assented very eagerly and gratefully. They walked together to the Library, and Mr. Sandys bolted in like a rabbit into its hole. Howard was alone with her. She was very different, he thought, from what she had seemed that first night. She was alert, smiling, delighted with everything and everybody about the place. "I think it is all simply enchanting!" she said; "only it makes me long to go to Newnham. I think men do have a better time than women; and, what is more, no one here seems to have anything whatever to do!" "That's only our unselfishness," said Howard. "We get no credit! Think of all the piles of papers that are accumulating on my table. The other day I entertained with all the virtue and self-sacrifice at my command a party of working-men from the East end of London at luncheon in my rooms, and took them round afterwards. They knew far more than I did about the place, and I cut a very poor figure. At the end the Secretary, meaning to be very kind to me, said that he was glad to have seen a glimpse of the cultured life. 'It is very beautiful and distinguished,' he added, 'but we of the democracy shall not allow it to continue. It is always said that the Dons have nothing to do but to read and sip their wine, and I am glad to see it all for myself. To think of all these endowments being used like this! Not but what we are very grateful to you for your kindness!'" They strolled about. Cambridge is not a place that puts its characteristic beauties in the forefront. Some of the most charming things lurk unsuspected beyond dark entries and behind sombre walls. They penetrated little mouldering courts; they looked into dim and stately halls and chapels; they stood long on the bridge of Clare, gazing at that incomparable front, with all the bowery gardens and willow-shaded walks, like Camelot, beside the slow, terraced stream. It was a tortured kind of delight for Howard to feel the girl beside him; but she showed no wish to talk intimately or emotionally. She asked many questions, and he could see that she drank in eagerly the beauty of the place, understanding its charm in a moment. They went in to see Monica, who was in a mood of dry equanimity, and rallied Howard on the success of his visit to Windlow. "I hear you entered on the scene like a fairy prince," she said, "and charmed an estate out of Cousin Anne in the course of a few hours. Isn't he magnificent, Maud? You mustn't think he is a typical Don: he is quite one of our brightest flowers." "When am I to come again to Windlow?" she added; "I suppose I must ask Howard's leave now? He told me, you know," she said to Maud, "that he wanted a change--he was bored with his work; so I abandoned Aunt Anne to him; and he set up his flag in a moment. There are no diplomatists like these cultured and unworldly men, Maud! It was noble of me to do as I did. If I had exercised my persuasion on Aunt Anne, and kept Howard away, I believe she would have turned over Windlow to me, and I would have tried a social experiment there. It's just the place for an inebriate home; no public-houses, and plenty of fine spring water." Maud was immensely amused by Monica. Howard contented himself by saying that he was much misinterpreted; and presently they went off to King's together. Maud was not prepared for King's Chapel, and indeed the tame, rather clumsy exterior gives very little hint of the wonders within. When they passed the swing-door, and saw the fine soaring lines leading to the exquisite intricacies of the roof, the whole air full of rich colour; the dark carved screen, with the gleaming golden trumpets of the angels on the organ, Howard could see her catch her breath, and grow pale for an instant at the crowded splendour of the place. They sat in the nave; and when the thin bell died down, and the footsteps passed softly by, and the organ uttered its melodious voice as the white-robed procession moved slowly in, Howard could see that the girl was almost overcome by the scene. She looked at him once with a strange smile, a smile which he could not interpret; and as the service slowly proceeded--to Howard little more than a draught of sweet sensation--he could see that Maud was praying earnestly, deeply, for some consecration of hope and strength which he could not divine or guess at. As they came away, she hardly spoke--she seemed tired and almost rapt out of herself. She just said, "Ah, I am glad I came here with you. I shall never forget this as long as I live--it is quite beyond words." He took her back to the lodgings where they were staying. She shook hands with him, smiled faintly, almost tearfully, and went in without a word. Howard went back in a very agitated frame of mind. He did not understand what was in the girl's mind at all. She was different, utterly different. Some new current of thought had passed through her mind. He fancied that the girl, after her secluded life, with so many richly perceptive faculties half starved, had awakened almost suddenly to a sense of the crowded energies and joys of life, that youth and delight had quickened in her; that she foresaw new relations, and guessed at wonderful secrets. But it troubled him to think that she had not seemed to wish to revive their former little intimacy; she had seemed half unconscious of his presence, and all alive with new pleasures and curiosities. The marvellous veil of sex appeared to have fallen between them. He had made friends with her, as he would have made friends with some ingenuous boy; and now something wholly new, mysterious, and aloof had intervened. The rest of the visit was uneventful enough. Maud was different--that was plain--not less delightful, indeed even more so, in her baffling freshness; but Howard felt removed from her, shut out from her mind, kept at arm's length, even superseded. The luncheon with the Master as guest was a success. He was an old bachelor clergyman, white-haired, dainty, courteous, with the complexion of a child. He was very gracious to Mr. Sandys, who regarded him much as he might have regarded the ghost of Isaiah, as a spirit who visited the earth from some paradisiacal retreat, and brought with him a fragrance of heaven. The thought of a Doctor of Divinity, the Head of a College, full of academical learning, and yet perfectly courteous and accessible, filled Mr. Sandys' cup of romance to the brim. He seemed to be storing his memory with the Master's words. The Master was delighted with Maud, and treated her with a charming and indulgent gaiety, which Howard envied. He asked her opinion, he deferred to her, he made her come and sit next to him, he praised Jack and Howard, and at the end of the luncheon he filled Mr. Sandys with an almost insupportable delight by saying that the next time he could visit Cambridge he hoped he would stay at the Lodge--"but not unless you will promise to bring Miss Sandys as well--Miss Sandys is indispensable." Howard felt indeed grateful to the gallant and civil old man, who had so clear an eye for what was tender and beautiful. Even Jack, when the Master departed, was forced to say that he did not know that the old man had so much blood in him! That night Mr. Sandys finished up his princely progress by dining in Hall with the Fellows, and going to the Combination Room afterwards. He was not voluble, as Howard had expected. He was overcome with deference, and seized with a desire to bow in all directions at the smallest civility. He sat next to the Vice-Master, and Mr. Redmayne treated him to an exhibition of the driest fireworks on record. Mr. Sandys assented to everything, and the number of times that he exclaimed "True, true! admirably said!" exceeded belief. He said to Howard afterwards that the unmixed wine of intellect had proved a potent beverage. "One must drink it down," he said, "and trust to assimilating it later. It has been a glorious week for me, my dear Howard, thanks to you! Quite rejuvenating indeed! I carry away with me a precious treasure of thought--just a few notes of suggestive trains of inquiry have been scribbled down, to be dealt with at leisure. But it is the atmosphere, the rarefied atmosphere of high thought, which has braced and invigorated me. It has entirely obliterated from my mind that odious escapade of Jack's--so judiciously handled! The kindness of these eminent men, these intellectual giants, is profoundly touching and inspiring. I must not indeed hope to trespass on it unduly. Your Master--what a model of self-effacing courtesy--your Vice-Master--what a fine, rugged, uncompromising nature; and the rest of your colleagues"--with a wave of his hand--"what an impression of reserved and restrained force it all gives one! It will often sustain me," said the good Vicar in a burst of confidence, "in my simple labours, to think of all this tide of unaffected intellectual life ebbing and flowing so tranquilly and so systematically in old alma mater! The way in which you have laid yourself out to entertain me is indeed gratifying. If there is a thing I reverence it is intellect, especially when it is framed in modesty and courtesy." Howard went with him to his lodgings, and just went in to say good-bye to Maud. Jack had been dining with her, but he was gone. He and Guthrie were going to the station to give them a send-off. "A charming young fellow, Guthrie!" said Mr. Sandys. "He has been constantly with us, and it is very pleasant to find that Jack has such an excellent friend. His father is, I believe, a man of wealth and influence? You would hardly have guessed it! That a young man of that sort should have given up so much time to entertaining a country parson and his daughter is really very gratifying--a sign of the growing humanity of the youth of England. I fear we should not have been so tolerant at dear old Pembroke. I like your young men, Howard. They are unduly careless, I think, about dress; but in courtesy and kindness, irreproachable!" Howard only had a few words with Maud, of a very commonplace kind. She had enjoyed herself very much, and it was good of him to have given up so much time to them. She seemed to him reserved and preoccupied, and he could not do anything to restore the old sense of friendship. He was tired himself; it had been a week of great strain. Far from getting any nearer to Maud, he felt that he had drifted away from her, and that some intangible partition kept them apart. The visit, he felt, had been a mistake from beginning to end. XVII SELF-SUPPRESSION As soon as the term was over, Howard went down to Windlow. He was in a very unhappy frame of mind. He could not capitulate; but the more that he thought, the more that he tried to analyse his feelings, the more complex they became. It really seemed to him at times as if two perfectly distinct people were arguing within him. He was afraid of love; his aim had always been to simplify his life as far as possible, and to live in a serene and cheerful spirit, for the day and in the day. His work, his relations with colleagues and pupils, had all amused and interested him; he had cared for people, he had many friends; but it was all a cool, temperate, unimpassioned kind of caring. People had drifted in and out of his life; with his frank and easy manner, his excellent memory for the characteristics and the circumstances of others, it had been easy for him to pick up a relationship where he had laid it down; but it was all a very untroubled business, and no one had ever really entered into his life; he did not like dropping people, and took some trouble by means of letters to keep up communication with his old pupils; but his friendships had never reached the point at which the loss of a friend would have been a severe blow. He felt that he was always given credit for more affection than he possessed, and this had made him careful not to fail in any duty of friendship. He was always ready to take trouble, to advise, to help his old pupils in their careers; but it had been done more from a sense of courtesy than from any deeper motive. Now, however, it was very different; he felt himself wholly preoccupied by the thought of Maud; and he found himself looking into the secret of love, as a man might gaze from a hill-top into a chasm where the rocky ridges plunged into mist, doubting of his way, and mistrusting his own strength to pursue the journey. He did not know what the quality of his love was; he recognised an intense kind of passion, but when he looked beyond that, and imagined himself wedded to Maud, what was the emotion that would survive the accomplishment of his desires? Would he find himself longing for the old, comfortable, isolated life again? did he wish his life to be inextricably intertwined with the life of another? He was not sure. He had a dread of having to concede an absolute intimacy, he wished to give only as much as he chose; and then, too, he told himself that he was too old to marry so young a girl, and that she would be happier if she could find a more equal partner for her life. Yet even so the thought of yielding her to another sickened him. He believed that she had been attracted by Guthrie, and that he had but to hold his hand and keep his distance, and the relation might broaden into marriage. He wondered if love could begin so, so easily and simply. He would like to have believed it could not, yet it was just so that love did begin! And then, too, he did not know what was the nature of Maud's feelings to himself. He thought that she had been attracted to him, but in a sisterly sort of way; that he had come across her when she was feeling cramped and dissatisfied, and that a friendship with him had seemed to offer her a chance of expansion and interest. He often thought of telling the whole story to his aunt; but like many people who seem extraordinarily frank about their feelings and fancies, and speak easily even of their emotions, he found himself condemned to silence about any emotion or experience that had any serious or tragic quality. Most people would have thought him communicative, and even lacking in reticence. But he knew in himself that it was not so; he could speak of his intimate ideas very readily upon slight acquaintance, because they were not to him matters of deep feeling; but the moment that they really moved him, he felt absolutely dumb and tongue-tied. He established himself at Windlow, and became at once aware that his aunt perceived that there was something amiss. She gave him opportunities of speaking to her, but he could not take them. He shrank with a painful dumbness from displaying his secret wound. It seemed to him undignified and humiliating to confess his weakness. He hoped vaguely that the situation would solve itself, and spare him the necessity of a confession. He tried to occupy himself in his book, but in vain. Now that he was confronted with a real and urgent dilemma, the origins of religion seemed to him to have no meaning or interest. He did not feel that they had any bearing whatever upon life; and his pain seemed to infect all his perceptions. The quality of beauty in common things, the hill-shapes, the colour of field and wood, the lights of dawn and eve, the sailing cloud, the tints of weathered stone, the old house in its embowered garden, with the pure green lines of the down above, had no charm or significance for him any more. Again and again he said to himself, "How beautiful that would be, if I could but feel it to be so!" He saw, as clearly and critically as ever, the pleasant forms and hues and groupings of things, but it was dull and savourless, while all the attractive ideas that sprang up like flowers in his mind, the happy trains of thought, in which some single fancy ramified and extended itself into unsuspected combinations and connections, these all seemed hardly worth recognising or pursuing. He found himself listless and distracted, just able by an effort to talk, to listen, to exchange thoughts, but utterly without any zest or energy. Jack had gone off for a short visit, and Howard was thus left mostly alone. He went once or twice to the Vicarage, but found Mr. Sandys an unmixed trial; there seemed something wholly puerile about his absurd energies and activities. The only boon of his society was that he expected no reply to his soliloquies. Maud was there too, a distant graceful figure; but she, too, seemed to have withdrawn into her own thoughts, and their talk was mostly formal. Yet he was painfully and acutely conscious of her presence. She, too, seemed to be clouded and sad. He found himself unable to talk to her unconstrainedly. He could only dumbly watch her; she appeared to avert her eyes from him; and yet he drew from these meetings an infinite series of pictures, which were as if engraved upon his brain. She became for him in these days like a lily drooping in a shadowed place and in a thunderous air; something fading away mutely and sorrowfully, like the old figure of Mariana in the Grange, looking wearily through listless hours for something which had once beckoned to her with a radiant gesture, but which did not return. There were brighter hours, when in the hot July days a little peace fell on him, a little sense of the fragrance and beauty of the world. He took to long and solitary walks on the down in search of bodily fatigue. There was one day in particular which he long remembered, when he had gone up to the camp, and sate in the shade of the thicket on the crisp turf, looking out over the valley, unutterably quiet and peaceful in the hot air. The trees were breathlessly still; the hamlet roofs peeped out above the orchards, the hot air quivered on the down. There were little figures far below moving about the fields. It all looked lost in a sweetness of serene repose; and the thoughts that had troubled him rose with a bitter poignancy, that was almost a physical pain. The contrast between the high summer, the rich life of herb and tree, and his own weary and arid thoughts, fell on him like a flash. Would it not be better to die, to close one's eyes upon it all, to sink into silence, than thus to register the awful conflict of will and passion with the tranquil life that could not surrender its dreams of peace? What did he need and desire? He could not tell; he felt almost a hatred of the slender, quiet girl, with her sweet look, her delicate hands, her noiseless movements. She had made no claim, she did not come in radiant triumph, with impressive gestures and strong commanding influences into his life; she had not even cried out passionately, demanded love, displayed an urgent need; there had been nothing either tragic or imperious, nothing that called for instant solution; she was just a girl, sweet, wayward, anxious-minded, living a trivial, simple, sheltered life. What had given her this awful power over him, which seemed to have rent and shattered all his tranquil contentment, and yet had offered no splendid opportunity, claimed no all-absorbing devotion, no magnificent sacrifice? It was a sort of monstrous spell, a magical enchantment, which had thus made havoc of all his plans and gentle schemes. Life, he felt, could never be the same for him again; he was in the grip of a power that made light of human arrangements. The old books were full of it; they had spoken of some hectic mystery, that seized upon warriors and sages alike, wasted their strength, broke their energies, led them into crime and sorrow. He had always rather despised the pale and hollow-eyed lovers of the old songs, and thought of them as he might think of men indulging in a baneful drug which filched away all manful prowess and vigour. It was like La Belle Dame sans merci after all, the slender faring child, whose kiss in the dim grotto had left the warrior 'alone and palely loitering,' burdened with sad thoughts in the wintry land. And yet he could not withstand it. He could see the reasonable and sensible course, a placid friendship, a long life full of small duties and quiet labours;--and then the thought of Maud would come across him, with her shining hair, her clear eyes, holding a book, as he had seen her last in the Vicarage, in her delicate hands, and looking out into the garden with that troubled inscrutable look; and all the prudent considerations fell and tumbled together like a house of cards, and he felt as though he must go straight to her and fall before her, and ask her to give him a gift the very nature of which he did not know, her girlish self, her lightly-ranging mind, her tiny cares and anxieties, her virginal heart--for what purpose? he did not know; just to be with her, to clasp her close, to hear her voice, to look into her eyes, to discourse with her some hidden secret of love. A faint sense of some infinite beauty and nearness came over him which, if he could win it, would put the whole of life into a different plane. Not a friendly combination, but an absolute openness and nakedness of soul, nothing hidden, nothing kept back, everything confessed and admitted, a passing of two streams of life into one. XVIII THE PICNIC Jack arrived at Windlow in due course, and brought with him Guthrie to stay. Howard thought, and was ashamed of thinking, that Jack had some scheme on foot; and the arrival of Guthrie was embarrassing to him, as likely to complicate an already too complicated situation. A plan was made for a luncheon picnic on the hill. There was a tower on the highest eminence of the down, some five miles away, a folly built by some wealthy squire among woodlands, and commanding wide views; it was possible to drive to a village at the foot, and to put up vehicles at a country inn; and it was proposed that they should take luncheon up to the tower, and eat it there. The Sandys party were to drive there, and Howard was to drive over with Miss Merry and meet them. Howard did not at all relish the prospect. He had a torturing desire for the presence of Maud, and yet he seemed unable to establish any communication with her; and he felt that the liveliness of the young men would reduce him to a condition of amiable ineffectiveness which would make him, as Marie Bashkirtseff naively said, hardly worth seeing. However, there was no way out, and on a delicious July morning, with soft sunlight everywhere, and great white clouds floating in a sky of turquoise blue, Howard and Miss Merry started from Windlow. The little lady was full of decorous glee, and her mirth, like a working cauldron, threw all her high-minded tastes to the surface. She asked Howard's opinion about quite a number of literary masterpieces, and she ingenuously gave utterance to her meek and joyful views of life, the privileges she enjoyed, and the inspiration which she derived from the ethical views of Robert Browning. Howard found himself wondering why it was all so dreadfully uninteresting and devoid of charm; he asked himself whether, if the little spinster had been personally more attractive, her optimistic chirpings would have seemed to have more significance. Miss Merry had a perfectly definite view of life, and she made life into a distinct success; she was a happy woman, sustained by an abundance of meek enthusiasm. She accepted everything that happened to her, whether good or evil, with the same eager interest. Suffering, according to Miss Merry, had an educative quality, and life was haunted for her by echoes of excellent literature, accurately remembered. But Howard had a feeling that one must not swallow life quite so uncritically, that there ought somehow to be more discrimination; and Miss Merry's eager adoration of everything and everybody reduced him to a flatness which he found it difficult to conceal. He could not think what was the matter with her views. She revelled in what she called problems, and the more incomplete that anything appeared, the more certain was Miss Merry of ultimate perfection. There did not seem any room for humanity, with its varying moods, in her outlook; and yet Howard had the grace to be ashamed of his own sullen dreariness, which certainly did not appear to lend any dignity to life. But he had not the heart to spoil the little lady's pleasure, and engaged in small talk upon moderately abstract topics with courteous industry. "Of course," said his companion confidingly, "all that I do is on a very small scale, but I think that the quality of it is what matters--the quality of one's ideal, I mean." Howard murmuringly assented. "I have sometimes even wished," she went on, "that I had some real trouble of my own--that seems foolish to you, no doubt, because my life is such an easy one--but I do feel that my happiness rather cuts me off from other people--and I don't want to be cut off from other people; I desire to know how and why they suffer." "Ah," said Howard, "while you feel that, it is all right; but the worst of real suffering is, I believe, that it is apt to be entirely dreary--it is not at all romantic, as it seems from the outside; indeed it is the loss of all that sense of excitement which makes suffering what it is. But really I have no right to speak either, for I have had a very happy life too." Miss Merry heard him moist-eyed and intent. "Yes, I am sure that is true!" she said. "I suppose we all have just as much as we can use--just as much as it is good for us to have." They found that the others had arrived, and were unpacking the luncheon. Maud greeted Howard with a shy expectancy; but the sight of her, slender and fresh in her rough walking-dress, renewed his strange pangs. What did he want of her, he asked himself; what was this mysterious and unmanning sense, that made him conscious of every movement and every word of the girl? Why could he not meet her in a cheerful, friendly, simple way, and make the most of her enchanting company? Mr. Sandys was in great spirits, revelling in arrangements and directions. But the wind was taken out of his sails by the two young men, who were engaged in enacting a bewildering kind of drama, a saga, of which the venerable Mr. Redmayne appeared to be the hero. Guthrie, who was in almost overpowering spirits, took the part of Mr. Redmayne, whom he imitated with amazing fidelity. He had become, it seemed, a man of low and degrading tastes--'Erb Redmayne, he was called, or old 'Erb, whose role was to lead the other authorities of the college into all kinds of disreputable haunts, to prompt them to absurd misdeeds, to take advantage of their ingenuousness, to make scapegoats of them, and to adroitly evade justice himself. On this occasion 'Erb Redmayne seemed to have inveigled the Master, whose part was taken by Jack, to a race-meeting, to be introducing him to the Most unsatisfactory company, to force him to put money on certain horses, to evade the payment of debts incurred, to be detected in the act of absconding, and to leave the unfortunate Master to bear the brunt of public indignation. Guthrie seemed at first a little shy of enacting this drama before Howard, but Jack said reassuringly, "Oh, he won't give us away--it will amuse him!" This extravaganza continued with immense gusto and emphasis all the way to luncheon, 'Erb Redmayne treating the Master with undisguised contempt, and the Master performing meekly his bidding. Mr. Sandys was in fits of laughter. "Excellent, excellent!" he cried among his paroxysms. "You irreverent young rascals--but it was just the sort of thing we used to do, I am afraid!" There was no doubt that it was amusing; in another mood Howard would have been enchanted by the performance, and even flattered at being allowed to overhear it. Mr. Redmayne was admirably rendered, and Jack's performance of the anxious and courteous Master, treading the primrose path reluctantly and yet subserviently, was very nearly as good. But Howard simply could not be amused, and it made it almost worse for him to see that Maud was delighted, while even Miss Merry was obviously though timidly enjoying the enlargement of her experience, and exulting in her freedom from any priggish disapproval. They made their way to the top and found the tower, a shell of masonry, which could be ascended by a winding staircase in a turret. The view, from the platform at the summit, was certainly enchanting. The tower stood in an open heathery space, with woods enclosing it on every side; from the parapet they looked down over the steeply falling tree-tops to an immense plain, where a river widened to the sea. Howard, side by side with Maud, gazed in silence. Mr. Sandys identified landmarks with a map. "How nice it is to see a bit of the world!" said Maud, "and how happy and contented it all looks. It seems odd to think of men and women down there, creeping about their work, going to and fro as usual, and not aware that they are being looked down upon like this. It all seems a very simple business." "Yes," said Howard, "that is the strange thing. It does seem so simple and tranquil! and yet one knows that down there people have their troubles and anxieties--people are ill, are dying--are wondering what it all means, why they are set just there, and why they have so short a time to stay!" "I suppose it all fits into itself," said Maud, "somehow or other. I don't think that life really contradicts itself!" "I don't know," said Howard, with a sudden access of dreariness; "that is exactly what it DOES seem to do--that's the misery of it!" The girl looked at him but did not speak; he gave her an uneasy smile, and she presently turned away and looked over her father's map. They went down and lunched on a green bank among the fern, under some old oaks. The sunlight fell among the glades; a flock of tits, chirruping and hunting, rushed past them and plunged downward into the wood. They could hear a dove in the high trees near them, crooning a song of peace and infinite content. Mr. Sandys, stung by emulation, related a long story, interspersed with imitations, of his undergraduate days; and Howard was content to sit and seem to listen, and to watch the light pierce downwards into the silent woodland. An old woodman, grey and bent and walking painfully, in great leather gloves and gaiters, carrying a chopper, passed slowly along the ride and touched his hat. Jack insisted on giving him some of the luncheon, and made up a package for him which the old man put away in a pocket, making some remarks about the weather, and adding with a senile pride that he was over seventy, and had worked in the woodland for sixty years and more. He was an almost mediaeval figure, Howard thought--a woodman five centuries ago would have looked and spoken much the same; he knew nothing of the world, or the thoughts and hopes of it; he was almost as much of the soil as the very woods themselves, in his dim mechanical life; was man made for that after all? How did that square with Miss Merry's eager optimism? What was the meaning of so unconscious a figure, so obviously without an ethical programme, and yet so curiously devised by God, patiently nurtured and preserved? In the infinite peace, while the flies hummed on the shining bracken, and the breeze nestled in the firs like a falling sea, Howard had a spasm of incredulous misery. Could any heart be so heavy, so unquiet as his own?--life suddenly struck so aimless, with but one overmastering desire, which he could not fulfil. He was shocked at his feebleness. A year ago he could have devised no sweeter or more delicious day than this, with such a party, in the high sunlit wood. . . . The imitations began again. "I don't believe there's anyone you could not imitate!" said Mr. Sandys rapturously. "Oh, it's only a knack," said Guthrie, "but some people are easier than others." Howard bestirred himself to express some interest. "Why, he can imitate YOU to the life," said Jack. "Oh, come, nonsense!" said Guthrie, reddening; "that is really low, Jack." "I confess to a great curiosity about it," said Mr. Sandys. "Oh, don't mind me," said Howard; "it would amuse me above everything--like catching a glance at oneself in an unexpected mirror!" Guthrie, after a little more pressing, yielded. He said a few sentences, supposed to be Howard teaching, in a rather soft voice, with what seemed to Howard a horribly affected and priggish emphasis. But the matter displeased him still more. It was facetious, almost jocose; and there was a jerky attempt at academic humour in it, which seemed to him particularly nauseous, as of a well-informed and quite superior person condescending to the mildest of witticisms, to put himself on a level with juvenile minds. Howard had thought himself both unaffected and elastic in his communications with undergraduates, and this was the effect he produced upon them! However, he mastered his irritation; the others laughed a little tentatively; it was felt for a moment that the affair had just passed the limits of conventional civility. Howard contrived to utter a species of laugh, and said, "Well, that's quite a revelation to me. It never occurred to me that there could be anything to imitate in my utterance; but then it is always impossible to believe that anyone can find anything to discuss in one behind one's back--though I suppose no one can escape. I must get a stock of new witticisms, I think; the typical ones seem a little threadbare." "Oh no, indeed," said Miss Merry, gallantly; "I was just thinking how much I should like to be taught like that!" The little incident seemed rather to damp the spirits of the party. Guthrie himself seemed deeply annoyed at having consented: and it was a relief to all when Mr. Sandys suddenly pulled out his watch and said, "Well, all pleasant things come to an end--though to be sure there is generally another pleasant thing waiting round the corner. I have to get back, but I am not going to spoil the party. I shall enjoy a bit of a walk." "Well," said Howard, "I think I will set you on your way. I want a talk about one or two things; but I will come back to chaperon Miss Merry--I suppose I shall find you somewhere about?" "Yes," said Miss Merry, "I am going to try a sketch--but I must not have anyone looking over my shoulder. I am no good at sketching--but I like to be made to look close at a pretty thing. I am going to try the chalk-pit and thicket near the tower--chalk-pits suit my style, because one can leave so much of the paper white!" "Very well," said Howard, "I will be back here in an hour." Howard and Mr. Sandys started off through the wood. Mr. Sandys was full of communications. He began to talk about Guthrie. "Such a good friend for Jack!" he said; "I hope he bears a good character in the college? Jack seems to be very much taken up with him, and says there is no nonsense about him--almost the highest commendation he has in his power to bestow--indeed I have heard him use the same phrase about yourself! Young Guthrie seems such a natural and unaffected fellow--indeed, if I may say so, Howard, it seemed to me a high compliment to yourself, and to speak volumes for your easy relation with young men, that he should have ventured to take you off to your face just now, and that you should have been so sincerely amused. It isn't as if he were a cheeky sort of boy--if I may be allowed such an expression. He treats me with the pleasantest deference and respect--and when I think of his father's wealth and political influence, that seems to me a charming trait! There is nothing uppish about him." "No, indeed," said Howard; "he is a thoroughly nice fellow!" "I am delighted to hear you say so," said Mr. Sandys, "and your kindness emboldens me to say something which is quite confidential; but then we are practically relations, are we not? Perhaps it is only a father's partiality; but have you noticed, may I say, anything in his manner to my dear Maud? It may be only a passing fancy, of course. 'In the spring,' you remember, 'a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love'--a beautiful line that, though of course it is not strictly applicable to the end of July. I need hardly say that such a connection would gladden my heart. I am all for marriage, Howard, for early marriage, the simplest and best of human experiences; of course it has more sides than one to it. I should not like it to be supposed that a country parson like myself had in the smallest degree inveigled a young man of the highest prospects into a match--there is nothing of the matchmaker about me; but Maud is in a degree well-connected; and, as you know, she will be what the country people here call 'well-left'--a terse phrase, but expressive! I do not see that she would be in any way unworthy of the position--and I feel that her life here is a little secluded--I should like her to have a little richer material, so to speak, to work in. Well, well, we mustn't be too diplomatic about these things. 'Man proposes'--no humorous suggestion intended--'and God disposes'--but if it should so turn out, without any scheming or management--things which I cordially detest--if it should open out naturally, why, I should be lacking in candour if I pretended it would not please me. I believe in early engagements, and romance, and all that--I fear I am terribly sentimental--and it is just the thing to keep a young man straight. Sir Henry Guthrie might be disposed to view it in that light--what do you think?" This ingenuous statement had a very distressing effect on Howard. It is one thing to dally with a thought, however seriously, in one's own mind, and something quite different to have it presented in black and white through the frank conjecture of another. He put a severe constraint upon himself and said, "Do you know, Frank, the same thought had occurred to me--I had believed that I saw something of the kind; and I can honestly say that I think Guthrie a very sound fellow indeed in every way--quite apart from his worldly prospects. He is straight, sensible, good-humoured, capable, and, I think, a really unselfish fellow. If I had a daughter of my own I could not imagine a better husband." "You delight me inexpressibly," said Mr. Sandys. "So you had noticed it? Well, well, I trust your perception far more than my own; and of course I am biassed--you might almost incline to say dazzled--by the prospect: heir to a baronetcy (I could wish it had been of an earlier creation), rich, and, as you say, entirely reliable and straight. Of course I don't in any way wish to force matters on. I could not bear to be thought to have unduly encouraged such an alliance--and Maud may marry any nice fellow she has a fancy to marry; but I think that she is rather drawn to young Guthrie--what do you think? He amuses her, and she is at her best with him--don't you think so?" "Yes," said Howard, "I had thought so. I think she likes him very much." "Well, we will leave it at that," said Mr. Sandys in high gusto. "You don't mind my confiding in you thus, Howard? Somehow, if I may say it, I find it very easy to speak confidentially to you. You are so perceptive, so sympathetic! We all feel that it is the secret of your great influence." They talked of other matters after this as they walked along the crest of the downs; and where the white road began to descend into the valley, with the roofs of Windlow glimmering in the trees a little to the north, Howard left the Vicar and retraced his steps. He was acutely miserable; the thing had come upon him with a shock, and brought the truth home to him in a desperate way. But he experienced at the same time a certain sensation, for a moment, of grim relief. His fancy, his hope--how absurd and idiotic they had been!--were shattered. How could he ever have dreamed that the girl should come to care for him in that way--an elderly Don of settled habits, who had even mistaken a pompous condescension to the young men of his College for a natural and sympathetic relation--that was what he was. The melancholy truth stared him in the face. He was sharply disillusioned. He had lingered on, clinging pathetically to youth, and with a serene complacency he had overlooked the flight of time. He was a dull, middle-aged man, fond of sentimental relations and trivial confidences, who had done nothing, effected nothing; had even egregiously failed in the one thing he had set himself to do, the retaining his hold on youth. Well, he must face it! He must be content to settle down as a small squire; he must disentangle himself from his Cambridge work gradually--it sickened him to think of it--and he must try to lead a quiet life, and perhaps put together a stupid book or two. That was to be his programme. He must just try to be grateful for a clear line of action. If he had had nothing but Cambridge to depend upon, it would have been still worse. Now he must settle down to county business if he could, and clear his mind of all foolish regrets. Love and marriage--he was ten years too late! He had dawdled on, taking the line of least resistance, and he was now revealed to himself in a true and unsparing light. He paced swiftly on, and presently entered the wood. His feet fell soft on the grassy road among the coverts. Suddenly, as he turned a corner, he saw a little open glade to the right. A short way up the glade stood two figures--Guthrie and Maud--engaged in conversation. They were standing facing each other. She seemed to be expostulating with him in a laughing way; he stood bareheaded, holding his hat in his hand, eagerly defending himself. The pose of the two seemed to show an easy sort of comradeship. Maud was holding a stick in both hands behind her, and half resting upon it. They seemed entirely absorbed in what they were saying. Howard could not bear to intrude upon the scene. He fell back among the trees, retraced his steps, and then sat down on a grassy bank, a little off the path, and waited. It was the last confirmation of his fears. It was not quite a lover-like scene, but they evidently understood each other, and were wholly at their ease together, while Guthrie's admiring and passionate look did not escape him. He rested his head in his hands, and bore the truth as he might have borne a physical pain. The summer woods, the green thickets, the sunlight on the turf, the white clouds, the rich plain just visible through the falling tree-trunks, all seemed to him like a vision seen by a spirit in torment, something horribly unreal and torturing. The two streams of beauty and misery appeared to run side by side, so distinct, so unblending; but the horrible fact was that though sorrow was able not only to assert its own fiery power, like the sting of some malignant insect, it could also obliterate and efface joy; it could even press joy into its service, to accentuate its torment; while the joy and beauty of life seemed wholly unable to soothe or help him, but were brushed aside, just as a stern soldier, armed and mailed, could brush aside the onslaught of some delicate and frenzied boy. Was pain the stronger power, was it the ultimate power? In that dark moment, Howard felt that it was. Joy seemed to him like a little pool of crystalline water, charming enough if tended and sheltered, but a thing that could be soiled and scattered in a moment by the onrush of some foul and violent beast. He came at last to the rendezvous. Miss Merry sat at her post transferring to a little block of paper a smeared and streaky picture of the chalk-pit, which seemed equally unintelligible at whatever angle it might be held. Jack was couched at a little distance in the heather, smoking a pipe. Howard went and sat down moodily beside him. "An odd thing, a picnic," said Jack musingly; "I am not sure it is not an invention of the devil. Is anything the matter, Howard? You look as if things had gone wrong. You don't mind that nonsense of Guthrie's, do you? I was an ass to get him to do it; I hate doing a stupid thing, and he is simply wild with me. It's no good saying it is not like, because it is in a way, but of course it's only a rag. It isn't absurd when you do it, only when someone else does." "Oh no, I don't mind about that," said Howard; "do make that plain to Guthrie. I am out of sorts, I think; one gets bothered, you know--what is called the blues." "Oh, I know," said Jack sympathetically; "I don't suffer from them myself as a rule, but I have got a touch of them to-day. I can't understand what everyone is up to. Fred Guthrie has got the jumps. It looks to me," he went on sagely, "as if he was what is commonly called in love: but when the other person is one's sister, it seems strange. Maud isn't a bad girl, as they go, but she isn't an angel, and still less a saint; but Fred has no eyes for anyone else; I can't screw a sensible word out of him. These young people!" said Jack with a sour grimace; "you and I know better. One ought to leave the women alone; there's something queer about them; you never know where you are with them." Howard regarded him in silence for a moment: it did not seem worth while to argue; nothing seemed worth while. "Where are they?" he said drearily. "Oh, goodness knows!" said Jack; "when I last saw them he was beating down the ferns with a stick for Maud to go through. He's absolutely demented, and she is at one of her games. I think I shall sheer off, and go to visit some sick people, like the governor; that's about all I feel up to." At this moment, however, the truants appeared, walking silently out of a glade. Howard had an obscure feeling that something serious had happened--he did not know what. Guthrie looked dejected, and Maud was evidently preoccupied. "Oh, damn the whole show!" said Jack, getting up. "Let's get out of this!" "We lost our way," said Maud, rather hurriedly, "and couldn't find our way back." Maud went up to Miss Merry, asked to see her sketch, and indulged in some very intemperate praise. Guthrie came up to Howard, and stammered through an apology for his rudeness. "Oh, don't say anything more," said Howard. "Of course I didn't mind! It really doesn't matter at all." The day was beginning to decline; and in an awkward silence, only broken by inconsequent remarks, the party descended the hill, regained the carriages, and drove off in mournful silence. As the Vicarage party drove away, Jack glanced at Howard, raised his eyes in mock despair, and gave a solemn shake of his head. Howard followed with Miss Merry, and talked wildly about the future of English poetry, till they drove in under the archway of the Manor and his penance was at an end. XIX DESPONDENCY Howard spent some very unhappy days after that, mostly alone. They were very active at the Vicarage making expeditions, fishing, playing lawn-tennis, and once or twice pressed him to join them. But he excused himself on the ground that he must work at his book; he could not bear to carry his despondency and his dolorous air into so blithe a company; and he was, moreover, consumed by a jealousy which humiliated him. If Guthrie was destined to win Maud's love he should have a fair field; and yet Howard's imagination played him many fevered tricks in those days, and the thought of what might be happening used to sting him into desperation. His own mood alternated between misery and languor. He used to sit staring at his book, unable to write a word, and became gradually aware that he had never been unhappy in his life before. That, then, was what unhappiness meant, not a mood of refined and romantic melancholy, but a raging fire of depression that seemed to burn his life away, both physically and mentally, with intervals of drowsy listlessness. He would have liked to talk to his aunt, but could not bring himself to do so. She, on the other hand, seemed to notice nothing, and it was a great relief to him that she never commented upon his melancholy and obvious fatigue, but went on in her accustomed serene way, which evoked his courtesy and sense of decorum, and made him behave decently in spite of himself. Miss Merry seemed much more inclined to sympathise, and Howard used to intercept her gaze bent upon him in deep concern. One afternoon, returning from a lonely walk, he met Maud going out of the Manor gate. She looked happy, he thought. He stopped and made a few commonplace remarks. She looked at him rather strangely, he felt, and seemed to be searching his face for some sign of the old goodwill; but he hardened his heart, though he would have given worlds to tell her what was in his mind; but he felt that any reconstruction of friendship must be left till a later date, when he might again be able to conciliate her sisterly regard. She seemed to him to have passed through an awakening of some kind, and to have bloomed both in mind and body, with her feet on the threshold of vital experience, and the thought that it was Guthrie who could evoke this upspringing of life within her was very bitter to him. He trod the valley of humiliation hour by hour, in these lonely days, and found it a very dreary place. It was wretched to him to feel that he had suddenly discovered his limitations. Not only could he not have his will, could not taste the fruit of love which had seemed to hang almost within his reach, but the old contented life seemed to have faded and collapsed about him. That night his aunt asked him about his book, and he said he was not getting on well with it. She asked why, and he said that he had been feeling that it was altogether too intellectual a conception; that he had approached it from the side of REASON, as if people argued themselves into faith, and had treated religion as a thesis which could be successfully defended; whereas the vital part of it all, he now thought, was an instinct, perhaps refined by inherited thought, but in its practical manifestations a kind of choice, determined by a natural liking for what was attractive, and a dislike of what was morally ugly. "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "that is true, I am sure. But it can be analysed for all that, though I agree with you that no amount of analysis will make one act rightly. But I believe," she went on, "that clearness of view helps one, though not perhaps at the time. It is a great thing to see what motives are merely conventional and convenient, and to find out what one really regards as principles. To look a conventional motive in the face deprives it of its power; and one can gradually disencumber oneself of all sorts of complicated impulses, which have their roots in no emotion. It is only the motives which are rooted in emotion that are vital." Then, after a pause, she said, "Of course I have seen of late that you have been dissatisfied with something. I have not liked to ask you about it; but if it would help you to talk about it, I hope you will. It is wonderful how talking about things makes one's mind clear. It isn't anything that others say or advise that helps one, yet one gains in clearness. But you must do as you like about this, Howard. I don't want to press you in any way." "Thank you very much," said Howard. "I know that you would hear me with patience, and might perhaps advise me if anyone could; but it isn't that. I have got myself into a strange difficulty; and what I need is not clearness, but simply courage to face what I know and perceive. My great lack hitherto is that I have gone through things without feeling them, like a swallow dipping in a lake; now I have got to sink and drown. No," he added, smiling, "not to drown, I hope, but to find a new life in the ruins of the old. I have been on the wrong tack; I have always had what I liked, and done what I liked; and now when I am confronted with things which I do not like at all, I have just got to endure them, and be glad that I have still got the power of suffering left." Mrs. Graves looked at him very tenderly. "Yes," she said, "suffering has a great power, and one doesn't want those whom one loves not to suffer. It is the condition of loving; but it must be real suffering, not morbid, self-invented torture. It's a great mistake to suffer more than one need; one wastes life fast so. I would not intervene to save you from real suffering, even if I could; but I don't want you to suffer in an unreal way. I think you are diffident, too easily discouraged, too courteous, if that is possible--because diffidence, and discouragement, and even courtesy, are not always unselfish things. If one renounces anything one has set one's heart upon one must do so for its own sake, and not only because the disapproval and disappointment of others makes life uncomfortable. I think that your life has tended to make you value an atmosphere of diffused tranquillity too much. If one is sensitive to the censure or the displeasure of others, it may not be unselfish to give up things rather than provoke it--it may only be another form of selfishness. Some of the most unworldly people I know have not overcome the world at all; they have merely made terms with it, and have found that abnegation is only more comfortable than conquest. I do not know that you are doing this, or have done it, but I think it likely. And in any case I think you trust reason too much, and instinct too little. If one desires a thing very much, it is often a proof that one needs it. One may not indeed be able to get it, but to resign it is sometimes to fail in courage. I can see that you are in some way discontented with your life. Don't try to mend it by a polite withdrawal. I am going to pay you a compliment. You have a wonderful charm, of which you are unconscious. It has made life very easy for you--but it has responsibilities too. You must not create a situation, and then abandon it. You must not disappoint people. I know, of course, only too well, that charm in itself largely depends on a tranquil mind; and it is difficult to exercise it when one is sad and unhappy; but let me say that unhappiness does not deprive YOU of this power. Does it seem impossible to you to believe that I have loved you far better, and in a way which I could not have thought possible, in these last weeks, when I have seen you were unhappy? You do not abandon yourself to depression; you make an effort; you recognise other people's rights to be happy, not to be clouded by your own unhappiness; and you have done more to attach us all to you in these days than before, when you were perhaps more conscious of being liked. Liking is not loving, Howard. There is no pain about liking; there is infinite pain about loving; that is because it is life, and not mere existence." "Ah," said Howard, "I am indeed grateful to you for speaking to me thus--you have lifted my spirit a little out of the mire. But I can't be rescued so easily. I shall have a burden to bear for some time yet--I see no end to it at present: and it is indeed my own foolish trifling with life that has brought it on me. But, dearest aunt, you can't help me just now. Let me be silent a little longer. I shall soon, I think, be able to speak, and then I will tell you all; and meanwhile it will be a comfort to me to think that you feel for me and about me as you do. I don't want to indulge in self-pity--I have not done that. There is nothing unjust in what has happened to me, nothing intolerable, no specific ill-will. I have just stumbled upon one of the big troubles of life, suddenly and unexpectedly, and I am not prepared for it by any practice or discipline. But I shall get through, don't be afraid--and presently I will tell you everything." He took his aunt's hand in his own, and kissed her on the cheek. "God bless you, dear boy!" she said; "I won't press you to speak; and you will know that I have you in mind now and always, with infinite hope and love." XX HIGHMINDEDNESS Howard on thinking over this conversation was somewhat bewildered as to what exactly was in his aunt's mind. He did not think that she understood his feeling for Maud, and he was sure that she did not realise what Maud's feelings about Freddy Guthrie were. He came to the conclusion eventually that Maud had told her about the beginnings of their friendship; that his aunt supposed that he had tried to win Maud's confidence, as he would have made friends with one of his young men; and that she imagined that he had found that Maud's feeling for him had developed in rather too confidential a line, as for a father-confessor. He thought that Mrs. Graves had seen that Maud had been disposed to adopt him as a kind of ethical director, and had thought that he had been bored at finding a girl's friendship so much more exacting than the friendship of a young man; and that she had been exhorting him to be more brotherly and simple in his relations with Maud, and to help her to the best of his ability. He imagined that Maud had told Mrs. Graves that he had been advising her, and that she had perhaps since told her of his chilly reception of her later confidences. That was the situation he had created; and he felt with what utter clumsiness he had handled it. His aunt, no doubt, thought that he had been disturbed at finding how much more emotional a girl's dependence upon an older man was than he had expected. But he felt that when he could tell her the whole story, she would see that he could not have acted otherwise. He had been so thrown off his balance by finding how deeply he cared for Maud, that he had been simply unable to respond to her advances. He ought to have had more control of himself. Mrs. Graves had not suspected that he could have grown to care for a girl, almost young enough to be his daughter, in so passionate a way. He wished he could have explained the whole to her, but he was too deeply wounded in mind to confess to his aunt how impulsive he had been. He had now no doubt that there was an understanding between Maud and Guthrie. Everyone else seemed to think so; and when once the affair was happily launched, he would enjoy a mournful triumph, he thought, by explaining to Mrs. Graves how considerately he had behaved, and how painful a dilemma Maud would have been placed in if he had declared his passion. Maud would have blamed herself; she might easily, with her anxious sense of responsibility, have persuaded herself into accepting him as a lover; and then a life-long penance might have begun for her. He had, at what a cost, saved Maud from the chance of such a mistake. It was a sad tangle; but when Maud was happily married, he would perhaps be able to explain to her why he had behaved as he had done; and she would be grateful to him then. His restless and fevered imagination traced emotional and dramatic scenes, in which his delicacy would at last be revealed. He felt ashamed of himself for this abandonment to sentiment, but he seemed to have lost control over the emotional part of his mind, which continued to luxuriate in the consciousness of his own self-effacement. He had indeed, he felt, fallen low. But he continued to trace in his mind how each of the actors in the little drama--Mr. Sandys, Jack, Guthrie himself, Maud, Mrs. Graves--would each have reason to thank him for having held himself aloof, and for sacrificing his own desires. There was comfort in that thought; and for the first time in these miserable weeks he felt a little glow of self-approval at the consciousness of his own prudence and justice. The best thing, he now reflected, would be to remove himself from the scene altogether for a time, and to return in radiant benevolence, when the affair had settled itself: but Maud--and then there came over him the thought of the girl, her sweetness, her eager delight, her adorable frankness, her innocence, her desire to be in affectionate relations with all who came within reach of her; and the sense of his own foresight and benevolence was instantly and entirely overwhelmed at the thought of what he had missed, and of what he might have aspired to, if it had not been for just the wretched obstacle of age and circumstance. A few years younger--if he had been that, he could have followed the leading of his heart, and--he dared think no more of what might have been possible. But what brought matters to a head was a scene that he saw on the following day. He was in the library in the morning; he tried to work, but he could not command his attention. At last he rose and went to the little oriel, which commanded a view of the village green. Just as he did so, he caught sight of two figures--Maud and Guthrie--walking together on the road which led from the Vicarage. They were talking in the plainest intimacy. Guthrie seemed to be arguing some point with laughing insistence, and Maud to be listening in amused delight. Presently they came to a stop, and he could see Maud hold up a finger. Guthrie at once desisted. At this moment a kitten scampered across the green to them sideways, its tail up. Guthrie caught it up, and as he held it in his arms. Howard saw Maud bend over it and caress it. The scene brought an instant conviction to his mind; but presently Maud said a word to her companion, and then came across the green to the Manor, passing in at the gate just underneath him. Howard stood back that he might not be observed. He saw Maud come in under the gateway, half smiling to herself as at something that had happened. As she did so, she waved her hand to Guthrie, who stood holding the kitten in his arms and looking after her. When she disappeared, he put the kitten down, and then walked back towards the Vicarage. XXI THE AWAKENING Howard spent the rest of the morning in very bitter cogitation; after luncheon, during which he could hardly force himself to speak, he excused himself on the plea of wanting exercise. It was in a real agony of mind and spirit that he left the house. He was certain now; and he was not only haunted by his loss, but he was horrified at his entire lack of self-control and restraint. His thoughts came in, like great waves striking on a rocky reef, and rending themselves in sheets of scattered foam. He seemed to himself to have been slowly inveigled into his fate by a worse than malicious power; something had planned his doom. He remembered his old tranquillities; his little touch of boredom; and then how easy the descent had been! He had been drawn by a slender thread of circumstance into paying his visit to Windlow; his friendship with Jack had just toppled over the balance; he had gone; then there had come his talk with his aunt, which had wrought him up into a mood of vague excitement. Just at that moment Maud had come in his way; then friendship had followed; and then he had been seized with this devouring passion which had devastated his heart. He had known all the time that he was too late; and even so he had gone to work the wrong way: it was his infernal diplomacy, his trick of playing with other lives, of yielding to emotional intimacies--that fatal desire to have a definite relation, to mean something to everyone in his circle. Then this wretched, attractive, pleasant youth, with his superficial charm, had intervened. If he had been wise he would never have suggested that visit to Cambridge. Maud had hitherto been just like Miranda on the island; she had never been brought into close contact with a young cavalier; and the subtle instinct of youth had done the rest, the instinct for the equal mate, so far stronger and more subtle than any reasonable or intellectual friendship. And then he, devoured as he had been by his love, had been unable to use his faculties; he could do nothing but glare and wink, while his treasure was stolen from him; he had made mistakes at every turn. What would he not give now to be restored to his old, balanced, easy life, with its little friendships and duties. How fantastic and unreal his aunt's theories seemed to him, reveries contrived just to gild the gaps of a broken life, a dramatisation of emptiness and self-importance. At every moment the face and figure of Maud came before him in a hundred sweet, spontaneous movements--the look of her eyes, the slow thrill of her voice. He needed her with all his soul--every fibre of his being cried out for her. And then the thought of being thus pitifully overcome, humiliated and degraded him. If she had not been beautiful, he would perhaps never have thought of her except with a mild and courteous interest. This was the draught of life which he had put so curiously to his lips, sweet and heady to taste, but with what infinite bitterness and disgust in the cup. It had robbed him of everything--of his work, of his temperate ecstasies in sight and sound, of his intellectual enthusiasm. His life was all broken to pieces about him; he had lost at once all interest and all sense of dignity. He was simply a man betrayed by a passion, which had fevered him just because his life had been so orderly and pure. He was not strong enough even to cut himself adrift from it all. He must just welter on, a figure visibly touched by depression and ill-fortune, and hammering out the old grammar-grind. Had any writer, any poet, ever agonised thus? The people who discoursed glibly about love, and wove their sorrows into elegies, what sort of prurient curs were they? It was all too bad to think of, to speak of--a mere staggering among the mudflats of life. In this raging self-contempt and misery, he drew near to the still pool in the valley; he would sit there and bleed awhile, like the old warrior, but with no hope of revisiting the fight: he would just abandon himself to listless despair for an hour or two, while the pleasant drama of life went on behind him. Why had he not at least spoken to Maud, while he had time, and secured her loyalty? It was his idiotic deliberation, his love of dallying gently with his emotions, getting the best he could out of them. Suddenly he saw that there was some one on the stone seat by the spring, and in a moment he saw that it was Maud--and that she had observed him. She looked troubled and melancholy. Had she stolen away here, had she even appointed a place of meeting with the wretched boy? was she vexed at his intrusion? Well, it would have to be faced now. He would go on, he would say a few words, he would at least not betray himself. After all, she had done no wrong, poor child--she had only found her mate; and she at least should not be troubled. She rose up at his approach; and Howard, affecting a feeble heartiness, said, "Well, so you have stolen away like me! This is a sweet place, isn't it; like an old fairy-tale, and haunted by a Neckan? I won't disturb you--I am going on to the hill--I want a breath of air." Maud looked at him rather pitifully, and said nothing for a moment. Then she said, "Won't you stay a little and talk to me?--I don't seem to have seen you--there has been so much going on. I want to tell you about my book, you know--I am going on with that--I shall soon have some more chapters to show you." She sate down at one end of the bench, and Howard seated himself wearily at the other. Maud glanced at him for a moment, but he said nothing. The sight of her was a sort of torture to him. He longed with an insupportable longing to fling himself down beside her and claim her, despairingly and helplessly. He simply could not frame a sentence. "You look tired," said Maud. "I don't know what it is, but it seems as if everything had gone wrong since we came to Cambridge. Do tell me what it all is--you can trust me. I have been afraid I have vexed you somehow, and I had hoped we were going to be friends." She leaned her head on her hand, and looked at him. She looked so troubled and so frail, that Howard's heart smote him--he must make an effort; he must not cloud the child's mind; he must just take what she could give him, and not hamper her in any way. The one thing left him was a miserable courtesy, on which he must somehow depend. He forced a sort of smile, and began to talk--his own voice audible to him, strained and ugly, like the voice of some querulous ghost. "Ah," he said, "as one gets older, one can't always command one's moods. Vexed? Of course, I am not vexed--what put that into your head? It's this--I can tell you so much! It seems to me that I have been drawn aside out of my old, easy, serene life, into a new sort of life here--and I am not equal to it. I had got so used, I suppose, to picking up other lives, that I thought I could do the same here--and I seem to have taken on more than I could manage. I forgot, I think, that I was getting older, that I had left youth behind. I made the mistake of thinking I could play a new role--and I cannot. I am tired--yes, I am deadly tired; and I feel now as if I wanted to get out of it all, and just leave things to work themselves out. I have meddled, and I am being punished for meddling. I have been playing with fire, and I have been burnt. I had thought of a new sort of life. Don't you remember," he added with a smile, "the monkey in Buckland's book, who got into the kettle on the hob, and whenever he tried to leave it, found it so cold outside, that he dared not venture out--and he was nearly boiled alive!" "No, I DON'T understand," said Maud, with so sudden an air of sorrow and unhappiness that Howard could hardly refrain from taking her into his arms like a tired child and comforting her. "I don't understand at all. You came here, and you fitted in at once, seemed to understand everyone and everything, and gave us all a lift. It is miserable--that you should have brought so much happiness to us, and then have tired of it all. I don't understand it in the least. Something must have happened to distress you--it can't all go to pieces like this!" "Oh," said Howard, "I interfered. It is my accursed trick of playing with people, wanting to be liked, wanting to make a difference. How can I explain? . . . Well, I must tell you. You must forgive me somehow! I tried--don't look at me while I say it--I have tried to interfere with YOU. I tried to make a friend of you; and then when you came to Cambridge, I saw I had claimed too much; that your place was not with such as myself--the old, stupid, battered generation, fit for nothing but worrying along. I saw you were young, and needed youth about you. God forgive me for my selfish plans. I wanted to keep your friendship for myself, and when I saw you were attracted elsewhere, I was jealous--horribly, vilely jealous. But I have the grace to despise myself for it, and I won't hamper you in any way. You must just give me what you can, and I will be thankful." As he spoke he saw a curious light pass into the girl's face--a light of understanding and resolution. He thought that she would tell him that he was right; and he was unutterably thankful to think that he had had the courage to speak--he could bear anything now. Suddenly she made a swift gesture, bending down to him. She caught his hand in her own, and pressed her lips to it. "Don't you SEE?" she said. "Attracted by someone . . . by whom? . . . by that wretched little boy? . . . why he amuses me, of course, . . . and you would stand aside for that! You have spoken and I must speak. Why you are everything, everything, all the world to me. It was last Sunday in church . . . do you remember . . . when they said, 'Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none upon earth' . . . I looked up and caught your eye, and wondered if you DID understand. But it is enough--I won't hamper you either. If you want to go back to the old life and live it, I won't say a word. I will be just your most faithful friend--you will allow that?" The heaven seemed to open over Howard, and the solid earth reeled round him where he sate. It was so, then! He sate for a moment like a man stunned, and then opened his eyes on bliss unutterable. She was close to him, her breath on his cheek, her eyes full of tears. He took her into his arms, and put his lips to hers. "My dearest darling child," he said, "are you sure? . . . I can't believe it. . . . Oh my sweetest, it can't be true. Why, I have loved you with all my soul since that first moment I saw you--indeed it was before; and I have thought of nothing else day and night. . . . What does it all mean . . . the well of life?" They sate holding each other close. The whole soul of the girl rose to clasp and to greet his, in that blest fusion of life which seems to have nothing hidden or held back. She made him tell her over and over again the sweet story of his love. "What COULD I do?" she said. "Why, when I was at Cambridge that week, I didn't dare to claim your time and thought. Why CAN'T one make oneself understood? Why, my one hope, all that time, was just for the minutes I got with you; and yet I thought it wasn't fair not to try to seem amused; then I saw you were vexed at something--vexed that I should want to talk to you--what a WRETCHED business!" "Never mind all that now, child," said Howard, "it's a perfect nightmare. Why can't one be simple? Why, indeed? and even now, I simply can't believe it--oh, the wretched hours when I thought you were drifting away from me; do men and women indeed miss their chances so? If I had but known! Yet, I must tell you this--when I first came to this spring here, I thought it held a beautiful secret for me--something which had been in my life from everlasting. It was so, and this was what it held for me." The afternoon sped swiftly away, and the shadow of the western downs fell across the pool. An immense and overpowering joy filled Howard's heart, and the silent world took part in his ecstasy. "You remember that first day?" said Maud. "I had felt that day as if some one was coming to me from a long way off drawing nearer. . . . I saw you drive up in the carriage, and I wondered if we should be friends." "Yes," said Howard, "it was you on the lawn--that was when I saw you first!" "And now we must go back and face the music," said Howard. "What do you think? How shall we make it all known? I shall tell Aunt Anne to-night. I shall be glad to do that, because there has fallen a veil between us. Don't forget, dear child, how unutterably wretched and intolerable I have been. She tried to help me out, but I was running with my head down on the wrong track. Oh, what a miserable fool I was! That comes of being so high-minded and superior. If you only knew how solemn I have been! Why couldn't I just speak?" "You might have spoken any time," said Maud. "Why, I would have walked barefoot to Dorchester and back to please you! It does seem horrible to think of our being apart all that time, out of such beautiful consideration--and you were my own, my very own all the time, every moment." "I will come and tell your father to-morrow," said Howard presently. "How will Master Jack take it? Will he call you Miss?" "He may call me what he likes," said Maud. "I shan't get off easily." "Well, we have an evening and a night and a morning for our secret," said Howard. "I wish it could be longer. I should like to go on for ever like this, no one knowing but you and me." "Do just as you like, my lord and master," said Maud. "I won't have you talk like that," said Howard; "you don't know what you give me. Was ever anyone in the world so happy before?" "There's one person who is as happy," said Maud; "you can't guess what I feel. Does it sound absurd to say that if you told me to stand still while you cut me into little bits, I should enjoy it?" "I won't forget that," said Howard; "anything to please you--you need not mind mentioning any little wishes you may have of that kind." They laughed like children, and when they came to the village, they became very ceremonious. At the Vicarage gate they shook hands, and Howard raised his hat. "You will have to make up for this dignified parting some time," said Howard. "Sleep well, my darling child! If you ever wake, you will know that I am thinking of you; not far apart! Good-night, my sweet one, my only darling." Maud put one hand on his shoulder, but did not speak--and then slipped in light-footed through the gate. Howard walked back to the Manor, through the charmed dusk and the fragrance of hidden flowers, full of an almost intolerable happiness, that was akin to pain. The evening star hung in liquid, trembling light above the dark down, the sky fading to a delicious green, the breeze rustled in the heavy-leaved sycamores, and the lights were lit in the cottage windows. Did every home, every hearth, he wondered, mean THAT? Was THAT present in dim and dumb lives, the spirit of love, the inner force of the world? Yes, it was so! That was the secret hidden in the Heart of God. XXII LOVE AND CERTAINTY The weeks that followed were a time for Howard of very singular happiness--happiness of a quality of which he had not thought himself capable, and in the very existence of which he was often hardly able to believe. He had never known what intimate affection was before; and it was strange to him, when he had always been able to advance so swiftly in his relations with others to a point of frankness and even brotherliness, to discover that there was a whole world of emotion beyond that. He was really deeply reserved and reticent; but he admitted even comparative strangers so easily and courteously to his house of life, that few suspected the existence of a secret chamber of thought, with an entrance contrived behind the pictured arras, which was the real fortress of his inner existence, and where he sate oftenest to contemplate the world. That chamber of thought was a place of few beliefs and fewer certainties; if he adopted, as he was accustomed to do, conventional language and conventional ideas, it was only to feel himself in touch with his fellows; for Howard's mind was really a place of suspense and doubt; his scepticism went down to the very roots of life; his imagination was rich and varied, but he did not trust his hopes or even his fears; all that he was certain of was just the actual passage of his thought and his emotion; he formed no views about the future, and he abandoned the past as one might abandon the debris of the mine. It was delicious to him to be catechised, questioned, explored by Maud, to have his reserve broken through and his reticence disregarded; but what oftenest brought the great fact of his love home to him with an overpowering certainty of joy was the girl's eager caresses and endearing gestures. Howard had always curiously shrunk from physical contact with his fellows; he had an almost childishly observant eye, and his senses were abnormally alert; little bodily defects and uglinesses had been a horror to him; and the way in which Maud would seek his embrace, clasp his hand, lay her cheek to his, as if nestling home, gave him an enraptured sense of delight that transcended all experience. He was at first in these talks very tender of what he imagined her to believe; but he found that this did not in the least satisfy her, and he gradually opened his mind more and more to her fearless view. "Are you certain of nothing?" she asked him one day, half mirthfully. "Yes, of one thing," he said, "of YOU! You are the only real and perfect thing and thought in the world to me--I have always been alone hitherto," he added, "and you have come near to me out of the deep--a shining spirit!" Howard never tired of questioning her in these days as to how her love for him had arisen. "That is the mystery of mysteries!" he said to her once; "what was it in me or about me to make you care?" Maud laughed. "Why, you might as well ask a man at a shop," she said, "which particular coin it was that induced him to part with his wares--it's just the price! Why, I cared for you, I think, before I ever saw you, before I ever heard of you; one thinks--I suppose everyone thinks--that there must be one person in the world who is waiting for one--and it seems to me now as if I had always known it was you; and then Jack talked about you, and then you came; and that was enough, though I didn't dare to think you could care for me; and then how miserable I was when you began by seeming to take an interest in me, and then it all drifted away, and I could do nothing to hold it. Howard, why DID you do that?" "Oh, don't ask me, darling," he said. "I thought--I thought--I don't know what I did think; but I somehow felt it would be like putting a bird that had sate to sing to me into a cage, if I tried to capture you; and yet I felt it was my only chance. I felt so old. Why you must remember that I was a grown-up man and at work, when you were in long clothes. And think of the mercy of this--if I had come here, as I ought to have done, and had known you as a little girl, you would have become a sort of niece to me, and all this could never have happened--it would all have been different." "Well, we won't think of THAT," said Maud decisively. "I was rather a horrid little girl, and I am glad you didn't see me in that stage!" One day he found her a little sad, and she confessed to having had a melancholy dream. "It was a big place, like a square in a town, full of people," she said. "You came down some steps, looking unhappy, and went about as if you were looking for me; and I could not attract your attention, or get near you; once you passed quite close to me and our eyes met, and I saw you did not recognise me, but passed on." Howard laughed. "Why, child," he said, "I can't see anyone else but you when we are in the same room together--my faculty of observation has deserted me. I see every movement you make, I feel every thought you think; you have bewitched me! Your face comes between me and my work; you will quite ruin my career. How can I go back to my tiresome boys and my old friends?" "Ah, I don't want to do THAT!" said Maud. "I won't be a hindrance; you must just hang me up like a bird in a cage--that's what I am--to sing to you when you are at leisure." XXIII THE WEDDING The way in which the people at Windlow took the news was very characteristic. Howard frankly did not care how they regarded it. Mr. Sandys was frankly and hugely delighted. He apologised to Howard for having mentioned the subject of Guthrie to him. "The way you took it, Howard," he said, "was a perfect model of delicacy and highmindedness! Why, if I had dreamed that you cared for my little girl, I would have said, and truly said, that the dearest wish of my heart had been fulfilled. But one is blind, a parent is blind; and I had somehow imagined you as too sedate, as altogether too much advanced in thought and experience, for such a thing. I would rather have bitten out my tongue than spoken as I did to you. It is exactly what my dear girl needs, some one who is older and wiser than herself--she needs some one to look up to, to revere; she is thoughtful and anxious beyond her years, and she is made to repose confidence in a mind more mature. I do not deny, of course, that your position at Windlow makes the arrangement a still more comfortable one; but I have always said that my children must marry whom they would; and I should have welcomed you, my dear Howard, as a son-in-law, under any circumstances." Jack, on the contrary, was rather more cautious in his congratulations. "I am all for things being fixed up as people like," he said, "and I am sure it's a good match for Maud, and all that. But I can't put the two ends together. I never supposed that you would fall in love, any more than that my father would marry again; and when it comes to your falling in love with Maud--well, if you knew that girl as I do, you would think twice! I can't conceive what you will ever have to talk about, unless you make her do essays. It is really rather embarrassing to have a Don for a brother-in-law. I feel as if I should have to say 'we' when I talked to the other Dons, and I shall be regarded with suspicion by the rest of the men. But of course you have my blessing, if you will do it; though if you like to cry off, even now, I will try to keep the peace. I feel rather an ass to have said that about Fred Guthrie; but of course he is hard hit, and I can't think how I shall ever be able to look him in the face. What bothers me is that I never saw how things were going. Well, may it be long before I find myself in the same position! But you are welcome to Missy, if you think you can make anything of her." Mrs. Graves did little more than express her delight. "It was what I somehow hoped from the first for both of you," she said. "Well," said Howard, "the only thing that puzzles me is that when you saw--yes, I am sure you saw--what was happening, you didn't make a sign." "No," said Mrs. Graves, "that is just what one can't do! I didn't doubt that it would come right, I guessed what Maud felt; but you had to find the way to her yourself. I was sure of Maud, you see; but I was not quite sure of you. It does not do to try experiments, dear Howard, with forces as strong as love; I knew that if I told you how things stood, you would have felt bound out of courtesy and kindness to speak, and that would have been no good. If it is illegal to help a man to commit suicide, it is worse, it is wicked to push a man into marriage; but I am a very happy woman now--so happy that I am almost afraid." Howard talked over his plans with Mrs. Graves; there seemed no sort of reason to defer his wedding. He told her, too, that he had a further plan. There was a system at Beaufort by which, after a certain number of years' service, a Fellow could take a year off duty, without affecting his seniority or his position. "I am going to do this," he said. "I do not think it is unwise. I am too old, I think, both to make Maud's acquaintance as I wish, and to keep my work going at the same time. It would be impossible. So I will settle down here, if you will let me, and try to understand the place and the people; and then if it seems well, I will go back to Cambridge in October year, and go on with my work. I hope you will approve of that?" "I do entirely approve," said Mrs. Graves. "I will make over to you at once what you will in any case ultimately inherit--and I believe your young lady is not penniless either? Well, money has its uses sometimes." Howard did this. Mr. Redmayne wrote him a letter in which affection and cynicism were curiously mingled. "There will be two to please now instead of one," he wrote. "I do not, of course, approve of Dons marrying. The tender passion is, I believe, inimical to solid work; this I judge from observation rather than from experience. But you will get over all that when you are settled; and then if you decide to return--and we can ill spare you--I hope you will return to work in a reasonable frame of mind. Pray give my respects to the young lady, and say that if she would like a testimonial to your honesty and sobriety, I shall be happy to send her one." All these experiences, shared by Maud, were absurdly delightful to Howard. She was rather alarmed by Redmayne's letter. "I feel as if I were doing rather an awful thing," she said, "in taking you away like this. I feel like Hotspur's wife and Enid rolled into one. I shouldn't DARE to go with you at once to Cambridge--I should feel like a Pomeranian dog on a lead." And so it came to pass that on a certain Monday in the month of September a very quiet little wedding took place at Windlow. The bells were rung, and a hideous object of brushwood and bunting, that looked like the work of a bower-bird, was erected in the road, and called a triumphal arch. Mr. Redmayne insisted on coming, and escorted Monica from Cambridge, "without in any way compromising my honour and virtue," he said: "it must be plainly understood that I have no INTENTIONS." He made a charming speech at the subsequent luncheon, in which he said that, though he personally regretted the turn that affairs had taken, he could not honestly say that, if matrimony were to be regarded as advisable, his friends could have done better. The strange thing to Howard was the contrast between his own acute and intolerable nervousness, and the entire and radiant self-possession of Maud. He had a bad hour on the morning of the wedding-day itself. He had a sort of hideous fear that he had done selfishly and perversely, and that it was impossible that Maud could really continue to love him; that he had sacrificed her youth to his fancy, and his vivid imagination saw himself being wheeled in a bath-chair along the Parade of a health-resort, with Maud in melancholy attendance. But when he saw his child enter the church, and look up to catch his eye, his fears melted like a vapour on glass; and his love seemed to him to pour down in a sudden cataract, too strong for a human heart to hold, to meet the exquisite trustfulness and sweetness of his bride, who looked as though the gates of heaven were ajar. After that he saw and heard nothing but Maud. They went off together in the afternoon to a little house in Dorsetshire by a lonely sea-cove, which Mr. Sandys had spent many glorious and important hours in securing and arranging. It was only an hour's journey. If Howard had needed reassuring he had his desire; for as they drove away from Windlow among the thin cries of the village children, Howard put his arm round Maud, and said "Well, child?" upon which she took his other hand in both of her own, and dropping her head on his shoulder, said, "Utterly and entirely and absolutely proud and happy and content!" And then they sate in silence. XXIV DISCOVERIES It was a time of wonderful discoveries for Howard, that month spent in the little house under the cliff and beside the cove. It was a tiny hamlet with half a dozen fishermen's cottages and two or three larger houses, holiday-dwellings for rich people; but there was no one living there, except a family of children with a governess. The house they were in belonged to an artist, and had a big studio in which they mostly sate. An elderly woman and her niece were the servants, and the life was the simplest that could be imagined. Howard felt as if he would have liked it prolonged for ever. They brought a few books with them, but did little else except ramble through the long afternoons in the silent bays. It was warm, bright September weather, still and hazy; and the sight of the dim golden-brown promontories, with pale-green grass at the top, stretching out one beyond another into the distance, became for Howard a symbol of all that was most wonderful and perfect in life. He could not cease to marvel at the fact that this beautiful young creature, full of tenderness and anxious care for others, and with love the one pre-occupation of her life, should yield herself thus to him with such an entire and happy abandonment. Maud seemed for the time to have no will of her own, no thought except to please him; he could not get her to express a single preference, and her guileless diplomacy to discover what he preferred amused and delighted him. At the same time the exploration of Maud's mind and thought was an entire surprise to him--there was so much she did not know, so many things in the world, which he took for granted, of which she had never heard; and yet in many ways he discovered that she knew and perceived far more than he did. Her judgment of people was penetrating and incisive, and was formed quite instinctively, without any apparent reason; she had, too, a charming gift of humour, and her affection for her own circle did not in the least prevent her from perceiving their absurdities. She was not all loyalty and devotion, nor did she pretend to be interested in things for which she did not care. There were many conventions, which Howard for the first time discovered that he himself unconsciously held, which Maud did not think in the least important. Howard began to see that he himself had really been a somewhat conventional person, with a respect for success and position and dignity and influence. He saw that his own chief motive had been never to do anything disagreeable or unreasonable or original or decisive; he began to see that his unconscious aim had been to fit himself without self-assertion into his circle, and to make himself unobtrusively necessary to people. Maud had no touch of this in her nature at all; her only ambition seemed to be to be loved, which was accompanied by what seemed to Howard a marvellous incapacity for being shocked by anything; she was wholly innocent and ingenuous, but yet he found to his surprise that she knew something of the dark corners of life, and the moral problems of village life were a matter of course to her. He had naturally supposed that a girl would have been fenced round by illusions; but it was not so. She had seen and observed and drawn her conclusions. She thought very little of what one commonly called sins, and her indignation seemed aroused by nothing but cruelty and treachery. It became clear to Howard that Mr. Sandys and Mrs. Graves had been very wise in the matter, and that Maud had not been brought up in any silly ignorance of human frailty. Her religion was equally a surprise to him. He had thought that a girl brought up as Maud had been would be sure to hold a tissue of accepted beliefs which he must be careful not to disturb. But here again she seemed to have little but a few fine principles, set in a simple Christian framework. They were talking about this one day, and Maud laughed at something he said. "You need not be so cautious," she said, "though I like you to be cautious--you are afraid of hurting me; but you won't do that! Cousin Anne taught me long ago that it was no use believing anything unless you understood more or less where it was leading you. It's no good pretending to know. Cousin Anne once said to me that one had to choose between science and superstition. I don't know anything about science, but I'm not superstitious." "Yes," said Howard, "I see--I won't be fussy any more; I will just speak as I think. You are wiser than the aged, child! You will have to help me out. I am a mass of crusted prejudices, I find; but you are melting them all away. What beats me is how you found it all out." Thus the hours they spent together became to Howard not only a source of joy, but an extraordinary simplification of everything. Maud seemed to have lived an absolutely uncalculating life, without any idea of making any position for herself at all; and it sickened Howard to think how so much of his own existence had been devoted to getting on the right side of people, driving them on a light rein, keeping them deftly in his own control. Maud laughed at this description of himself, and said, "Yes, but of course that was your business. I should have been a very tiresome kind of Don; we don't either of us want to punish people, but I want to alter them. I can't bear stupid people, I think. I had rather people were clever and unsatisfactory than dull and good. If they are dull there's no reason for their being good. I like people to have reasons!" They talked--how often they did that!--about the complications that had beset them. "The one thing I can't make out," said Maud, "is how or why you ever thought I cared for that little boy. He was such a nice boy; but he had no reasons. Oh, dear, how wretched he made me!" "Well," said Howard, "I must ask you this--what did really happen on that awful afternoon at the Folly?" Maud covered her face with her hands. "It was too dreadful!" she said. "First of all, you were looking like Hamlet--you don't know how romantic you looked! I did really believe that you cared for me then--I couldn't help it--but there was some veil between us; and the number of times I telegraphed from my brain to you that day, 'Can't you understand?' was beyond counting. I suppose it was very unmaidenly, but I was past that. Then there was that horrible imitation; such a disgusting parody! and then I was prouder of you than ever, because you really took it so well. I was too angry after that for anything, and when you went off with father, and Monica sketched and Jack lay down and smoked, Freddy Guthrie walked off with me, and I said to him, 'I really cannot think how you dared to do that--I think it was simply shameful!' Well, he got quite white, and he did not attempt to excuse himself; and I believe I said that if he did not put it straight with you, I would never speak to him again: and then I rather repented; and then he began making love to me, and said the sort of things people say in books. Howard, I believe that people really do talk like books when they get excited--at all events it was like a bad novel! But I was very stern--I can be very stern when I am angry--and said I would not hear another word, and would go straight back if he said any more; and then he said something about wanting to be friends, and wanting to have some hope; and then I got suddenly sorry about it all--it seemed such a waste of time--and shook hands with him, feeling as if I was acting in an absurd play, and said that of course we were friends; and I think I insisted again on his apologising to you, and he said that I seemed to care more for your peace of mind than his; and I simply walked away and he followed, and I shouldn't be surprised if he was crying; it was all like a nightmare; but I did somehow contrive to make it up with him later, and told him that I thought him a very nice boy indeed." "I daresay that was a great comfort to him," said Howard. "I meant it to be," said Maud, "but I did not feel I could go on acting in a sort of melodrama." "Now, I am very inquisitive," said Howard, "and you needn't answer me if you don't like--but that day that I met you going away from Aunt Anne--oh, what a pig I was! I was at the top of my highminded game--what had happened then?" "Of course I will tell you," said Maud, "if you want to know. Well, I rather broke down, and said that things had gone wrong; that you had begun by being so nice to me, and we seemed to have made friends; and that then a cloud had come between us: and then Cousin Anne said it would be all right, she KNEW; and she said some things about you I won't repeat, to save your modesty; and then she said, 'Don't be AFRAID, Maud! don't be ashamed of caring for people! Howard is used to making friends with boys, and he is puzzled by you; he wants a friend like you, but he is afraid of caring for people. You are not afraid of him nor he of you, but he is afraid of his own fear.' She did not seem to know how I cared, but she put it all right somehow; she prayed with me, for courage and patience; and I felt I could afford to wait and see what happened." "And then?" said Howard. "Why, you know the rest!" said Maud. "I saw as we sate by the wall, in a flash, that you did indeed care for me, and I thought to myself, 'Here is the best thing in the world, and we can't be going to miss it out of politeness;' and then it was all over in a moment!" "Politeness!" said Howard, "yes, it was all politeness; that's my greatest sin. Yes," he added, "I do thank God with all my heart for your sweet courage that day!" He drew Maud's hand into his own, as they sate together on the grass just above the shingle of the little bay, where the sea broke on the sands with crisp wavelets, and ran like a fine sheet of glass over the beach. "Look at this little hand," he said, "and let me try to believe that it is given me of its own will and desire!" "Yes," said Maud, smiling, "and you may cut it off at the wrist if you like--I won't even wince. I have no further use for it, I believe!" Howard folded it to his heart, and felt the little pulse beat in the slender wrist; and presently the sun went down, a ball of fire into the opalescent sea-line. XXV THE NEW KNOWLEDGE But the weeks which followed Howard's marriage were a great deal more than a refreshing discovery of companionable and even unexpected qualities. There was something which came to him, of which the words, the gestures, the signs of love seemed like faint symbols; the essence of it was obscure to him; it reminded him of how, as a child, a laughing group of which he was one had joined hands to receive a galvanic shock; the circle had dislinked again in a moment, with cries of surprise and pleasure; but to Howard it had meant much more than that; the current gave him a sense of awful force and potency, the potency of death. What was this strange and fearful essence which could pass instantaneously through a group--swifter even than thought--and leave the nerves for a moment paralysed and tingling? Even so it was with him now. What was happening to him he did not know--some vast and cloudy presence, at which he could not even dare to look, seemed winging its way overhead, the passage of which he could only dimly discern, as a man might discern the flight of an eagle in a breeze-ruffled mountain pool. He had come in contact with a force of incalculable energy and joy, which was different, not in degree but in kind, from all previous emotional experiences. He understood for the first time the meaning of words like "mystical" and "spiritual," words which he had hitherto almost derided as unintelligent descriptions of subjective impressions. He had thought them to be terms expressive of vague and even muddled emotions of which scientific psychology would probably dispose. It was a new element and a new force, of which he felt overwhelmingly certain, though he could offer no proof, tangible or audible, of its existence. He had before always demanded that anyone who attempted to uphold the existence of any psychic force should at the same time offer an experimental test of its actuality. But he was here faced with an experience transcendental and subjective, of which he could give no account that would not sound like some imaginative exaggeration. He was not even sure that Maud felt it, or rather he suspected that the experience of wedded love was to her the heightening and emphasizing of something which she had always known. The essence of it was that it was like the inrush of some moving tide through an open sluice-gate. Till then it seemed to him that his emotions had been tranquilly discharging themselves, like the water which drips from the edge of a fountain basin; that now something stronger and larger seemed to flow back upon him, something external and prodigious, which at the same time seemed, not only to invade and permeate his thought but to become one with himself; that was the wonder; it did not seem to him like something added to his spirit, but as though his soul were enlarged and revived by a force which was his own all the time, an unclaimed, unperceived part of himself. He said something of this to Maud, speaking of the happiness that she had brought him. She said, "Ah, you can't expect me to realise that! I feel as though you were giving everything and receiving nothing, as if I were one more of the duties you had adopted. Of course, I hope that I may be of some use, some time; but I feel at present as if you had been striding on your way somewhere, and had turned aside to comfort and help a little child by the roadside who had lost his way!" "Oh," said Howard, "it's not that; it isn't only that you are the joy and light of my life; it is as if something very far away and powerful had come nearer to both of us, and had lifted us on its wings--what if it were God?" "Yes," said Maud musingly, "I think it is that!" XXVI LOVE IS ENOUGH The days slipped past, one by one, with an incredible swiftness. For the first time in his life Howard experienced the extraordinary sensation of having nothing to do, no plans ahead, nothing but the delight of the hour to taste. One day he said to Maud, "It seems almost wicked to be so deliciously idle--some day I suppose we must make some plans. But I do not seem ever to have lived before; and all that I ever did and thought of seems as small and trivial as a little town seen from the top of a tower--one can't conceive what the little creatures are about in their tiny slits of streets and stuffy houses, crawling about like beetles on some ridiculous business. The first thing I shall do when I get back will be to burn my old book; such wretched, stodgy, unenlightened stuff as it all is; like the fancies of a blind man about the view of a landscape." "Oh no, you mustn't do that," said Maud. "I have set my heart on your writing a great book. You must do that--you must finish this one. I am not going to keep you all to myself, like a man pushing about a perambulator." "Well, I will begin a new book," said Howard, "and steal an old title. It shall be called Love is Enough." On the last night before they left the cottage they talked long about things past, present, and to come. "Now," said Maud, "I am not going to be a gushing and sentimental young bride any more. I am not sentimental, best-beloved! Do you believe that? The time we have had here together has been the best and sweetest time of my whole life, every minute worth all the years that went before. But you must write that down, as Dr. Johnson said, in the first page of your pocket-book, and never speak of it again. It's all too good and too sacred to talk about--almost to think about. And I don't believe in looking BACK, Howard--nor very much, I think, in looking forward. I know that I wasted ever so much time and energy as a girl--how long ago that seems!--in wishing I had done this and that; but it's neither useful nor pleasant. Now we have got things to do. There is plenty to do at Windlow for a little for you and me. We have got to know everybody and understand everybody. And I think that when the year is out, we must go back to Cambridge. I can't bear to think I have stopped that. I am not going to hoard you, and cling round you. You have got things to do for other people, young men in particular, which no one else can do just like you. I am not a bit ambitious. I don't want you to be M.P., LL.D., F.R.S., &c., &c., &c., but I do want you to do things, and to help you to do things. I don't want to be a sort of tea-table Egeria to the young men--I don't mean that--and I don't wish to be an interesting and radiant object at dinner-tables; but I am sure there is trouble I can save you, and I don't intend you to have any worries except your own. I won't smudge my fingers over the accounts, like that wretched Dora in David Copperfield. Understand that, Howard; I won't be your girl-bride. I won't promise that I won't wear spectacles and be dowdy--anything to be prosaic!" "You may adorn yourself as you please," said Howard, "and of course, dearest child, there are hundreds of things you can do for me. I am the feeblest of managers; I live from hand to mouth; but I am not going to submerge you either. If you won't be the girl-bride, you are not to be the professional sunbeam either. You are to be just yourself, the one real, sweet, and perfect thing in the world for me. Chaire kecharitoenae--do you know what that means? It was the angel's opinion long ago of a very simple mortal. We shall affect each other, sure enough, as the days go on. Why what you have done for me already, I dare hardly think--you have made a man out of a machine--but we won't go about trying to revise each other; that will take care of itself. I only want you as you are--the best thing in the world." The last morning at Lydstone they were very silent; they took one long walk together, visiting all the places where they had sate and lingered. Then in the afternoon they drove away. The old maidservant gave them, with almost tearful apologies, two little ill-tied posies of flowers, and Maud kissed her, thanked her, made her promise to write. As they drove away Maud waved her hand to the little cove--"Good-bye, Paradise!" she said. "No," said Howard, "don't say that; the swallow doesn't make the summer; and I am carrying the summer away with me." XXVII THE NEW LIFE The installation at Windlow seemed as natural and obvious as any other of the wonderful steps of Howard's new life. The only thing which bothered him was the incursions of callers, to which his marriage seemed to have rendered the house liable. Howard loved monotony, and in the little Windlow party he found everything that he desired. At first it all rather amused him, because he felt as though he were acting in a charming and absurd play, and he was delighted to see Maud act her wedded part. Mrs. Graves frankly enjoyed seeing people of any sort or kind. But Howard gradually began to find that the arrival of county and clerical neighbours was a really tiresome thing. Local gossip was unintelligible to him and did not interest him. Moreover, the necessity of going out to luncheon, and even to dinner, bored him horribly. He said once rather pettishly to Maud, after a week of constant interruptions and little engagements, that he hoped that this sort of thing would not continue. "It seems to knock everything on the head," he went on; "these country idylls are all very well in their way; but when it comes to entertaining parties day by day, who 'sit simply chatting in a rustic row,' it becomes intolerable. It doesn't MEAN anything; one can't get to know these people; if there is anything to know, they seem to think it polite to conceal it; it can't be a duty to waste all the time that this takes up?" Maud laughed and said, "Oh, you must forgive them; they haven't much to do or talk about, and you are a great excitement; and you are really very good to them!" Howard made a grimace. "It's my wretched habit of civility!" he said. "But really, Maud, you can't LIKE them?" "Yes, I believe I do," said Maud. "But then I am more or less used to the kind of thing. I like people, I think!" "Yes, so do I, in a sort of way," said Howard; "but, really, with some of these caravans it is more like having a flock of sheep in the place!" "Well, I like SHEEP, then," said Maud; "I don't really see how we can stop it." "I suppose it's the seamy side of marriage!" said Howard. Maud looked at him for a moment, and then, getting up from her chair and coming across to him, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked in his face. "Are you VEXED?" she said in rather a tragic tone. "No, of course, not vexed," said Howard, catching her round the waist. "What an idea! I am only jealous of everything which seems to come in between us, and I have seemed to see you lately through a mist of oddly dressed females. It's a system, I suppose, a social system, to enable people to waste their time. I feel as if I had got caught in a sort of glue--wading in glue. One ought to live life, or the best part of it, on one's own lines. I feel as if I was on show just now, and it's a nuisance." "Well," said Maud, "I am afraid I do rather like showing you off and feeling grand; but it won't go on for ever. I'll try to contrive something. I don't see why you need be drawn in. I'll talk to Cousin Anne about it." "But I am not going to mope alone," said Howard. "Where thou goest, I will go. I can't bear to let you out of my sight, you little witch! But I feel it is casting pearls before swine--your pearls, I mean." "I don't see what to do," said Maud, looking rather troubled. "I ought to have seen that you hated it." "No, it's my own stupid fault," said Howard. "You are right, and I am wrong. I see it is my business at present to go about like a dancing bear, and I'll dance, I'll dance! It's priggish to think about wasting one's sweetness. What I really feel is this. 'Here's an hour,' I say, 'when I might have had Maud all to myself, and she and I have been talking about the weather to a pack of unoccupied females.'" "Something comes of it," said Maud. "I don't know what it is, but it's a kind of chain. I don't think it matters much what they talk about, but there is a sort of kindness about it which I like--something which lies behind ideas. These people don't say anything, but they think something into one--it's alive, and it moves." "Oh, yes," said Howard, "it's alive, no doubt. It would amuse me a good deal to see these people at home, if I could just be hidden in the curtains, and hear what they really talked about, and what they really felt. It's when they have their armour on that they bore me. It is not a pretty armour, and they don't wear it well; they don't fight in it--they only wear it that you mayn't touch them. If they would give themselves away and talk like Miss Bates, I could stand it." "Well," said Maud, "I am going to say something rather bold. It comes, I think, of living at Cambridge with clever people, and having real things to talk about, that makes your difficulty. You care about people's minds more than about themselves, perhaps? But I'm on their level, and they seem to me to be telling something about themselves all the time. Of course it must be GHASTLY for you, and we will try to arrange things better." "No, dearest, you won't, and you mustn't," said Howard. "That's the best of marriage, that one does get a glimpse into different things. You are perfectly and entirely right. It simply means that I can't talk their language, and I will learn it. I am a prig; your husband is a prig--but he will try to do better. It isn't a duty, and it isn't a pleasure, and it isn't a question of minds at all. It is just living life on ordinary terms. I won't have anything different at all. I'm ashamed of myself for my moans. When I have anything in the way of work to do, it may be different. But now I see what I have to do. I am suffering from the stupidity of so-called clever people; and you mustn't mind it. Only don't, for Heaven's sake, try to contrive, or to spare me things. That is how the ugly paterfamilias is made. You mustn't spoil me or manage me; if I ever suspect you of doing that, I'll just go back to Cambridge alone. I hate even to have made you look at me as you did just now--you must forgive me that and many other things; and now you must promise just this, that if I am snappish you won't give way; you must not become a slipper-warmer." "Yes, yes, I promise," said Maud, laughing; "here's my hand on it! You shall be diligently henpecked. But I am always rather puzzled about these things; all these old ideas about mutual consolation and advice and improvement and support ought to be THERE--they all mean something--they mean a great deal! But the moment they are spoken about, or even thought about, they seem so stuffy and disgusting. I don't understand it! I feel that one ought to be able to talk plainly about anything; and yet the more plainly you talk about such things as these, the more hateful you are, and the meaner you feel!" XXVIII THE VICAR'S VIEW Another small factor which caused Howard some discomfort was the conversation of the Vicar. This, at the first sight of Windlow, had been one of the salient features of the scene. It had been amusing to see the current of a human mind running so frankly open to inspection; and, moreover, the Vicar's constantly expressed deference for the exalted quality of Howard's mind and intellectual outfit, though it had not been seriously regarded, had at least an emollient effect. But it is one thing to sit and look on at a play and to be entertained by the comic relief of some voluble character, and quite another to encounter that volubility at full pressure in private life. There was a certain charm at first in the Vicar's inconsequence and volatility; but in daily intercourse the good man's lack of proportion, his indiscriminate interest in things in general, proved decidedly fatiguing. Given a crisis, and the Vicar's view was interesting, because it was, as a rule, exactly the view which the average man would be likely to take, melodramatic, sentimental, commonplace, with this difference, that whereas the average man is tongue-tied and has no faculty of expression, the Vicar had an extraordinarily rich and emphatic vocabulary; and it was thus an artistic presentment of the ordinary standpoint. But in daily life the Vicar talked with impregnable continuity about any subject in which he happened to be interested. He listened to no comment; he demanded no criticism. If he conversed about his parishioners or his fellow-parsons or his country neighbours, it was not uninteresting; but when it was genealogy or folklore or prehistoric remains, it was merely a tissue of scraps, clawed out of books and imperfectly remembered. Howard found himself respecting the Vicar more and more; he was so kindly, so unworldly, so full of perfectly guileless satisfaction: he was conscious too of his own irrepressibility. He said to Howard one day, as they were walking together, "Do you know, Howard, I often think how many blessings you have brought us--I assure you, quiet and modest as you are, you are felt, your influence permeates to the very ends of the parish; I cannot exactly say what it is, but there's a sense of something that has to be dealt with, to be reckoned with, a mind of force and energy in the background; your approval is valued, your disapproval is feared. There is a consciousness, not perhaps expressed or even actually realised, of condescension, of gratification at one from so different a sphere coming among us, sharing our problems, offering us, however unobtrusively, sympathy and fellow-feeling. It's very human, very human," said the Vicar, "and that's a large word! But among all the blessings which I say you have brought us, of course my dear girl's happiness must come first in my regard; and there I hardly know how to express what a marvellous difference you have made! And then I feel that I, too, have come in for some crumbs from the feast, like the dogs under the table mentioned so eloquently in Scripture--sustenance unregarded and unvalued, no doubt, by yourself--cast out inevitably and naturally as light from the sun! It is not only the actual dicta," said the Vicar, "though these alone are deeply treasured; it's the method of thought, the reserve, the refinement, which I find insensibly affecting my own mental processes. Before I was a mere collector of details. Now I find myself saying, 'What is the aim of all this? What is the synthesis? Where does it come in? Where does it tend to?' I have not as yet found any very definite answer to these self-questionings, but the new spirit, the synthetic spirit, is there; and I find myself too concentrating my expression; I have become conscious in your presence of a certain diffuseness of talk--I used, I think, to indulge much in synonyms and parallel clauses--a characteristic, I have seen it said, of our immortal Shakespeare himself--but I have found myself lately considering the aim, the effect, the form of my utterances, and have practised--mainly in my sermons--a certain economy of language, which I hope has been perceptible to other minds besides my own." "I always think your sermons very good," said Howard, quite sincerely; "they seem to me arrows deliberately aimed at a definite target--they have the grace of congruity, as the articles say." "You are very good," said the Vicar. "I am really overwhelmed; but I must admit that your presence--the mere chance of your presence--has made me exercise an unwonted caution, and indeed introduce now and then an idea which is perhaps rather above the comprehension of my flock!" "But may I go back for one moment?" said Howard. "You will forgive my asking this--but what you said just now about Maud interested me very much, and of course pleased me enormously. I would do anything I could to make her happy in any way--I wish you would tell me how and in what you think her more content. I want to learn all I can about her earlier days--you must remember that all that is unknown to me. Won't you exercise your powers of analysis for my benefit?" "You are very kind," said the Vicar in high delight; "let me see, let me see! Well, dear Maud as a girl had always a very high and anxious sense of responsibility and duty. She conceived of herself--perhaps owing to some chance expressions of my own--as bound as far as possible to fill the place of her dear mother--a gap, of course, that it was impossible to fill,--my own pursuits are, you will realise, mere distractions, or, to be frank, were originally so designed, to combat my sense of loss. But I am personally not a man who makes a morbid demand for sympathy--I have little use for sympathy. I face my troubles alone; I suffer alone," said the Vicar with an incredible relish. "And then Jack is an independent boy, and has no taste for being dominated. So that I fear that dear Maud's most touching efforts hardly fell on very responsive soil. She felt, I think, the failure of her efforts; and kind as Cousin Anne is, there is, I think, a certain vagueness of outline about her mind. I would not call her a fatalist, but she has little conception of the possibility of moulding character;--it's a rich mind, but perhaps an indecisive mind? Maud needed a vocation--she needed an aim. And then, too, you have perhaps observed--or possibly," said the Vicar gleefully, "she has effaced that characteristic out of deference to your own great power of amiable toleration--but she had a certain incisiveness of speech which had some power to wound? I will give you a small instance. Gibbs, the schoolmaster, is a very worthy man, but he has a certain flightiness of manner and disposition. Dear Maud, talking about him one day at our luncheon-table, said that one read in books how some people had to struggle with some underlying beast in their constitution, the voracious man, let us say, with the pig-like element, the cruel man with the tiger-like quality. 'Mr. Gibbs,' she said, 'seems to me to be struggling not with a beast, but with a bird.' She went on very amusingly to say that he reminded her of a wagtail, tripping along with very short steps, and only saved by adroitness from overbalancing. It was a clever description of poor Gibbs--but I felt it somehow to be indiscreet. Well, you know, poor Gibbs came to me a few days later--you realise how gossip spreads in these places--and said that he was hurt in his mind to think that Miss Maud should call him a water-wagtail. Servants' tattle, I suppose. I was considerably annoyed at this, and Maud insisted on going to apologise to Gibbs, which was a matter of some delicacy, because she could not deny that she had applied the soubriquet--or is it sobriquet?--to him. That is just a minute instance of the sort of thing I mean." "I confess," said Howard, "that I do recognise Maud's touch--she has a strong sense of humour." "A somewhat dangerous thing," said Mr. Sandys. "I have a very strong sense of humour myself, or rather what might be called risibility. No one enjoys a witty story or a laughable incident more than I do. But I keep it in check. The indulgence of humour is a risky thing; not very consistent with the pastoral office. But that is a small point; and what I am leading up to is this, that dear Maud's restlessness, and even morbidity, has entirely disappeared; and this, my dear Howard, I attribute entirely to your kind influence and discretion, of which we are all so conscious, and to the consciousness of which it is so pleasant to be able to give leisurely expression." But the Vicar was not always so fruitful a talker as this. The difficulty with him was to shift the points. There were long walks in Mr. Sandys' company which were really of an almost nightmare quality. He had a way of getting into a genealogical mess, in which he used to say that it cleared the air to be able to state the difficulties. Howard used to grumble a little over this to Mrs. Graves. "Yes," she said, "if Frank were not so really unselfish a man, he would be a bore of purest ray serene; but his humanity breaks through. I made a compact with him long ago, and told him plainly that there were certain subjects he must not talk to me about. I suppose you couldn't do that?" "No," said Howard, "I can't do that. It's my greatest weakness, I believe, that I can't say a good-natured decisive thing, until I am really brought to bay--and then I say much more than I need, and not at all good-naturedly. I must get what fun out of Frank I can. There's a good deal sprinkled about; and one comfort is that Maud understands." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "she understands! I know no one who sees weaknesses in so absolutely clear a light as Maud, and who can at the same time so wholly neglect them in the light of love." "That's good news for me," said Howard, "and it is absolutely true." XXIX THE CHILD The day on which Howard learned that Maud would bear him a child was a day of very strangely mixed emotions. He saw how the hope dawned on the spirit of Maud like the rising of a star, and he could rejoice in that with whole-hearted joy, in the mere sharing of a beautiful secret; but it was strange to him to see how to Maud it seemed like the realisation and fulfilling of all desire, the entering into a kingdom; it was not only the satisfaction of all the deepest vital processes, but something glorious, unthinkable, the crowning of destiny, the summit of life. There was no reasoning about it; it was the purest and finest instinct. But with Howard it was not thus. He could not look beyond Maud; and it seemed to him like the dawning of a new influence, a new fealty, which would almost come in between him and his wife, a division of her affections. She seemed to him, in the few tremulous words they spoke, to have her eyes fixed on something beyond him; it was not so much a gift that she was bringing him as a claim of further devotion. He realised with a shock of surprise that in the books he had read, in the imagined crises of life, the thought of the child, the heir, the offshoot, was supposed to come as the crown of father's and mother's hopes alike, and that it was not so with him. Was he jealous of the new claim? It was something like that. He found himself resolving and determining that no hint of this should ever escape him; he even felt deeply ashamed that such a thought should even have crossed his mind. He ought rather to rejoice wholly and completely in Maud's happiness; but he desired her alone, and so passionately that he could not bear to have any part of the current of her soul diverted from him. As he looked forward through the years, it was Maud and himself, in scene after scene; other relations, other influences, other surroundings might fade and decay--but children, however beautiful and delightful, making the house glad with life and laughter, he was not sure that he wanted them. Yet he had always thought that he possessed a strong paternal instinct, an interest in young life, in opening problems. Had that all, he wondered, been a mere interest, a thing to exercise his energy and amiability upon, and had his enjoyment of it all depended upon his real detachment, upon the fact that his responsibility was only a temporary one? It was all very bewildering to him. Moreover, his quiet and fertile imagination flashed suddenly through pictures of what his beloved Maud might have to endure, such a frail child as she was--illness, wretchedness, suffering. Would he be equal to all that? Could he play the role of tranquil patience, of comforting sympathy? He determined not to anticipate that, but it blew like a cold wind on his spirit; he could not bear that the sunshine of life should be clouded. He had a talk with his aunt on the subject; she had divined, in some marvellous way, the fact that the news had disturbed him; and she said, "Of course, dear Howard, I quite understand that this is not the same thing to you as it is to Maud and me. It is one of the things which divide, and must always divide, men from women. But there is something beyond what you see: I know that it must seem to you as if something almost disconcerting had passed over life--as if such a hope must absorb the heart of a mother; but there is a thing you cannot know, and that is the infinite dearness in which this involves you. You would think perhaps that it could not be increased in Maud's case, but it is increased a hundredfold--it is a splendour, a worship, as of divine creative power. Don't be afraid! Don't look forward! You will see day by day that this has brought Maud's love for you to a point of which you could hardly dream. Words can't touch these things: you must just believe me that it is so. You will think that a childless wife like myself cannot know this. There is a strange joy even in childlessness, but it is the joy that comes from the sharing of a sorrow; but the joy which comes from sharing a joy is higher yet." "Yes," said Howard, "I know it, and I believe it. I will tell you very frankly that you have looked into my very heart; but you have not seen quite into the depths: I see my own weakness and selfishness clearly. With every part of my mind and reason I see the wonder and strength of this; and I shall feel it presently. What has shocked me is just my lack of the truer instinct; but then," he added, smiling, "that's just the shadow of comfort and ease and the intellectual life: one goes so far on one's way without stumbling across these big emotions; and when one does actually meet them, one is frightened at their size and strength. You must advise and help me. You know, I am sure, that my love for Maud is the strongest, largest, purest thing, beyond all comparison and belief, that has ever happened to me. I am never for a single instant unaware of it. I sometimes think there is nothing else left of me; and then this happens, and I see that I have not gone deep enough yet." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, smiling, "life is like the sea, I think. When one is a child, it is just a great plain of waters, with little ships sailing on it: it is pleasant to play by, with breaking waves to wade in, and little treasures thrown up on its rim; then, as one knows more, one realises that it is another world, full of its own urgent life, quite regardless of man, and over which man has no power, except by a little trickery in places. Man is just a tiresome, far-off incident, his ships like little moving shadows, his nets and lines like small fretful devices. But the old wise monsters of the depths live their own lives; never seen perhaps, or even suspected, by men. That's all very silly and fanciful, of course! But old and invalided as I am, I seem to be diving deeper and deeper into life, and finding it full of surprises and mysteries and utterly unexpected things." "Well," said Howard, "I am still a child on the shore, picking up shells, fishing in the shallows. But I have learned something of late, and it is wonderful beyond thought--so wonderful that I feel sometimes as if I was dreaming, and should wake up to find myself in some other century!" It did indeed soon dawn upon Howard that there was a change in Maud, that their relations had somehow altered and deepened. The little barrier of age, for one thing, which he had sometimes felt, seemed obliterated. There had been in Howard's mind a sense that he had known a number of hard facts and ugly features about life, had been aware of mean, combative, fierce, cruel elements which were hidden from Maud. Now this all seemed to be purged away; if these things were there, they were not worth knowing, except to be disregarded. They were base material knowledge which one must not even recognise; they were not real forces at all, only ugly, stubborn obstacles, through which life must pass, like water flowing among rocks; they were not life, only the channel of life, through which one passed to something more free and generous. He began to perceive that such things mattered nothing at all to Maud; that her life would have been just as fine in quality if she had lived in the smallest cottage among the most sordid cares. He saw that she possessed the wisdom which he had missed, because she lived in and for emotion and affection, and that all material things existed only to enshrine and subserve emotion. Their life seemed to take on a new colour and intensity. They talked less; up till now it had been a perpetual delight to Howard to elicit Maud's thoughts and fancies about a thousand things, about books, people, ideas. Her prejudices, ignorances, enthusiasms half charmed, half amused him. But now they could sit or walk silent together in an even more tranquil happiness; nearness was enough, and thought seemed to pass between them without need of speech. Howard began to resume his work; it was enough that Maud should sit by, reading, working, writing. A glance would pass between them and suffice. One day Howard laid down his pen, and looking up, having finished a chapter, saw that Maud's eyes were fixed upon him with an anxious intentness. She was sitting in a low chair near the fire, and an open book lay disregarded on her knee. He went across to her and sat down on a low chair beside her, taking her hand in his. "What is it, dear child?" he said. "Am I very selfish and stupid to sit here without a word like this?" Maud put her lips to his hand, and laughed a contented laugh. "Oh no, no," she said; "I like to see you hard at work--there seems no need to say anything--it's just you and me!" "Well," said Howard, "you must just tell me what you were thinking--you had travelled a long way beyond that." "Not out of your reach," said Maud; "I was just thinking how different men and women were, and how I liked you to be different. I was remembering how awfully mysterious you were at first--so full to the brim of strange things which I could not fathom. I always seemed to be dislodging something I had never thought of. I used to wonder how you could find time, in the middle of it all, to care about me: you were always giving me something. But now it has all grown so much simpler and more wonderful too. It's like what you said about Cambridge long ago, the dark secret doorways, the hidden gardens; I see now that all those ideas and thoughts are only things you are carrying with you, like luggage. They are not part of you at all. Don't you know how, when one is quite a child, a person's house seems to be all a mysterious part of himself? One thinks he has chosen and arranged it all, knows where everything is and what it means--everything seems to be a sort of deliberate expression of his tastes and ideas--and, then one gets older, and finds out that people don't know what is in their houses at all--there are rooms into which they never go; and then one finds that they don't even see the things in their own rooms, have forgotten how they came there, wouldn't know if they were taken away. My, I used to feel as if the scents and smells of houses were all arranged and chosen by their owners. It's like that with you; all the things you know and remember, the words you speak, are not YOU at all; I see and feel you now apart from all that." "I am afraid I have lost what novelists call my glamour," said Howard. "You have found me out, the poor, shivering, timid thing that sits like a wizard in the middle of his properties, only hoping that the stuffed crocodile and the skeleton will frighten his visitors." Maud laughed. "Well, I am not frightened any more," she said. "I doubt if you could frighten me if you tried. I wonder how I should feel if I saw you angry or chilly. Are you ever angry, I wonder?" "I think some of my pupils would say that I could be very disagreeable," said Howard. "I don't think that I was ever very fierce, but I have realised that I was on occasions very unpleasant." "Well, I'll wait and see," said Maud; "but what I was going to say was that you seem to me different--hardly the person I married. I used to wonder a little at first how I had had the impudence . . . and then I used to think that perhaps some day you would wake up, and find you had come to the bottom of the well, but you never seemed disappointed." "Disappointed!" said Howard; "what terrible rubbish! Why Maud, don't you KNOW what you have done for me? You have put the whole thing straight. It's just that. I was full of vanities and thoughts and bits of knowledge, and I really think I thought them important--they ARE important too, like food and drink--one must have them--at least men must--but they don't matter; at least it doesn't matter what they are. Men have always to be making and doing things--business, money, positions, duties; but the point is to know that they are unimportant, and yet to go on doing them as if they mattered--one must do that--seriously and not solemnly; but you have somehow put all that in the right place; and I know now what matters and what does not. There, do you call that nothing?" "Perhaps we have found it out together," said Maud; "the only difference is that you have the courage to tell me that you were wrong, while I have never even dared to tell you what a hollow sham I am, and what a mean and peevish child I was before you came on the scene." "Well, we won't look into your dark past," said Howard. "I am quite content with what they call the net result!" and then they sate together in silence, and had no further need of words. XXX CAMBRIDGE AGAIN Howard was summoned to Cambridge in June for a College meeting. He was very glad to see Cambridge and the familiar faces; but he had not been parted from Maud for a day since their marriage, and he was rather amazed to find, not that he missed her, but how continuously he missed her from moment to moment; the fact that he could not compare notes with her about every incident seemed to rob the incidents of their savour, and to produce a curious hampering of his thoughts. A change, too, seemed to have passed over the College; his rooms were just as he had left them, but everything seemed to have narrowed and contracted. He saw a great many of the undergraduates, and indeed was delighted to find how they came in to see him. Guthrie was one of the first to arrive, and Howard was glad to meet him alone. Howard was sorry to see that the cheerful youth had evidently been feeling acutely what had happened; he had not lost his spirits, but he had a rather worn aspect. He inquired about the Windlow party, and they talked of indifferent things; but when Guthrie rose to go, he said, speaking with great diffidence, "I wanted to say one thing to you, and now I do not know how to express it; it is that I don't want you to think I feel in any way aggrieved--that would be simply absurd--but more than that, I want to say that I think you behaved quite splendidly at Windlow--really splendidly! I hope you don't think it is impertinent for me to say that, but I want you to know how grateful I am to you--Jack told me what had happened--and I thought that if I said nothing, you might feel uncomfortable. Please don't feel anything of the kind--I only wish with all my heart that I could think I could behave as you did if I had been in your place, and I want to be friends." "Yes indeed," said Howard, "I think it is awfully good of you to speak about it. You won't expect me," he added, smiling, "to say that I wish it had turned out otherwise; but I do hope you will be happy, with all my heart; and you will know that you will have a real welcome at Windlow if ever you care to come there." The young man shook hands in silence with Howard, and went out with a smile. "Oh, I shall be all right," he said. Jack sate up late with Howard and treated him to a long grumble. "I do hope to goodness you will come back to Cambridge," he said. "You must simply make Maud come. You must use your influence, your beautiful influence, of which we hear so much. Seriously, I do miss you here very much, and so does everybody else. Your pupils are in an awful stew. They say that you got them through the Trip without boring them, and that Crofts bores them and won't get them through. This place rather gets on my nerves now. The Dons don't confide in me, and I don't see things from their angle, as my father says. I think you somehow managed to keep them reasonable; they are narrow-minded men, I think." "This is rather a shower of compliments," said Howard. "But I think I very likely shall come back. I don't think Maud would mind." "Mind!" said Jack, "why you wind that girl round your little finger. She writes about you as if you were an archangel; and look here, I am sorry I took a gloomy view. It's all right; you were the right person. Freddy Guthrie would never have done for Maud--he's in a great way about it still, but I tell him he may be thankful to have escaped. Maud is a mountain-top kind of girl; she could never have got on without a lot of aspirations, she couldn't have settled down to the country-house kind of life. You are a sort of privilege, you know, and all that; Freddy Guthrie would never have been a privilege." "That's rather a horror!" said Howard; "you mustn't let these things out; you make me nervous!" Jack laughed. "If your brother-in-law mayn't say this to you, I don't know who may. But seriously, really quite seriously, you are a bigger person than I thought. I'll tell you why. I had a kind of feeling that you ought not to let me speak to you as you do, that you ought to have snapped my head off. And then you seemed too much upset by what I said. I don't know if it was your tact; but you had your own way all the time, with me and with everybody; you seemed to give way at every point, and yet you carried out your programme. I thought you hadn't much backbone--there, the cat's out; and now I find that we were all dancing to your music. I like people to do that, and it amuses me to find that I danced as obediently as anyone, when I really thought I could make you do as I wished. I admire your way of going on: you make everyone think that you value their opinion, and yet you know exactly what you want and get it." Howard laughed. "I really am not such a diplomatist as that, Jack! I am not a humbug; but I will tell you frankly what happens. What people say and think, and even how they look, does affect me very much at the time; but I have a theory that most people get what they really want. One has to be very careful what one wants in this world, not because one is disappointed, but because Providence hands it one with a smile; and then it often turns out to be an ironical gift--a punishment in disguise." "Maud shall hear that," said Jack; "a punishment in disguise--that will do her good, and take her down a peg or two. So you have found it out already?" "My dear Jack," said Howard, "if you say anything of the kind, you will repent it. I am not going to have Maud bothered just now with any nonsense. Do you hear that? The frankness of your family is one of its greatest charms--but you don't quite know how much the frankness of babes and sucklings can hurt--and you are not to experiment on Maud." Jack looked at Howard with a smile. "Here's the real man at last--the tyrant's vein! Of course, I obey. I didn't really mean it; and I like to hear you speak like that; it's rather fine." Presently Jack said, "Now, about the Governor--rather a douche, I expect? But I see you can take care of yourself; he's hugely delighted--the intellectual temperature rises in every letter I get from him. But I want to make sure of one thing. I'm not going to stay on here much longer. I don't want a degree--it isn't the slightest use, plain or coloured. I want to get to work. If you come up again next term, I can stand it, not otherwise." "Very well," said Howard, "that's a bargain. I must just talk things over with Maud. If we come up to Cambridge in October, you will stay till next June. If we don't, you shall be planted in the business. They will take you in, I believe, at any time, but would prefer you to finish your time here." "Yes, that's it," said Jack, "but I want work: this is all right, in a way, but it's mostly piffle. How all these Johnnies can dangle on, I don't know; it's not my idea of life." "Well, there's no hurry," said Howard, "but it shall be arranged as you wish." XXXI MAKING THE BEST OF IT Howard became aware that with his colleagues he had suddenly become rather a person of importance. His "place" in the country was held in some dim way to increase the grandeur of the College. He found himself deferred to and congratulated. Mr. Redmayne was both caustic and affectionate. "You look very well, I must say," he said. "You have a touch of the landed personage about you which becomes you. I should like you to come back here for our sakes, but I shan't press it. And how is Madam? I hope you have got rid of your first illusions? No? Well you must make haste and be reasonable. I am not learned in the vagaries of feminine temperament, but I imagine that the fair sex like to be dominated, and you will do that. You have a light hand on the reins--I always said that you rode the boys on the snaffle, but the curb is there! and in matrimony--well, well, I am an old bachelor of course, and I have a suspicion of all nooses. Never mind my nonsense, Kennedy--what I like about you, if I may say so, is that you have authority without pretensions. People will do as you wish, just to please you; now I have always to be cracking the whip. These fellows here are very worthy men, but they are not men of the world! They are honest and sober--indeed one can hardly get one of them to join one in a glass of port--but they are limited, very limited. Now if only you could have kept clear of matrimony--no disrespect to Madam--what a comfortable time we might have had here! Man appoints and God disappoints--I suppose it is all for the best." "Well," said Howard, "I think you will me see back here in October--my wife is quite ready to come, and there isn't really much for me to do at Windlow. I believe I am to be on the bench shortly; but if I live there in the vacations, that will be enough; and I don't feel that I have finished with Beaufort yet." "Excellent!" said Mr. Redmayne. "I commend Madam's good sense and discretion. Pray give her my regards, and say that we shall welcome her at Cambridge. We will make the best of it--and I confess that in your place--well, if all women were like Madam, I could view marriage with comparative equanimity--though of course, I make the statement without prejudice." XXXII HOWARD'S PROFESSION When Howard came back from Cambridge he had a long talk with Maud over the future; it seemed almost tacitly agreed that he should return to his work there, at all events for a time. "I feel very selfish and pompous about all this," said Howard; "MY work, MY sphere--what nonsense it all is! Why should I come down to Windlow, take possession, and having picked the sweetest flower in the garden, stick it in my buttonhole and march away?" Maud laughed and said, "Oh, no, it isn't that--it is quite a simple matter. You have learnt a trade, a difficult trade; why should you give it up? We don't happen to need the money, but that doesn't matter. My business is to take off your shoulders, if I can, all the trouble entailed on you by marrying me--it's simply a division of labour. You can't just settle down in the country as a small squire, with nothing much to do. People must do the work they can do, and I should be miserable if I thought I had pulled you out of your place in the world." "I don't know," said Howard; "there seems to me to be something rather stuffy about it: why can't we just live? Women do; there is no fuss made about their work, and their need to express themselves; yet they do it even more than men, and they do it without priggishness. My work at Cambridge is just what everyone else is doing, and if I don't do it, there will be half a dozen men capable of doing it and glad to do it. The great men of the world don't talk about the importance of their work: they just do whatever comes to hand--it's only the second-rate men who say that their talents haven't full scope. Do you remember poor Chambers, who was at lunch the other day? He told me that he had migrated from a town parish to a country parish, and that he missed the organisation so much. 'There seems nothing to organise down in the country!' he said. 'Now in my town parish there was the whole machine to keep going--I enjoyed that, and I don't feel I am giving effect to the best part of myself.' That seemed to me such a pompous line, and I felt that I didn't want to be like that. One's work! how little it matters! No one is indispensable--the disappearance of one man just gives another his chance." "Yes, of course, it is rather hard to draw the line," said Maud, "and I think it is a pity to be solemn about it; but it seems to me so simple in this case. You can do the work--they want you back--there is no reason why you should not go back." "Perhaps it is mere laziness," said Howard, "but I feel as if I wanted a different sort of life now, a quieter life; and yet I know that there is a snare about that. I rather mistrust the people who say they must get time to think out things. It's like the old definition of metaphysics--the science of muddling oneself systematically. I don't think one can act by reason; one must act by instinct, and reason just prevents one's making a fool of oneself." "I believe the time for the other life will come quite naturally later," said Maud. "At your age, you have got to do things. Of course it's the same with women in a way, but marriage is their obvious career, and the pity is that there don't seem enough husbands to go round. I can sit in my corner and placidly survey the overstocked market now!" Howard got up and leaned against the chimneypiece, surveying his wife with delight. "Ah, child," he said, "I was lucky to come in when I did. I shiver at the thought that if I had arrived a little later there would have been 'no talk of thee and me' as Omar says. You would have been a devoted wife, and I should have been a hopeless bachelor!" "It's unthinkable," said Maud, "it's horrible even to speculate about such things--a mere question of proximity! Well, it can't be mended now; and the result is that I not only drive you back to work, but you have to carry me back as well, like Sindbad and the old man of the sea." "Yes, it's just like that!" said Howard. He made several attempts, with Mr. Sandys and with his aunt--even with Miss Merry--to get encouragement for his plan; but he could obtain no sympathy. "I'm sick of the very word 'ideal,'" he said to Maud. "I feel like a waiter handing about tumblers on a tray, pressing people to have ideals--at least that is what I seem to be supposed to be doing. I haven't any ideals myself--the only thing I demand and practise is civility." "Yes, I don't think you need bother about ideals," said Maud, "it's wonderful the depressing power of words; there are such a lot of fine and obvious things in the world, perfectly distinct, absolutely necessary, and yet the moment they become professional, they deprive one of all spirit and hope--Jane has that effect on me, I am afraid. I am sure she is a fine creature, but her view always makes me feel uncomfortable--now Cousin Anne takes all the things one needs for granted, and isn't above making fun of them; and then they suddenly appear wholesome and sensible. She is quite clear on the point; now if SHE wanted you to stay, it would be different." "Very well, so be it!" said Howard; "I feel I am caught in feminine toils. I am like a child being taught to walk--every step applauded, handed on from embrace to embrace. I yield! I will take my beautiful mind back to Cambridge, I will go on moulding character, I will go on suggesting high motives. But the responsibility is yours, and if you turn me into a prig, it will not be my fault." "Ah, I will take the responsibility for that," said Maud, "and, by the way, hadn't we better begin to look out for a house? I can't live in College, I believe, not even if I were to become a bedmaker?" "Yes," said Howard, "a high-minded house of roughcast and tile, with plenty of white paint inside, Chippendale chairs, Watts engravings. I have come to that--it's inevitable, it just expresses the situation; but I mustn't go on like this--it isn't funny, this academic irony--it's dreadfully professional. I will be sensible, and write to an agent for a list. It had better just be 'a house' with nothing distinctive; because this will be our home, I hope, and that the official residence. And now, Maud, I won't be tiresome any more; we can't waste time in talking about these things. I haven't done with making love to you yet, and I doubt if I ever shall!" XXXIII ANXIETY The months moved slowly on, a time full of deepening strain and anxiety to Howard. Maud herself seemed serene enough at first, full of hope; she began to be more dependent on him; and Howard perceived two things which gave him some solace; in the first place he found that, sharp as the tension of anxiety in his mind often was, he did not realise it as a burden of which he would be merely glad to be rid. He had an instinctive dislike of all painful straining things--of responsibilities, disagreeable duties, things that disturbed his tranquillity; but this anxiety did not come to him in that light at all; he longed that it should be over, but it was not a thing which he desired to banish from his mind; it was all bound up with love and happy anticipation; and next he learned the joy of doing things that would otherwise be troublesome for the sake of love, and found them all transmuted, not into seemly courtesies, but into sharp and urgent pleasures. To be of use to Maud, to entertain her, to disguise his anxieties, to compel himself to talk easily and lightly--all this filled his soul with delight, especially when he found as the months went on that Maud began to look to him as a matter of course; and though Howard had been used to say that being read aloud to was the only occupation in the world that was worse than reading aloud, he found that there was no greater pleasure than in reading to Maud day by day, in finding books that she cared for. "If only I could spare you some of this," he said to her one day, "that's the awful thing, not to be able to share the pain of anyone whom one loves. I feel I could hold my hand in the fire with a smile, if only I knew that it was saving you something!" "Ah, dearest, I know," said Maud, "but you mustn't think of it like that; it INTERESTS me in a curious way--I can't explain--I don't feel helpless; I feel as if I were doing something worth the trouble!" At last the time drew near; it was hot, silent, airless weather; the sun lay fiercely in the little valley, day by day; one morning they were sitting together and Maud suddenly said to him, "Dearest, one thing I want to say; if I seem to be afraid, I am NOT afraid: will you remember that? I want to walk every step of the way; I mean to do it, I wish to do it; I am not afraid in my heart of hearts of anything--pain, or even worse; and you must remember that, even if I do not seem to remember!" "Yes," said Howard, "I will remember that; and indeed I know it; you even take away my own fears when you speak so; love takes hands beneath it all." But on the following morning--Maud had a restless and suffering night--Mrs. Graves came in upon Howard as he tried to read, to tell him that there was great anxiety, Maud had had a sudden attack of pain; it had passed off, but they were not reassured. "The doctor will be here presently," she said. Howard rose dry-lipped and haggard. "She sends you her dearest love," she said, "but she would rather be alone; she doesn't wish you to see her thus; she is absolutely brave, and that is the best thing; and I am not afraid myself," she added: "we must just wait--everything is in her favour; but I know how you feel and how you must feel; just clasp the anxiety close, look in its face; it's a blessed thing, though you can't see it as I do--blessed, I mean, that one CAN feel so." But the fear thickened after this. A carriage drew up, and Howard saw two doctors descend, carrying bags in their hands. His heart sickened within him, yet he was helped by seeing their unembarrassed and cheerful air, the nod that one of them, a big, fresh-faced man, gave to the coachman, the look he cast round the beautiful old house. People could think of such things, Howard saw, in a moment like that. He went down and met them in the hall, and had that strange sense of unreality in moments of crisis, when one hears one's own voice saying courteous things, without any volition of one's own. The big doctor looked at him kindly. "It is all quite simple and straightforward!" he said. "You must not let yourself be anxious; these times pass by and one wonders afterwards how one could have been so much afraid." But the hours brought no relief; the doctors stayed long in the house; something had occurred, Howard knew not what, did not dare to conjecture. The silence, the beauty of the whole scene, was insupportably horrible to him. He walked up and down in the afternoon, gazing at Maud's windows--once a nurse came to the window and opened it a little. He went back at last into the house; the doctors were there, talking in low tones to Mrs. Graves. "I will be back first thing in the morning," said one; the worst, then, had not happened. But as he appeared a look of inquiry passed between them and Mrs. Graves. She beckoned to him. "She is very ill," she said; "it is over, and she has survived; but the child is dead." Howard stood blankly staring at the group. "I don't understand," he said; "the child is dead--yes, but what about Maud?" The doctor came up to him. "It was sudden," he said; "she had an attack--we had anticipated it--the child was born dead; but there is every reason to believe that she will recover; it has been a great shock, but she is young and strong, and she is full of pluck--you need not be anxious at present; there is no imminent danger." Then he added, "Mr. Kennedy, get some rest yourself; she may need you, and you must not be useless: I tell you, the first danger is over and will not recur; you must just force yourself to eat--try to sleep." "Sleep?" said Howard with a wan smile, "yes, if you could tell me how to do that!" The doctors departed; Howard went off with Mrs. Graves. She made him sit down, she told him a few details; then she said, "Dearest boy, it's no use wasting words or pity just now--you know what I feel; I would tell you plainly if I feared the worst. I do NOT fear it, and now let me exercise my art on you, for I am sure I can help you a little. One must not play with these things, but this is in earnest." She came and sate down beside him, and stroked his hair, his brow; she said, "Just try, if you can, to cast everything out of your mind; relax your limbs, be entirely passive; and don't listen to what I say--just let your mind float free." Presently she began to speak in a low voice to him; he hardly heeded what she said, for a strange drowsiness settled down upon him like the in-flowing of some oblivious tide, and he knew no more. A couple of hours later he awoke from a deep sleep, with a sense of sweet visions and experiences--he looked round. Mrs. Graves sate beside him smiling, but the horror suddenly darted back into his mind with a spasm of fear, as if he had been bitten by a poisonous serpent. "What has been happening?" he said. "Ah," said Mrs. Graves quietly, "you have been asleep. I have some power in these things, which I don't use except in times of need--some day I will tell you more; I found it out by accident, but I have used it both for myself and others. It's just a natural force, of which many people are suspicious, because it doesn't seem normal; but don't be afraid, dear boy--all goes well; she is sleeping quietly, and she knows what has happened." "Thank you," said Howard; "yes, I am better; but I could almost wish I had not slept--I feel the pain of it more. I don't feel just now as if anything in the world could make up for this--as if anything could make it seem just to endure such misery. What has one done to deserve it?" "What indeed?" said Mrs. Graves, "because the time will come when you will ask that in a different sense. Don't you see, dear boy, that even this is life's fulness? One mustn't be afraid of suffering--what one must be afraid of is NOT suffering; it's the measure of love--you would not part with your love if that would free you from suffering?" "No," said Howard slowly, "I would not--you are right. I can see that. One brings the other; but I cannot see the need of it." "That is only because one does not realise how much lies ahead," said Mrs. Graves. "Be content that you know at least how much you love--there's no knowledge like that!" XXXIV THE DREAM-CHILD For some days Howard was in an intolerable agony of mind about Maud; she lay in a sort of stupor of weakness and weariness, recognising no one, hardly speaking, just alive, indifferent to everything. They could not let him be with her, they would allow no one to speak to her. The shock had been too great, and the frail life seemed flickering to its close: once or twice he was just allowed to see her; she lay like a tired child, her head on her hand, lost in incommunicable dreams. Howard dared not leave the house, and the tension of his nerves became so acute that the least thing--a servant entering the room, or anyone coming out to speak with him as he paced up and down the garden--caused him an insupportable horror; had they come to summon him to see the end? The frightful thing was the silence, the blank silence of the one he loved best. If she had moaned or wept or complained, he could have borne it better; but she seemed entirely withdrawn from him. Even when a little strength returned, they feared for her reason. She seemed unaware of where she was, of what had happened, of all about her. The night was the worst time of all. Howard, utterly wearied out, would go to bed, and sink into sleep, sleep so profound that it seemed like descending into some deep and oblivious tide; then a current of misery would mingle with his dreams, a sense of unutterable depression; and then he would suddenly wake in the grip of fear, formless and bodiless fear. The smallest sound in the house, the creaking of a door, a footfall, would set his heart beating with fierce hammer strokes. He would light his candles, wander restlessly about, gaze out from his window into the blackness of the garden, where the trees outlined themselves against the dark sky, pierced with stars; or he would try to read, but wholly in vain. No thought, no imagination seemed to have any meaning for him, in the presence of that raging dread. Had he, he wondered, come in sight of the ultimate truth of life? The pain he suffered seemed to him the strongest thing in the world, stronger than love, stronger than death. The thick tides of the night swept past him thus, till the light began to outline the window crannies; and then there was a new day to face, with failing brain and shattered strength. The only comfort he received was in the presence of his aunt. She alone seemed strong, almost serene, till he wondered if she was not hard. She did not encourage him to speak of his fears: she talked quietly about ordinary things, not demanding an answer; she saw the doctors, whom Howard could not bear to see, and told him their report. The fear changed its character as the days went on; Maud would live, they thought; but to what extent she would regain her strength they could not say, while her mental powers seemed in abeyance. Mr. Sandys often looked in, but he seemed at first helpless in Howard's presence. Howard used to bestir himself to talk to him, with a sickening sense of unreality. Mr. Sandys took a very optimistic view of Maud's case; he assured Howard that he had seen the same thing a dozen times; she had great reserves of strength, he believed; it was but nature insisting upon rest and quiet. His talk became a sort of relief to Howard, because he refused to admit any possibility of ultimate disaster. No tragedy could keep Mr. Sandys silent; and Howard began to be aware that the Vicar must have thought out a series of topics to talk to him about, and even prepared the line of conversation beforehand. Jack had been sent for at the crisis, but when the imminent danger lessened, Howard suggested that he should go back to Cambridge, in which Jack gratefully acquiesced. One day Mrs. Graves came suddenly in upon Howard, as he sate drearily trying to write some letters, and said, "There is a great improvement this morning. I went in to see her, and she has come back to herself; she mentioned your name, and the doctor says you can see her for a few minutes; she must not talk, but she is herself. You may just come and sit by her for a few minutes; it will be best to come at once." Howard got up, and was seized by a sudden giddiness. He grasped his chair, and was aware that Mrs. Graves was looking at him anxiously. "Can you manage it, dear boy?" she said. "You have had a great strain." "Manage it?" said Howard, "why, it's new life. I shall be all right in a moment. Does she know what has happened?" "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "she knows all--it is you she is anxious about--she isn't thinking of herself at all." Howard followed his aunt out of the room, feeling suddenly alert and strong. They entered the room; as they did so, Maud turned and looked at him--the faintest tinge of colour had returned to her face; she held out her hands to him, and let them fall again. Howard stepped quickly to the side of the bed, dropped on his knees, and took his wife in his arms. She nestled close to him for a moment, and then looked at him with a smile--then speaking in a very low voice, almost a whisper, she said: "Yes, I know--you will help me, dearest; yes, I have come back to you--I have been wandering far away, with the child--you know--he wanted me, I think; but I have left him somewhere, safe, and I am sent back--I didn't think I could come back, but I had to choose; I have chosen . . ." her voice died away, and she looked long and anxiously at him. "You are not well," she said; "it is my fault." "Ah, you must not talk, darling," said Howard; "we will talk later on; just let me be sure that you won't leave me--that is enough, that's all I want, just we two together again, and the dear child, ours for ever." "The dear child," said Maud, "that is right--he is ours, beloved. I will tell you about him." "Not now," said Howard, "not now." Maud gave him a nod, in her old way, just the ghost of a nod; and then just put her face beside his own, and lay in silence, till he was called away. Then she kissed his hand as he bent over her, and said, "Don't be afraid, dearest--I am coming back--it is like a great staircase, with light at the top. I went just to the edge--it's full of sweet sound there, and now I am coming down again. Those are my dreams," she added; "I am not out of my dreams yet." Howard went out, waving his hand; he found Mrs. Graves beside him. "Yes," she said, "I have no more fear." Howard was suddenly seized with faintness, uncontrollable dizziness. Mrs. Graves took him to the library, and made him sit down, but his weakness continued in spite of himself. "I really am ashamed of myself," he said, "for this dreadful exhibition." "Exhibition!" said Mrs. Graves, "it's the best thing that can happen. I must tell you that I have been even more anxious about you than Maud, because you either couldn't or wouldn't break down--those are the people who are in danger at a time like this! Why the sight of you has half killed me, dear boy! If you had ever said you were miserable, or been rude or irritable, or forgotten yourself for a moment, I should have been happier. It's very chivalrous and considerate, of course; though you will say that you didn't think of that; but it's hardly human--and now at last I see you are flesh and blood again." "Well, I am not sure that it isn't what I thought about you," said Howard. "Ah," said Mrs. Graves, "I am an old woman; and I don't think death is so terrible to me. Life is interesting enough, but I should often be glad to get away; there is something beyond that is a good deal easier and more beautiful. But I don't expect you to feel that." "You think she will get well?" said Howard faintly. "Yes, she will get well, and soon," said Mrs. Graves. "She has been resting in her own natural way. The poor dearest baby--you don't know, you can't know, what that means to Maud and even to me; you will have to be very good to her for a long time yet; you won't understand her sorrow--she won't expect you to; but you mustn't fail her; and you must do as you are bid. This afternoon you must just go out for a walk, and you must SLEEP, dear; that's what you want; you don't know what a spectre you are; and you must just get well as quick as you can, for Maud's sake and mine." That afternoon there fell on Howard after his walk--though the world was sweet to him and dear again, he was amazed to find how weak he was--an unutterable drowsiness against which he could hardly fight. The delicious weariness came on him like a summer air; he stumbled to bed that night, and oh, the wonder of waking in a new world, the incredible happiness that greeted him, happiness that merged again in a strange and serene torpor of the senses, every sight and sound striking sharp and beautiful on his eye and ear. For some days he was only allowed to see Maud for little lengthening periods; they said little, but just sate in silence with a few whispered words. Maud recovered fast, and was each day a little stronger. One evening, as he sate with her, she said, "I want to tell you now what has been happening to me, dearest. You must hear it all. You must not grieve yourself about the little child, because you cannot have known it as I did--but you must let me grieve a little . . . you will see when I tell you. I won't go back too far. There was all the pain first--I hope I did not behave very badly, but I was beside myself with pain, and then I went off . . . you know . . . I don't remember anything of that . . . and then I came back again, feeling that something very strange had happened to me, and I was full of joy; and then I saw that something was wrong, and it came over me what had happened. The strange thing is that though I was so weak--I could hardly think and I could not speak--yet I never felt more clear or strong in mind--no, not in mind either, but in myself. It seems so strange that I have never even SEEN our child, not with my eyes, though that matters little. But then when I understood, I did indeed fail utterly; you seemed to me so far away; I felt somehow that you were thinking only about me, and I could simply think of nothing but the child--my own child, gone from me in a moment. I simply prayed with all my soul to die and have done with everything, and then there was a strange whirl in the air like a great wind, and loud confused noises, and I fell away out of life, and thought it was death. And then I awoke again, but it was not here--it was in a strange wide place--a sort of twilight, and there were hills and trees. I stood up, and suddenly felt a hand in my own, and there was a little child beside me, looking up at me. I can't tell you what happened next--it is rather dim to me, but I sate, or walked, or wandered, carrying the child--and it TALKED to me; yes, it talked in a little clear voice, though I can't remember anything it said; but I felt somehow as if it was telling me what might have been, and that I was getting to KNOW it somehow--does that seem strange? It seems like months and years that I was with it; and I feel now that I not only love it, but know it, all its thoughts, all its desires, all its faults--it had FAULTS, dearest; think of that--faults such as I have, and other faults as well. It was not quite content, but it was not unhappy; but it wasn't a dream-child at all, not like a little angel, but a perfectly real child. It laughed sometimes, and I can hear its little laughter now; it found fault with me, it wanted to go on--it cried sometimes, and nothing would please it; but it loved me and wanted to be with me; and I told it about you, and it not only listened, but asked me many times over to tell it more, about you, about me, about this place--I think it had other things in its mind, recollections, I thought, which it tried to tell me; so it went on. Once or twice I found myself here in bed--but I thought I was dying, and only wanted to lose myself and get back to the child--and then it all came to an end. There was a great staircase up which we went together; there was cloud at the top, but it seemed to me that there was life and movement behind it; there was no shadow behind the cloud, but light . . . and there was sound, musical sound. I went up with the child's hand clasped close in my own, but at the top he disengaged himself, and went in without a word to me or a sign, not as if he were leaving me, but as if his real life, and mine too, were within--just as a child would run into its home, if you came back with it from a walk, and as if it knew you were following, and there was no need of good-byes. I did not feel any sorrow at all then, either for the child or myself--I simply turned round and came down . . . and then I was back in my room again . . . and then it was you that I wanted." "That's all very wonderful," said Howard, musing, "wonderful and beautiful. . . . I wish I had seen that!" "Yes, but you didn't need it," said Maud; "one sees what one needs, I think. And I want to add something, dearest, which you must believe. I don't want to revert to this, or to speak of it again--I don't mean to dwell upon it; it is just enough for me. One mustn't press these things too closely, nor want other people to share them or believe them. That is the mistake one makes, that one thinks that other people ought to find one's own feelings and fancies and experiences as real as one finds them oneself. I don't even want to know what you think about it--I don't want you to say you believe in it, or to think about it at all. I couldn't help telling you about it, because it seems as real to me as anything that ever happened in my life; but I don't want you to have to pretend, or to accept it in order to please me. It is just my own experience; I was ill, unconscious, delirious, anything you please; but it is just a blessed fact for me, for all that, a gift from God. Do you really trust me when I say this, dearest? I don't claim a word from you about it, but it will make all the difference to me. I can go on now. I don't want to die, I don't want to follow--I only want you to feel, or to learn to feel, that the child is a real child, our very own, as much a part of our family as Jack or Cousin Anne; and I don't even want you to SAY that. I want all to be as before; the only difference is that I now don't feel as if I was CHOOSING. It isn't a case of leaving him or leaving you. I have you both--and I think you wanted me most; and I haven't a wish or a desire in my heart but to be with you." "Yes, dearest," said Howard, "I understand. It is perfect to be trusted so. I won't say anything now about it. I could not say anything. But you have put something into my heart which will spring up and blossom. Just now there isn't room for anything in my mind but the fact that you are given back to me; that's all I can hold; but it won't be all. I am glad you told me this, and utterly thankful that it is so. That you should be here, given back to me, that must be enough now. I can't count up my gains; but if you had come back, leaving your heart elsewhere, how could I have borne that?" XXXV THE POWER OF LOVE It was a few days later that Howard found himself sitting alone one evening after dinner, with his aunt. "There is something that I want to talk to you about," he said. "No doubt Maud has told you all about her strange experience? She has described it to me, and I don't know what to say or think. She was wonderfully fine about it. She said she would not mention it again, and she did not desire me to talk about it--or even believe it! And I don't know what to do. It isn't the sort of thing that I believe in, though I think it beautiful, just because it was Maud who felt it. But I can't say what I really believe about it, without seeming unsympathetic and even rough; and yet I don't like there being anything which means so much to her, which doesn't mean much to me." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "I foresaw that difficulty, but I think Maud did right to tell you." "Of course, of course," said Howard, "but I mean much more than that. Is there something really THERE, open to all, possible to all, from which I am shut out by what the Bible calls my hardness of heart? Do you really think yourself that a living spirit drew near and made itself known to Maud thus? or is it a beautiful dream, a sort of subjective attempt at finding comfort, an instinctive effort of the mind towards saving itself from sorrow?" "Ah," said Mrs. Graves, "who shall say? Of course I do not see any real objection to the former, when I think of all the love and the emotion that went to the calling of the little spirit from the deeps of life; but then I am a woman, and an old woman. If I were a man of your age who had lived an intellectual life, I should feel very much as you do." "But if you believe it," said Howard, "can you give me reasons why you believe it? I am not unreasonable at all. I hate the attitude of mind of denying the truth of the experience of others, just because one has not felt it oneself. Here, it seems to me, there are two explanations, and my scepticism inclines to what is, I suppose, the materialistic one. I am very suspicious of experiences which one is told to take on trust, and which can't be intellectually expressed. It's the sort of theory that the clergy fall back upon, what they call spiritual truth, which seems to me merely unchecked, unverifiable experience. I don't, to take a crude instance, believe in statues that wink; and yet the tendency of the priest is to say that it is a matter of childlike faith; yet to me credulity appears to be one of the worst of sins. It is incredulity which has disposed of superstition." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves. "I fully agree with you about that; and there is a great deal of very objectionable nonsense which goes by the name of mysticism, which is merely emotion divorced from commonsense." "Yes," said Howard, "and if I may speak quite frankly, I do very much respect your own judgment and your convictions. It seems to me that you have a very sceptical turn of mind, which has acted as a solvent upon a whole host of stupid and conventional beliefs. I don't think you take things for granted, and it always seems to me that you have got rid of a great many foolish traditions which ordinary people accept--and it's a fine attitude." "I'm not too old to be insensible to a compliment," said Mrs. Graves, smiling. "What you are surprised at is to find that I have any beliefs left, I suppose? And I expect you are inclined to think that I have done the feminine thing ultimately, and compromised, so as to retain just the comfortable part of the affair." "No," said Howard, "I don't. I am much more inclined to think that there is something which is hidden from me; and I want you to explain it, if you can and will." "Well, I will try," said Mrs. Graves. "Let me think." She sate silent for a little, and then she said: "I think that as I get older, I recognise more and more the division between the rational part of the mind and the instinctive part of the mind. I find more and more that my deepest convictions are not rational--at least not arrived at by reason--only formulated by it. I think that reason ought to be able to formulate convictions; but they are there, whether expressed or not. Most women don't bring the reason to bear at all, and the result is that they hold a mass of beliefs, some simply inherited, some mere phrases which they don't understand, and some real convictions. A great deal of the muddle comes from the feminine weariness of logic, and a great deal, too, from the fact that they never learn how to use words--words are the things that divide people! But I believe more and more, by experience, in the SOUL. I do not believe that the soul begins with birth or ends with death. Now I have no sort of doubt in my own mind that the soul of your child was a living thing, a spirit which has lived before, and will live again. Souls, I believe, come to the brink of life, out of some unknown place, and by choice or impelled by some need for experience, take shape. I don't know how or why this is--I only believe that it is so. If your child had lived, you would have become aware of its soul; you would have found it to have perfectly distinct qualities and desires and views of its own, not learnt from you, and which you could not affect or change. All those qualities are in it from the time of birth--but it takes a soul some time to learn the use of the body. But the connection between the soul and the father and mother who give it a body is a real one; I don't profess to know what it is, or why it is that some parents have congenial children and some quite uncongenial ones--that is only one of the many mysteries which beset us. Holding all this, it does not seem to me on the face of it impossible that the soul of the child should have been brought into contact with Maud's soul; though of course the whole affair is quite capable of a scientific and material explanation. But I have seen too many strange things in my life to make me accept the scientific explanation as conclusive. I have known men and women who, after a bereavement, have had an intense consciousness of the presence of the beloved spirit with them and near them. I have experienced it myself; and it seems to me as impossible to explain as a sense of beauty. If one feels a particular thing to be beautiful, one can't give good reasons for one's emotion to a person who does not think the same thing beautiful; but it appears to me that the duty of explaining it away lies on the one who does NOT feel it. One can't say that beauty is a purely subjective thing, because when two people think a thing beautiful, they understand each other perfectly. Do I make myself clear at all, or is that merely a bit of feminine logic?" "No, indeed," said Howard slowly, "I think it is a good case. The very last thing I would do is to claim to be fully equipped for the understanding of all mysteries. My difficulty is that while there are two explanations of a thing--a transcendental one and a material one--I hanker after the material one. But it isn't because I want to disbelieve the transcendental one. It is because I want to believe it so much, that I feel that I must exclude all possibility of its being anything else." "Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "and I think you are perfectly right; one must follow one's conscience in this. I don't want you to swallow it whole at all. I want you, and I am sure that Maud wants you, just to wait and see. Don't begin by denying the possibility of its being a transcendental thing. Just hold the facts in your mind, and as life goes on, see if your experience confirms it, and until it does, do not pretend that it does. I don't claim to be omniscient. Something quite definite, of course, lies behind the mystery of life, and whatever it is, is not affected by what you or I believe about it. I may be wholly and entirely mistaken, and it may be that life is only a chemical phenomenon; but I have kept my eyes open, and my heart open; and I am as sure as I can be that there is something very much bigger behind it than that. I myself believe that each being is an immortal spirit, hampered by contact with mortal laws, and I believe that consciousness and emotion are something superior even to chemistry. But to use emotion to silence people would be entirely repugnant to me, and equally to Maud. She isn't the sort of woman who would be content if you only just said you believed her. She would hate that!" "Well," said Howard, smiling, "you are two very wonderful women, and that's the truth. I am not surprised at YOUR wisdom--it IS wisdom--because you have lived very bravely and loved many people; but it's amazing to me to find such courage and understanding in a girl. Of course you have helped her--but I don't think you could have produced such thoughts in her unless they had been there to start with." "That's exactly what I have tried to say," said Mrs. Graves. "Where did Maud's fine mixture of feeling and commonsense come from? Her mother was a woman of some perception, but after all she married Frank, and Frank with all his virtue isn't a very mature spirit!" "Ah," said Howard, "my marriage has done everything for me! What a blind, complacent, petty ass I was--and am too, though I at least perceive it! I see myself as an elderly donkey, braying and capering about in a paddock--and someone leans over the fence, and all is changed. I ought not to think lightly of mysteries, when all this astonishing conspiracy has taken place round me, to give me a home and a wife and a whole range of new emotions--how Maud came to care for me is still the deepest wonder of all--a loveless prig like me!" "I won't be understood to subscribe to all that," said Mrs. Graves, laughing, "though I see your point of view; but there's something deeper even than that, dear Howard. You care for me, you care for Maud; but it's the power of caring that matters more than the power of caring for particular people. Does that seem a very hard saying? You see I do not believe--what do you say to this--in memory lasting. You and I love each other here and now; when I die, I do not feel sure that I shall have any recollection of you or Maud or my own dear husband--how horrible that would sound to many men and nearly all women--but I have learned how to love, and you have learned how to love, and we shall find other souls to draw near to as the ages go on; and so I look forward to death calmly enough, because whatever I am I shall have souls to love, and I shall find souls to love me." "No," said Howard, "I can't believe that! I can't believe in any life here or hereafter apart from Maud. It is strange that I should be the sentimentalist now, and you the stern sceptic. The thought to me is infinitely dreary--even atrocious." "I am not surprised," said Mrs. Graves, "but that's the last sacrifice. That is what losing oneself means; to believe in love itself, and not in the particular souls we love; to believe in beauty, not in beautiful things. I have learned that! I do not say it in any complacency or superiority--you must believe me; but it is the last and hardest thing that I have learned. I do not say that it does not hurt--one suffers terribly in losing one's dear self, in parting from other selves that are even more dear. But would one send away the souls one loves best into a loveless paradise? Can one bear to think of them as hankering for oneself, and lost in regret? No, not for a moment! They pass on to new life and love; we cannot ourselves always do it in this life--the flesh is weak and dear; and age passes over us, and takes away the close embrace and the sweet desire. But it is the awakening of the soul to love that matters; and it has been to me one of the sweetest experiences of my life to see you and Maud awaken to love. But you will not stay there--nothing is ultimate, not the dearest and largest relations of life. One climbs from selfishness to liking, and from liking to passion, and from passion to love itself." "No," said Howard, "I cannot rise to that yet; I see, I dimly feel, that you are far above me in this; but I cannot let Maud go. She is mine, and I am hers." Mrs. Graves smiled and said, "Well, we will leave it at that. Kiss me, dearest boy; I don't love you less because I feel as I do--perhaps even more, indeed." XXXVI THE TRUTH It was a sunny day of winter with a sharp breeze blowing, just after the birth of the New Year, that Howard and Maud left Windlow for Cambridge. The weeks previous had been much clouded for Howard by doubts and anxieties and a multiplicity of small business. Furnishing even an official house for a life of graceful simplicity involved intolerable lists, bills, letters, catalogues of things which it seemed inconceivable that anyone should need. The very number and variety of brushes required seemed to Howard an outrage on the love of cheap beauty, so epigrammatically praised by Thucydides; he said with a groan to Maud that it was indeed true that the Nineteenth Century would stand out to all time as the period of the world's history in which more useless things had been made than at any epoch before! But this morning, for some blessed reason, all his vexations seemed to slip off from him. They were to start in the afternoon; but at about eleven Maud in cloak and furred stole stepped into the library and demanded a little walk. Howard looked approvingly, admiringly, adoringly at his wife. She had regained a look of health and lightness more marked than he had ever before seen in her. Her illness had proved a rest, in spite of all the trouble she had passed through. Some new beauty, the beauty of experience, had passed into her face without making havoc of the youthful contours and the girlish freshness, and the beautiful line of her cheek outlined upon the dark fur, with the wide-open eye above it, came upon Howard with an almost tormenting sense of loveliness, like a chord of far-off music. He flung down his pen, and took his wife in his arms for an instant. "Yes," he said in answer to her look, "it's all right, darling--I can manage anything with you near me, looking like that--that's all I want!" They went out into the garden with its frost-crisped grass and leafless shrubberies, with the high-standing down behind. "How it blows!" said Howard: "''Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind, in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood!' How beautiful that is--'the old wind, in the old anger!'--but it isn't true, for all that. If one thing changes, everything changes; and the wind has got to march on, like you and me: there's nothing pathetic about it. The weak thing is to want to stay as we are!" "Oh yes," said Maud; "one wastes pity. I was inclined myself to be pathetic about it all yesterday, when I went up home and looked into my little old room. The furniture and books and pictures seemed to me to reproach me with having deserted them; but, oh dear, what a fantastic, foolish, anxious little wretch I was, with all my plans for uplifting everyone! You don't know, dearest, you can't know, out of what a stagnant little pool you fished me up!" "And yet _I_ feel," said Howard, "as if it was you who had saved me from a sort of death--what a charming picture! two people who can't swim saving each other from drowning." "Well, that's the way that things are done!" said Maud decisively. They left the garden, and betook themselves to the pool; the waters welled up, green and cold, from the depth, and hurried away down their bare channel. "This is the scene of my life," said Howard; "I WILL be sentimental about this! This is where my ghost will walk, if anywhere; good heavens, to think that it was not three years ago that I came here first, and thought in a solemn way that it was going to have a strange significance for me. 'Significance,' that is the mischief! But it is all very well, now that every minute is full of happiness, to laugh at the old fears--they were very real at the time,--'the old wind, in the old anger'--one can't sit and dream, though it's pleasant, it's pleasant." "It was the only time in my life," said Maud, "when I was ever brave! Why isn't one braver? It is agreeable at the time, and it is almost overpaid!" "It is like what a doctor told me once," said Howard, "that he had never in his life seen a patient go to the operating table other than calm and brave. Face to face with things one is all right; and yet one never learns not to waste time in dreading them." They went on in silence up the valley, Maud walking beside him with all her old lightness. Howard thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. They were out of the wind now, but could hear it hiss in the grasses above them. "What about Cambridge?" said Maud. "I think it will be rather fun. I haven't wanted to go; but do you know, if someone came to me and said I might just unpack everything, I should be dreadfully disappointed!" "I believe I should be too," said Howard. "My only fear is that I shall not be interested--I shall be always wanting to get back to you--and yet how inexplicable that used to seem to me, that Dons who married should really prefer to steal back home, instead of living the free and joyous life of the sympathetic and bachelor; and even now it seems difficult to suppose that other men can feel as I do about THEIR wives." "Like the boy in Punch," said Maud, "who couldn't believe that the two earwigs could care about each other." A faint music of bells came to them on the wind. "Hark!" said Howard; "the Sherborne chime! Do you remember when we first heard that? It gave me a delightful sense of other people being busy when I was unoccupied. To-day it seems as if it was warning me that I have got to be busy." They turned at last and retraced their steps. Presently Howard said, "There's just one more thing, child, I want to say. I haven't ever spoken to you since about the vision--whatever it was--which you described to me--the child and you. But I took you at your word!" "Yes," said Maud, "I have always been glad that you did that!" "But I have wanted to speak," said Howard, "simply because I did not want you to think that it wasn't in my mind--that I had cast it all lightly away. I haven't tried to force myself into any belief about it--it's a mystery--but it has grown into my mind somehow, and become real; and I do feel more and more that there is something very true and great about it, linking us with a life beyond. It does seem to me life, and not silence; love, and not emptiness. It has not come in between us, as I feared it might--or rather it HAS come in between us, and seems to be holding both our hands. I don't say that my reason tells me this--but something has outrun my reason, and something stronger and better than reason. It is near and dear: and, dearest, you will believe me when I say that this isn't said to please you or to woo you--I wouldn't do that! I am not in sight of the reality yet, as you have been; but it IS a reality, and not a sweet dream." Maud looked at him, her eyes brimming with sudden tears. "Ah, my beloved," she said, "that is all and more than I had hoped. Let it just stay there! I am not foolish about it, and indeed the further away that it gets, the less I am sure what happened. I shall not want you to speak of it: it isn't that it is too sacred--nothing is too sacred--but it is just a fact I can't reckon with, like the fact of one's own birth and death. All I just hoped was that you might not think it only a girl's fancy; but indeed I should not have cared if you HAD thought that. The TRUTH--that is what matters; and nothing that you or I or anyone, in any passion of love or sorrow, can believe about the truth, can alter it; the only thing is to try to see it all clearly, not to give false reasons, not to let one's imagination go." "Yes, yes," said Howard, "that's the secret of love and life and everything; and yet it seems a hard thing to believe; because if it were not for your illusions about me, for instance--if you could really see me as I am--you couldn't feel as you do; one comes back to trusting one's heart after all--that is the only power we have of reading the writing on the wall. And yet that is not all; it IS possible to read it, to spell it out; but it is the interpretation that one needs, and for that one must trust love, and love only." They went back to the house in a happy silence; but Maud slipped out again, and went to the little churchyard. There behind the chancel, in a corner of the buttress, was a little mound. Maud laid a single white flower upon it. "No," she said softly, as if speaking in the ear of a child, "no, my darling, I am not making any mistake. I don't think of you as sleeping here, though I love the place where the little limbs are laid. You are awake, alive, about your business, I don't doubt. I'd have loved you, guarded you, helped you along; but you have made love live for me, and that, and hope, are enough now for us both! I don't claim you, sweet; I don't even ask you to remember and understand." THE END