LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY ESTATE OF HUBERT ORRISS ■-^- * ; ;V'' ■i' v' TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. TOM BPtOWN AT OXFOED. BY THE AUTHOR OF "TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS." NEW EDITION. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY SYDNEY P. HALL. fonbon- : MACMILLAN AND CO. 1883. [The Eight of Translation and Reproduction is Eescrveil] LIBRARY //^^ O UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA H2 r^)i TO THE REV. F. D. MAUEICE. IN MEMORY OP FOURTEEN YEAKS' FELLOW WORK, AVO IN TESTIMONY OK tVEK INCREASING AFFECTION AND GRATITCOK THIS VOLUME IS DEUIGATEP BY THE AUTHOR, PREFACE. Prefaces written to explain tlie objects or meaning of a book, or to make any appeal, ad misericordiam or other, in its favour, are, in my opinion, nuisances. Any book worth reading Avill explain its own objects a ad meaning, and the more it is criticised and turned inside out, the better for it and its author. Of all books, too, it seems to me that novels require prefaces least — at any rate, on their first appearance. Notwithstanding which belief, I must ask readers for three minutes' patience before they make trial of this book. The natural pleasure which I felt at the unlooked-for popularity of the first part of the present story, was much lessened by the pertinacity with which many persons, acquaint- ance as well as strangers, would insist (both in public and private) on identifying the hero and the author. On the appearance of the first few numbers of the present continua- tion in Macmillan' s Magazine, the same thing occurred, and in fact, reached such a pitch, as to lead me to make some changes in the story. Sensitiveness on such a point may seem folly, but if readers had felt the sort of loathing a.nd Viii PREFACE. disgust which one feels at the notion of painting a favourable likeness of oneself in a work of fiction, they would not wonder at it. So, now that this book is finished, and Tom Brown, so far as I am concerned, is done with for ever, I must take this my first and last chance of saying, that he is not I, cither as boy or man — in fact, not to beat about the bush, is a much braver, and nobler, and purer fellow than I ever was. When I first resolved to write the book, I tried to realize to myself what the commonest type of English boy of the upper middle class was, so far as my experience went ; and to that type I have throughout adhered, trying simply to give a good specimen of the genus. I certainly have placed him in the country and scenes which I know best myself, for the simple reason, that I knew them better than any others, and therefore was less likely to blunder in writing about them. As to the name, which has been, perhaps, the chief " cause of ofience" in this matter, the simple facts are, that I chose the name " Brown," because it stood first in the trio of " Brown, Jones, and Eobinson," which has become a sort of synonym for the middle classes of Great Britain. It happens that my own name and that of Brown have no single letter in common. As to the Christian name of " Tom," having chosen Brown, I could hardly help taking it as the prefix. The two names have gone together in England for two hundred years, and the joint name has not enjoyed much of a reputation for respectability. This suited me exactly. I wanted the com- monest name I could get, and did not want any name which had the least heroic, or aristocratic, or even respectable savour about it. Therefore I had a natural leaning to the combina- b"on which T found ready to my hand. Moreover, I believed PREFACE. IX "Tom" to be a more specially English name than Jolin, the only other as to which I felt the least doubt. Whether it be that Thomas a Beckett was for so long the favourite English saint, or from whatever other cause, it certainly seems to be the fact, that the name "Thomas" is much commoner in England than in any other country. The words " tom-fool," " tom-boy," &c. though, perhaps, not complimentary to the " Toms " of England, certainly show how large a family they must have been. These reasons decided me to keep the Christian name which had been always associated with " Brown;" and I own, that the fact that it happened to be my own, never occurred to me as an objection, till the mischief was done, past recall. I have only, then, to say, that neither is the hero a portrait of myseK, nor is there any other portrait in either of the books, except in the case of Dr. Arnold, where the true name is given. My deep feeling of gratitude to mm, ana reverence for his memory, emboldened me to risk the attempt at a por- trait in his case, so far as the character was necessary for the work. With these remarks, I leave this volume in the hands of readers. T. UUGHES. Lincoln's Inn, Octobv,, 18G1. CONTENTS. CllAPTKR P»6* INTRODUCTORY . 1 I. — ST. Ambrose's collegb 2 II. — A row on THE RIVER '^■^ III. — A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S 21 IV. — THE ST AMBROSE BOAT-CLUB: ITS MINlsrBV AND THEIR BUDGET 32 V. — HARDY, THE SERVITOR 41 "VI.— HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISH1.NG . . 60 VII. — AN EXPLOSION 65 VIII. — hardy's HISTORY 71 IX. — "A BROWN bait". 85 X. — SUMMER TERM 92 XI. — MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY 107 XI I. — THE captain's NOTIONS 124 XIII.— THE FIRST BUMP ... 138 XIV. — A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAMK OF IT 150 XV. — A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS 161 XA''I. — THE STORM RAGES 1"2 XVII. — NEW GROUND iS2 XVIII. — ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE 191 XIX. — A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER 206 XX. — THE RECONCILIATION 218 XXI.— CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE . 222 XXII. — DEPARTURES EXPECTED AND UNEXPECTED ... 231 XXIII. — THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE 243 XXIV. — THE SCHOOLS 255 XXV. — COMMEMORATION 267 XXVI. —THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHUECH MEADOWS . . 278 XXVII, — LE'^TURING A LIONESS 293 XXV'III THE END OF THE FRKsIIMA.n'S YEaK 304 Xtl CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAOI! XXIX, — THE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAQ 314 XXX. — AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR . • 328 XXXI. — BEHINB THE SCENES 334 XXXII.— A CRISIS 342 XXXIII. — BROWN PATRONUS 355 XXXIV.— MHAEN AFAN 373 XXXV.— SECOND YEAR 386 XXXVI — THE RIVER SIDE 398 XXXVII. — THE NIGHT WATCH 407 XXXVIII. — MARY IN MAYFAIR 417 XXXIX. — WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT WATCH 426 XL. — HUE AND CRY 437 XLI. — THE LIEUTENANTS SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS . 447 XLII. — THIRD YEAR 458 XLI 1 1. — AFTERNOON VISITORS . 470 XLIV. — THE INTERCSITED LETTER-BAG 480 XLV. — MA.STER's TERM 495 XLVI. — FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOUR.V 503 XLVIl. — THE WEDDING-DAY 611 ^LVlil. — THE BEGINNING OF THE END 520 A LI. K.— THE END 529 L •— THE posTscmi'i G38 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Xii CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAtJK XXIX. — THE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAG 314 XXX. — AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR . ■ 328 XXXI.— BEHIND THE SCENES .334 XXXII.— A CRISIS 342 XXXIII. — BBuWN PATRONUS 355 XXXIV.— MHAEN AFAN 373 XXXV.— SECOND YEAR 386 XXXVI —THE RIVER SIDE 398 XXXVII. — THE NIGHT WATCH 407 XXXVIII. — MARY IN MAYFAIR 417 XXXIX. — WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT WATCH 426 XL. — HUE AND CRY 437 XLI. — THE LIEUTENANTS SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS . 447 XLII.— THIRD YEAR 458 XLI 1 1. — AFTERNOON VISITORS . , 470 XLIV. — THE INTERCEITED LETTER-BAG 480 XLV. — MA.STER's TERM 495 XLVI. — FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN 503 XLVIL — THE WEDDING-DAY 511 XLV 111. — ^TUE BEGINNING OF THE END 520 A LI. K.— THE END 529 L —THE POBTSCii:}'! G3fi TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. TOM mom AT OXFORD. INTEODUCTOKY. In the Michaelmas term after leaving school, Tom Bro-\ra received a summons from the authorities, and went up to matriculate at St. Ambrose's College, Oxford. lie presented himself at the college one afternoon, and was examined by one of the tutors, avIio carried him, and several other youths in like predicament, up to the Senate House the next morn- ing. Here they went through the usual forms cf subscribing to the Articles, and otherwise testifying their loyalty to the established order of things, without much thought perhaps, but in very good faith neA'ertheless. Having completed the ceremony, by paying his fees, our hero hurried back home, without making any stay in Oxford. He had often passed through it, so that the city had not the charm of novelty for him, and he was anxious to get home ; where, as he had never spent an autumn away from school till now, for the first time in his life he was having his fill of hunting and shooting. He had left school in June, and did not go up to reside at Oxford till the end of the following January. Seven good months ; during a part of which he had indeed read for four hours or so a week with the curate of the parish, but the residue had been exclusively devoted to cricket and field sports. Kow, admirable as these institutions are, and bene- ficial as is their influence on the youth of Britain, it is possible for a youngster to get too much of them. So it had fallen out with our hero. He was a better horseman and shot, but the total relaxation of all the healthy discipline of school, the regular hours and regular work to which he had been used for so many years, had certainly thrown him back in other B 2 TOM BKOWIT AT OXFORD. ways. The wliole man had not grown ; so that we mnst nnt Vjo surprised to find him quite as boyish, now that we fall in with him again, marching down to St. Ambrose's with a porter wheeling his luggage after him on a truck, as when we left him at the end of his school career. Tom was in truth beginning to feel that it was high time for him to be getting to regular work again of some sort. A landing place is a famous thing, but it is only enjoyable for a time by any mortal who deserves one at all. So it was with a feeling of unmixed pleasure that he turned in at the St. Ambrose gates, and inquired of the porter what rooms had been allotted to him within those venerable walls. "While the porter consulted Ins list, the great college sun- dial, over the lodge, which had lately been renovated, caught Tom's eye. The motto underneath, " Pereuut et imputantur," stood out, pi'oud of its new gilding, in the bright afternoon sun of a frosty January day : wliich motto was raising sundry thoughts in his brain, when the porter came upon the right place in his list, and directed him to the end of his journey : No. 6 staircase, second quadi-angle, three-pair back. In wliich new home we shall leave him to instal himself, while we endeavour to give the reader some notion of the coUege itself. CHAPTER 1. ST. Ambrose's college, St. Ambrose's College was a moderate-sized one. There might have been some seventy or eighty undergraduates in residence, when our hero appeared there as a freshman. Of these, unfortunately for the college, there were a very large proportion of gentlemen-commoners ; enough, in fact, with the other men whom they drew round them, and who lived pretty much as they did, to form the largest and Icadiiig set in the college. So the college was decidedly fast. The chief characteristic of this set was the most reckless extravagance of every kind. London wine merchants fur- nished thein with liqueurs at a guinea a bottle, and wine at five guineas a dozen ; Oxford and London tailors vied mth one another in pro\ading tliem with iniheard-of quantities of the most gorgeous clothing. They drove tandems in all direc- tions, scattering their ample allowances, which they treated as pocket money, about roadside inns and Oxford taverns with open hand, and "going tick " for everything which ST. MIBROSES COLLEGE. 3 conlil by possibility be boolced. Their cigars cost two guincfig a pound ; their furniture was tlie best that could be bought ; pine-apples, forced fruit, and the most rare preserves figured at their wine parties ; tliey hunted, rode steeple-chases by day, played billiards until the gates closed, and then were ready for vingt-et-une, unlimited loo, and hot drink in their own rooms, as long as any one could be got to sit \x]) and play. The fast set then swamped, and gave the tone to, the college ; at which fact no persons were more astonished and horrified than the authorities of St. Ambrose. That they of all bodies in the world should be fairly run away with by a set of reckless, loose young sj^end thrifts, was indeed a melancholj'' and unprecedented fact ,; for the body of fellows of St. Ambrose was as distinguished for learning, morality, and respectability, as any in the University. The foundation was not indeed actually an open one. Oriel at that time alone enjoyed this distinction ; but there were a large number of open fellowships, and the iiicome of the college was large, and the livings belonging to it numerous; so that the best men from other colleges were constaiitly coming in. Some of these of a former generation had been eminently successful in their management of the college. The St. Ambrose undergraduates at one time had carried oil almost all the university prizes, and filled the class lists, while maintaining at the same time the highest character for manli- ness and gentlemanlj' conduct. This had lasted long enough to establish the fame of the colkige, and great lords and statesmen had sent their sons there ; head-masters had struggled to get the names of their best pupils on the books : in short, every one who had a son, ward, or pupil, v/hom ho wanted to push forward in the world — who was meant to cut a figure, and take the lead among men — left no stone unturned to get him into St. Ambrose's ; and thought the first, and a very long, step gained when he had succeeded. But the governing bodies of colleges are always on the change, and in the course of things men of other ideas came to rule at St. Ambrose — shrewd men of the vtrorld ; men of business some of them, with good ideas of making tlie most of their advantages ; who said, " Go to : why should we not make the public pay for the great benefits we confer on them ? Have we not the very best article in the educational market to supply — almost a monopoly of it — and shall we not get the highest price for it ? " So by degrees they altered many things in the college. In the first place, under their auspices, gentlemen-commoners increased and multiplied ; in fact, the B 2 4 TOM BROWN AT OXTORD. eldest sons of baronets, even of squires, were scarcely admitted on any other footing. As these young gentlemen i:inid double fees to the college, and had great expectations of all sorts, it could not be expected that they should be subject to quite the same discipline as the common run of men, who would have to make their own way in the world. So the rules as to attendance at chapel and lectures, though nominally the same for them as for commoners, were in pi-actice relaxed in their favour ; and, that they might find all things suitable to perr.ons in their position, the kitchen and buttery were worked up to a high state of perfection, and St. Ambrose, from having been one of the most reasonable, had come to be about tlio most expensive college in the university, Tliese changes worked as their promoters probably desired that they should work, and the colloge was full of rich men, and commanded in the university the sort of respect which riches bring with them. But the old reputation, though still strong out of doors, was beginning sadly to wane Avitliin the university precincts. Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men appeared in the class lists, or amongst the prize-men. They no longer led the debates at the Union ; the boat lost place after place on the river ; the eleven got beaten in all their matches. The inaugurators of these changes had passed away in their turn, and at last a reaction had commenced. The fellows recently elected, and who were in residence at the time we wi'ite of, were for the most part men of great attainments, all of them men who had taken very high honours. The electors natu- rally enough had chosen them as the most likely persons to restore, as tutors, the golden days of the college ; and they had been careful in the selection to confine themselves to vei-y quiet and studious men, such as were likely to remain up at Oxford, passing over men of more popular manners and active spirits, who would be sure to flit soon into the world, and bo of little more service to St. Ambrose, But these were not the men to get any hold on the fast set who were now in the ascendant. It was not in the nature of tilings that they should understand cacli other ; in fact, they were hopelessly at war, and the college was getting more and more out of gear in consequence. What they could do, however, they were doing ; and under their fostering care were growing up a small set, including most of tlie scholars, who were likely, as far as they were con- cerned, to retrieve the college character in the schools. But tliey were too much like their tutors, men who did little else but read. They ncitlier Avished for, nor were likely to gain, the slightest influence on the fast set. The best men amoDgst ST. AMBROSE'S COLLEGE. 5 tliem, too, were diligent readers of tlie Tracts for the Times, and followers of the able leaders of the High-church party, which was then a growing one ; and this led them also to form such friendships as they made amongst ou^-rollege mem of their own way of thinking — with high churchmen, rather than St. Ambrose men. So they lived very much to themselves, and scarcely interfered with the dominant party. Lastly, there was the boating set, which was beginning to revive in the college, partly from the natural disgust of any body of young Englishmen, at finding themselves distanced in an exercise requiring strength and pluck, and partly from the fact, that the captain for the time being was one of the best oars in the University boat, and also a deservedly popular character. He was now in his third year of residence, had won the pair-oar race, and had pulled seven in the great yearly match with Cambridge, and by constant hard work had managed to carry the St. Ambrose boat up to the fifth place on the river. He will be introduced to you, gentle reader, when the proper time comes ; at present, we are only con- cerned with a bird's-eye view of the college, that you may feel more or less at home in it. The boating set was not 80 separate or marked as the reading set, melting on one side into, and keeping up more or less connexion with, the fast set, and also commanding a sort of half alle- giance from most of the men who belonged to neither of the other sets. The minor divisions, of which of course there were many, need not be particularized, as the above general classification will be enough for the purposes of this history. Our hero, on leaving school, had bound himself solemnly to write all his doings and thoughts to the friend whom ho had left behiiid him : distance and separation were to make no difference whatever in their friendship. This compact had been made on one of their last evenings at Eugby. They were sitting together in the six-form room, Tom splicing the handle of a favourite cricket bat, and Arthur reading a volume of Raleigh's works. The Doctor had lately been alluding to the " History of the World," and had excited the curiosity of the active-minded amongst his pupils about the great na^sigator, statesman, soldier, author, the fine gentleman. So Ealeigh's works were seized on by various voracious young readto-s, and carried out of the school library ; and Arthur was now deep in a volume of the " Miscellanies," curled up on a corner of the sofa. Presently, Tom heard something between a groan and a protest, and, looking up, demanded 6 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. explanations ; in answer to which, Arthur, in a voice half furious and half fearful, read out : — "And be sure of this, thou shalt never find a friend in thy young years whose conditions and qualities will please thee after thou comest to more discretion and judgment; and then all thou givest is lost, and all wherein thou shalt trust such a one will be discovered." "You don't mean that's Ealeigh's?" " Yes — here it is, in his first letter to his son." " What a cold-blooded old Philistine," said Tom. "But it can't be true, do you think 1" said Arthur. And, in short, after some personal reflections on Sir Walter, they then and there resolved that, so far as they were con- cerned, it was not, could not, and should not be true ; that they would remain faithful, the same to each other, and the greatest friends in the world, though I know not what separa- tions, trials, and catastrophes. And for the better insuring tliis result, a correspondence, regular as the recurring months, was to be maintained. It had already lasted through the long vacation and up to Christmas without sensibly dragging, tliough Tom's letters had been something of the shortest in November, when he had had lots of shooting, and two days a week with the hounds. Now, however, having fairly got to Oxford, he determined to make up for all short-comings. His first letter from college, taken in connexion with the previous sketch of the place, will probably accomplish the work of in- troduction better than any detailed account by a thii'd pai'ty; a ad it is therefore given here verbatim : — "St. Ambrose, Oxford, "February, 184 — . "Mr DEAR Gbordie, "According to promise, I write to tell you how I get on up here, and what sort of a place Oxford is. Of course, I don't know much about it yet, having been only up some two weeks ; but you shall have my first impressions. "Well, first and foremost, it's an awfully idle place; at any rate, for us IVeslimen. Fancy now. I am in twelve lectures a week of an hour each — Greek Testament, first book of Herodotus, second ^Eueid, and first book of Euclid! There's a treat! Two hours a day; all over by twelve, or one at latest; and no extra w'ork at all, in the shape of copies of varsps. themes, or other exercises. "I think sometimes Tm back in the lower fifth; for we don't get through more than we used to do there ; and if you were to hear the men constnie, it would make your hair stand on. end. Where on earth can they have come from 1 unless ST. AMBEOSE'S COLLEGE. 7 tliey blunder on purpose, as I often think. Of course, I never look at a lecture before I go in, I know it all nearly by heart, so it would be sheer waste of time. I hope I sliall take to reading something or other by myself; but you know I never was much of a hand at sappiug, and, for the present, the light work suits me weU enough, for there's plenty to see and learu about in this place. " We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel every morning at eight, and evening at seven. You must attend once a day, and twice on Sundays — at least, that's the rule of our college — and be in gates by twelve o'clock at night. Besides which, if you're a decently steady fellow, you ought to dine in hall perhaps four days a week. Hall is at five o'clock. And now you have the sum total. All the rest of your time you may just do what you like with. " So much for our work and hours. jSTow for the place, "Well, it's a grand old place, certainly; and I dare say, if a fellow goes straight in it, and gets creditably through his three years, he may end by loving it as much as we do the old school-house and quadrangle at Rugby. Our college is a fair specimen : a venerable old front of crumbling stone fronting the street, into which two or three other colleges look also. Over the gateway is a large room, where the college examina- tions go on, when there are any ; and, as you enter, you pass the porter's lodge, where resides our janitor, a bustling little man, with a pot belly, whose business it is to put down the time at which the men come in at night, and to keep all dis- commonsed tradesmen, stray dogs, and bad characters generally, out of the college. "The large quadrangle into which you come first, is bigger than ours at Rugby, and a much more solemn and sleepy sort of a place, with its gables and old mullioned ^\indows. One side is occupied by the hall and chapel ; the principal's house takes up half another side ; and the rest is divided into stair- cases, on each of which are six or eight sets of rooms, iiJiabitod by us undergraduates, with here and there a tutor or fellow dropped down amongst us (in the first-floor rooms, of course), not exactly to keep order, but to act as a sort of ballast. This quadtangle is the show part of the college, and is generally respectable and quiet, Avhich is a good deal more than can be said for the inner quadrangle, which you get at through a passage leading out of the other. The rooms ain't half so large or good in the inner quad ; and here's where all we fresh- men live, besides a lot of the older undergraduates who don't care to clxange their rooms. Only one tutor has rooms here , and I should tliink, if he's a reading man, it won't be ion^ 8 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD. bt-foro he clears out ; for all sorts of high jinks go on on the gvass-plot, and the row on tlie staircases is often as bail, ami not half so respectable, as it used to be in the middle passage ill the last week of the half-year. "My rooms are what they call garrets, right up in the roof, with a commanding view of college tiles and chiniTiey pots, and of houses at the back. No end of cats, both college Toma and strangers, haunt the neighbourhood, and I am rapidly learning cat-talking from them ; but I'm not going to stand it — I don't want to know cat-taik. The college Toms are i)ro- tccted by the statutes, I believe ; but I'm going to buy an air-gun for the benefit of the strangers. IVfy rooms are jjleasant enough, at tlie top of the kitchen staircase, and separated from all mankind by a great, iron-clampcul, outer door, my oak, which I sport when I go out or want to be quiet ; sitting- room eighteen by twelve, bed-room twelve by eight, and a little cu])board for the scout. " Ah, Geordie, the scout is an institution ! Fancy mo waited upon and valeted by a stout party in black, of quiet, gentle- manly manners, like the benevolent father in a comedy. He takes the deepest interest in all my possessions and proceedings, and is evidently used to good society, to judge by the amount of crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocery, which ho thinks indispensable for my due establishment, lie has also been good enough to recommend to me many tradesmen who fire ready to supply these articles in any quantities ; each of whom has been here already a dozen times, cap in hand, and vowing that it is i^uite immaterial when I pay — which is very kind of tlu'm ; but, with the highest respect for friend l^erkins (my scout) and his obliging friends, I shall make some in- quiries before "letting in" witli any of them. He waits ou me in hall, where we go in full fig of cap and gown at live, and get very good dinners, and cheap enough. It is rather a line old room, with a good, arched, black oak ceiling and high panelling, hung round with pictures of old swells, bishops and lords chielly, who have endowed the college in some way, or at least have fed here in times gone by, and for whom, " caiterisque benefactoribus nostris," we daily give thanks ia n long I^itin grace, which one of the undergraduates (I think it must be) goes and I'attles out at the end of the high table, and then comes down again from the dais to his own place. Ko one feeds at the liigh table except the dons and the geiitli'men-commoners, who are undergraduates in velvet caps and silk gowns. Why they wear these instead of cloth and serge I haven't yet made out— I believe it is because they pay double fees ; but they seem uncommonly wretched up at tho ST. AMBROSE S COLLEGE. 9 high table, and I should think would sooner pay double to come to the other end of the hall. "The chapel is a quaint little place, about the size of the chancel of Lutterworth Church. It just holds us all com- fortably. The attendance is regular enough, but I don't think the men care about it a bit in general. Several I can see bring in Euclids, and other lecture books, and the service is gone througli at a great pace. I couldn't think at first wliy some of the men seemed so uncomfortable and stiff about tlie legs at the morning service, but I hud that they are tlie hunting set, and come in with pea-coats over then- pinks, and trousers over their leather breeches and top-boots ; which accoimts for it. There are a few others who seem very devout, and bow a good deal, and turn towards the altar at diilerent parts of the service. These are of the Oxford High-church school, 1 believe ; but I shall soon find out more about them. On the whole, I feel less at home at present, 1 am sorry to 89y, in the chapel, than anywhere else. "I was very nearly forgetting a great institution of the college, which is the buttery-hatch, just opposite the hall- door. Here abides the fat old butler (all the servants at St. Ambros(i's are portly), and serves oxit limited bread, butter, and cheese, and unlimited beer brewed by himself, for an hour in the morning, at noon, and again at supper-time. Your scout always fetches you a pint or so on each occasion, in case you should want it, and if you don't, it falls to him ; but I can't say that my fellow gets much, for I am naturally a thirsty soul, and cannot often resist the malt myself, coming up, as it does, fresh and cool, in one of the silver tankards, of which we seem to have an endless supply. " I spent a day or two in the first week, before I got shake a down into my place here, in going round and seeing the other colleges, and finding out what great men had been at each (one got a taste for that sort of worlc from the Doctor, and I'd nothing else to do). Well, T never was more interested : fancy ferreting out AVyclilfe, the Black Prince, our friend Sir VV^alter Kaleigh, Pym, Hampden, Laud, Ireton, Butler, and Addison, in one afternoon. I walked about two inches taller in my trencher cap after it. Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of England. Why shouldn't 1 1 There must have been freshmen once who were chums of Wyclitfe of Queen's, or Kaleigh of Oriel. I mooned up and down the High-street, staring at all tlie young faces in caps, and wondering which of them would turn out great generals, or statesmen, or poets. Some of them will, of course, for there must be a dozen at least, I should 10 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. think, in every generation of undergraduates, who will have a good deal to say to the ruling and guiding of the British nation before they die. " But, after all, the river is the feature of Oxford, to my mind ; a glorious stream, not five minutes' walk from the colleges, broad enough in most places for three boats to row abreast. I expect I shall take to boating furiously : I have been down the river three or four times already with some other freshmen, and it is glorious exercise ; that I can see, though we bungle and cut crabs desperately at present. " Here's a long yarn I'm spinning for you ; and I dare say after all you'll say it tells you nothing, and you'd rather have twenty lines about the men, and what they're thinking about, and the meaning and inner life of the place, and all that. Patience, patience ! I don't know anything about it myself yet, and have only had time to look at the shell, which is a very handsome and stately affair ; you shall have the kernel, if I ever get at it, in due time. ** And now write me a long letter directly, and tell me about the Doctor, and who are in the Sixth, and how the house goes on, and what sort of an eleven there'll be, and what you are all doing and thinking about. Come up hero and try for a scholarship ; I'll take you in and show you the lions. Eemember me to aU old tiiends. — Ever yours affecti^uately, T. B." CHAPTER II. A ROW ON THE RIVER. WiTHTN a day or two of the penning of this celebrated epistle, which created quite a sensation in the sixth-form room as it went the round after tea, Tom realized one of the objects of his yoLing Oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking on the river in a skiff by himself, with such results as are now to be described. He had already been down several times in pair-oar and four-oar boats, with an old oar to puU stroke, and another to steer and coach the young idea, but he M'as not satisfied with these essays. He could not believe that he was such a bad oar as the old hands made him out to be, and tliought that it nmst be the fault of the other fre.shmen who were learning with him that the boat made so little way and rolled so much. He had been such a proficient in aU the A ROW ON THE RIVER. 11 Rugby games, that he couldn't realize the fact of his unreadiness in a boat. Pulling looked a simple thing enough — much easier than tennis ; and he had made a capital start at the latter game, and been highly complimented by the marker after his first hour in the little court. He forgot that cricket and fives are capital training for tennis, but that rowing is a speciality, of the rudiments of which he was wholly ignorant. And so, in full conlidenco that, if he could only have a turn or twn alone, he should not only satisfy himself, but everybody else, that bo was a heaven-born oar, he refused all offers of com- panionship, and staittul on the afternoon of a line February day down to the boats for his trial trip. He had watched his regular companions well out of college, and gave them enough start to make sure that they would be olf before he himself could arrive at the St. Ambrose's dressing-room at Hall's, and chuckled, as he came within sight of the river, to see the freshmen's boat in which he generally performed, go plunging away past the University barge, keeping three different times with four oars, and otherwise demeaning itself so as to become an object of niirtliful admiration to all beholders. Tom was punted across to Hall's in a state of great content, which increased when, in answer to his casual inquiry, the managing man informed him that not a man s a really dangerous place ; and Tom himself had had an extraordinary escape, for, as Miller, the St. Ambrose coxswain, remarked on hearing the story, " l^o one who wasn't born to be hung could have rolled down it without knocking his head against something hard, and going down like lead when he got to the bottom." He was very well satisfied with his inspection. The other man was evidently a year or two older than himself, his figure was more set, and he had stronger whiskers than are generally grown at twenty. He was somewhere about five feet ten in height, very deep-chested, and with long powerful arms and hands. There was no denying, however, that at the first glance he was an ugly man ; he was marked with small-pox, had large features, high cheek-bones, deeply set eyes, and a very long chin : and had got the trick which many underhung men have of compressing his upper lip. Nevertheless, there was that in his face which hit Tom's fancy, and made him anxious to know his rescuer better. He had an instinct that good was to be gotten out of him. So he was very glad when the search was ended, and the stranger came to the bank, shipped bis sculls, and jumped out with the painter of his skiff' in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to an old stump, while he remarked — " I'm afraid the cap's lost." "It doesn't matter the least. Thank you for coming to help me ; it was very kind indeed, and more than I expected. Don't they say that one Oxford man ^viU never save another from drowning unless they have been introduced?" A ROW ON THK iirvr.a, 17 "I don't know," replied the other; "are you sure you're aot hurt?" " Yes, quite," said Tom, foiled in what he considered an artful plan to get the stranger to introduce himself. " Then we're very well out of it," said the other, looking at the steep descent into the lasher, and the rolling tumbling rush of the water below. "Indeed we are," said Tom; "but how in the world did you manage not to upset?" " I hardly know myself — I have shipped a good deal cf water, you see. Perliaps I ought to have jumped out on the bank and come across to you, leaving my skiff in the river, for if I had upset I couldn't have helped you much. How- ever, I followed my instinct, which was to come the quickest way. I thought, too, that if I could manage to get down in the boat I should be of more use. I'm very glad I did it," he added after a moment's pause; " I'm really proud of having come down that place." "So ain't I," said Tom with a laugh, in v/hich theother joined. " But now you're getting cliiUed,'' and he turned from the laslier and looked at Tom's chattering jaws. " Oh, it's nothing. I'm used to being wet." "But you may just as well be comfortable if you can. Here's this rough jersey which I use instead of a coat; pull oil" that wet cotton affair, and put it on, and then we'll get to work, for we have plenty to do." After a little persuasion Tom did as he was bid, and got into the great woollen garment, which was very comforting; and then the two set about getting their skiffs back into the main stream. This was comparatively easy as to the lighter skiff, which was soon baled out and hauled by main force on to tho bank, carried across and launched again. The tub gave them much more trouble, for she was quite full of water and very heavy ; but after twenty minutes or so of hard work, during which the mutual respect of the labourers for the strength and willingness of each other was much increased, she also lay in the main strean'^ leaking considerably, but otherwise not much the worse for her adventure. "Now what do you mean to do?" said the stranger. " I don't think you can pull home in her. One doesn't know now much she may be damaged. She may sink in the lock, or play any prank." " But what am I to do with her?" " Oh, you can leave her at Saudford and walk up, and send one of Hall's boys for her. Or, if you like, I will tow her up behind my skiff" 18 TOM BIIOWN AT OXFORD. " Won't your skiff carry two?" " Yes ; if you like to come I'll take you, but you must sit very quiet." "Can't we go down to Sandford first and have a glass of ale? What time is it? — the water has stopped my watch." "A quarter-past three. I have about twenty minutes to spare." " Come along, then," said Tom ; " but will you let me pull your skiir down to Sandford ? I resolved to i)ull to Sandford to-day, and don't hke to give it up." " Ey all means, if you like," said the other, with a smile ; "jump in, and I'U walk along the bank." "Thank you," said Tom, hurrying into the skiff, in which he completed the remaining quarter of a mile, while the owner walked by the side, watching him. They met on the bank at the little inn by Sandford lock, and had a glass of ale, over which Tom confessed that it wa.s the first time he had ever navigated a skiff by himself, and gave a detailed account of his adventures, to the great amuse- ment of his companion. And by the time they rose to go, it was settled, at Tom's earnest request, that he should pull the sound skiff up, while his companion sat in the stern and coached him. The other consented very kindly, merely stij)U- lating that he himself should take the sculls, if it should prove that Tom could not pull them up in time for hall dinner. So they started, and took the tub in tow when they came up to it. Tom got on famously under his new tutor, who taught him to get forward, and open his knees properly, and throw his weight on to the sculls at the beginning of the stroke. He managed even to get into liHey lock on the way up with- out fouling the gates, and was then and there complimented on his progress. Whereupon, as they sat, while the lock filled, Tom poured out his thanks to his tutor for his instruc- tion, which had been given so judiciously tliat, while he wa.i conscious of improving at every stroke, he did not feel that the other was asserting any superiority over him ; and so, though more hunible than at the most disastrous period of his down- ward voyage, he was getting into a better temper every minute. It is a great pity that some of our instructors in more important matters than scuUing will not take a leaf out of the same book. Of course, it is more satisfactory to one's own self-love, to make every one who comes to one to learn, feel tliat he is a fool, and we wise men; but, if our object is to teach well and usefully what we know ourselves there cannot be a worse method. IS^o man, however, is likely to aciopt it, so long as he is conscious that hfi has anything himseli Uj A ROW ON THE KIVEE. 19 learn from his pupils ; and as soon as he has arrived at tlie conviction that they can teach him nothing — that it is hence- forth to be all give and no take — the sooner he throws up liis office of teacher, the better it will be for hiniseK, his pupils, and his country, wJiose sous he is misguiding. On their way up, so intent were they on their own work that it was not until shouts of " Hullo, Brown ! how did you get there] Why, you said you were not going down to-day," greeted them just above tlie Gut, that they were aware of the presence of the freshmen's four-oar of St. Ambrose College, which had with some trouble succeeded in overtaking them. " I said I wasn't going down with you" shouted Tom, grinding away harder than ever, that they might witness and wonder at his prowess. " Oh, I dare say ! "VVliose sldflf are you towing up ] 1 believe you've been upset." Tom made no reply, and the four-oar floundered on ahead. " A.\% you at St. Ambrose's V asked his sitter, after a minute. "Yes; that's my treadmill, that four-oar. I've been down in it almost every day since I came up, and very poor fun it is. So I thought to-day I would go on my own hook, and see if I coiddn't make a better hand of it. And I have too, I know, thanks to you." The other made no remark, but a little shade came over his face. He had had no chance of making out Tom's college, as the new cap which would have betrayed him had disappeared in the lasher. He himself w^ore a glazed straw hat, wliicli was of no college; so that up to tliis time neither of them had known to what college the other belonged. When they landed at Hall's, Tom was at once involved ii: a wrangle with the manager as to the amount of damage done to the tub; which the latter refused to assess before he knew what had happened to it; while our hero vigorously and with reason maintained, that if he knew his business it could not matter what had happened to the boat. There she was, and he must say whether she was better or worse, or ho^y much worse than when she started. In the midille of wliich dia- logue his new acquaintance, touching his arm, said, " You can leave my jersey with your own things ; I shall got it to- morrow," and then disappeared. Tom, when he had come to terms with his adversary, ran upstaii's, expecting to find the other, and meaning to toll his name, and find out who it was that had played the good Sama- ritan by him. He was much annoyed when he found the coast clear, and dressed in a grumbling humoiu'. "I wonder why he should have gone olf so ipiick. He might just as C 2 20 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOED. well have stayed and walked up with me," thought he. " Let mo see, though; didn't he say I was to leave his jersey in our room, with my own things 1 Why, perhaps he is a St. Ambrose man himself. But then he would have told me so, surely. I don't remember to have seen his face in chapel or hull; but then there are such a lot of new faces, and he may not sit near me. However, I moan to find Mm out before long, whoever he may be." With which resolve Tom crossed in the punt into Christ's Church meadow, and strolled college-wards, feeling that he had had a good hard afternoon's exercise, and was much the better for it. He might have satisfied his curiosity at once by simply asking the manager who it was that had arrived with him ; and this occurred to him before he got home, whereat he felt satisfied, but would not go back then, as it was so near hall time. He Avould be sure to remember it the first thing to-morrow. As it happened, however, he bad not so long to wait for the information which he needed; for scarcely had he sat down in hall and ordered his dinner, when he caught sight of his boating accpiaintance, who walked in habited in a gown which Tom took for a scliolar's. He took his seat at a little table in the middle of the hall, near the bachelors' table, but quite away from the rest of the undergraduates, at which sat four or five other men in similar gowns. He either did not or would not notice the looks of recognition which Tom kept firing at him until he had taken his seat. " Who is that man that has just come in, do you know ?" said Tom to his next neighbour, a second-term man. "Which'?" said the other, looking up. " That one over at the little table in the middle of the hall, with the dark whiskers. There, he has just turned rather from us, and put his arm on the table." " Oh, his name is Hardy." " Do you know him 1" " No ; I don't think anybody does. They say he is a clever fellow, but a very queer one." "Why does he sit at that table"?" "He is one of our servitors; they all sit there together." " Oh," said Tom, not much wiser for the information, but resolved to waylay Hardy as soon as the hall was over, and highly delighted to find that they were after all of the same college; for he had already begun to find out, that however friendly you may be with out-college men, you must live chiefly with those of your o^vn. But now his scout brou'dit bis dinner, and he fell to with the appetite of a freshman on liLs ample commons. A BREAKFAST AT DKYSDALE's. 2l CHAPTER III. A BREAKFAST AT DRTSDALE'S. No man in St. Ambrose College gave such Lreakfasta as Drysdale. Not the great heavy spreads for thirty or forty, which came once or twice a terra, when everything was sup- plied out of the college kitchen, and you had to ask leave of the Dean before you could have it at all. In those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of undergraduate kind might rival the most artistic, if he could only pay his battel -l:)ill, or get credit with the cook. But the da ly morning meal, when even gentlemen-commoners were limited to two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this was Drysdale's forte. Ordinary men left the matter in the hands of scouts, and were content v/ith the ever- recurring buttered toast and eggs, with a dish of broiled ham, or something of the sort, and marmalade and bitter ale to linish with ; but Drysdale Avas not an ordinary man, as yoi felt in a moment when you went to breakfast with him for the first time. The staircase on which he lived was inhabited, except in the garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a breakfast-club, in v.diich, thanks to Drysdale's genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultivated. Every morning the boy from the Weirs arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then an eel or trout, which the scouts on the stahcase had learnt to fry delicately in oil. Eresh watercresses came in the same basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchcocked chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. In the season there were plover's eggs ; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette ; and a distant baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent in the bread — the common domestic college loaf being of course out of the question for any one Avith the slightest pretensions to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts. Then there would be a deep Yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a piece de resistance, and three or four sorts of preserves ; and a lai'ge cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or soda-Avater and maraschino for a change. Tea and coffee Avere there indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast-eaters of No. 3 staircase. Pleasant young gentlemen they were on No. 3 staircase ; I mean the ground iind first-floor men who formed the breakfast-club, for the garrets were nobodies. Three out of the four were gentlemen- 22 TOM BROWN AT OXrOKD. commnrieTf!, with allowances of 500Z. a year at least eath ; and, as they treated their allowances as pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted hippopotamus for breaklar.t if they had chosen to order it, which they would most likely have done if they had thought of it. Two out of the three were the sous of rich men who had made their own fortunes, and sent their sons to St. Ambrose's becauFe it was very desirable that the young gentlemen should make good connexions. In fact, the fathers looked upon the University as a good investment, and gloried much in hearing their sons talk familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends Lord Harry This and Sir George That. Drysdale, the third of the set, was the heir of an old as well as of a rich family, and consequently, having his con- nexion ready made to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and wines. His whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as possible ; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but the fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and done credit to himself and his college. The fourth man of the breakfast-club, the Hon. Piers St. Cloud, was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-connected young man. His allowance was small for the set he lived with, but he never wanted for anythiag. He didn't entertain much, certainly, but when ho did, everything was in the best possible style. He was very exclusive, and knew no man in college out of the fa.'^t set ; and of these he addicted himself chiefly to the society of the rich freshmen, for somehow the men of his own standing seemed a little shy of him. But with the freshmen he was always hand and glove, lived in their rooms, and used their wines, horses, and other movable property as his OAvn. Being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad jockey, he managed in one way or another to make his young friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance ; as, indeed, why should they not, at least those of them who came to college to form eligible connexions ; for had not his remote lineal ancestor come ovei in the same ship with William the Conqueror? were not all his relations about the Court, as lords and ladies in waiting, white sticks or black rods, and in the innermost of all possible circles of the great world ; and was there a better coat of arms than he bore in all Bmke's Peerage t Our hero had met Drysdale at a house in the country shortly before the beginning of his first term, and they had A liKEAKKAril AT DKYSDALE'S. 2^ rather taken to one another. Drysdale had been amongst his first callers ; and, as he came out of chapel one morning shortly atter his arrival, Drysdale's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast. So he went to his own rooms, or- dered his commons to be taken across to No. 3, and followed himself a few minutes afterwards. No one was in the rooms when he arrived, lor none of the club had finished their toilettes. Morning chapel was not meant for, or cultivated by, gcnilemen-commoners ; they paid double chapel fees, in consider;! tion of which, probably, they were not expected to attend so often as the rest of the undergraduates ; at any rate, they didn't, and no harm came to them in consequence of their absence. As Tom entered, a great splashing in an inner room stopped for a moment, and Drysdale's voice shouted out that he was in his tub, but would be w'ith him in a minute. So Tom gave himself up to the contemplation of the rooms in which his fortunate acquaintance dwelt ; and very pleasant rooms they were. The large room, in which the breakfast-table Avas laid for five, was lofty and well-propor- tioned, and panelled with old oak, and the furniture was handsome and solid, and in keeping with the room. There were four deep windows, high up in the wall, with cushioned seats under them, two looking into the large quad- rangle, and two into the inner one. Outside these windows, Drysdale had rigged up hanging gardens, which were kept full of flowers by the first nurseryman in Oxford all the year round ; so that even on this February morning, the scent of gardania and violets pervaded the room, and strove for mastery with the smell of stale tobacco, which hung about the curtains and sofas. There was a large glass in an oak frame over the mantelpiece, which was loaded with choice pipes and cigar cases, and quaint receptacles for tobacco ; and by the side of the glass hung small carved oak frames, containing lists of the meets of the Heythrop, the Old Berkshire, and Drake's hounds, for the current week. There was a queer assortment of well-framed paintings and engravings on the walls ; some of considerable merit, especially some water-colour sea-pieces and engravings from Landseer's pictures, mingled with which hung Taglioni and C'erito, in short petticoats and impossible attitudes ; Phosphorus winning the Derby ; the Death of Grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse — not poor old Joe) ; an American Trotting Match, and Jem Belcher and Deaf Burke in attitudes of self-defence. - Several tandem and riding whips, mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled gun, and fishing rods, occupied one corner, and a poli8h'3d copper cask, holding about live gallons of mild ale, stood in 24 TOM KUOWN Al OXFORD. another. In sLort, there was plenty of everything except boolcs — the literature of the world being represented, so far as Tom could make out in his short scrutiny, by a fcAV well- bound but badly used volumes of classics, with the cribs thereto appertaining, shoved away rnto a cupboard which stood half open, and contained besides, half-emptied decanters, and large pewters, and dog-collars, and packs of cards, and all sorts of miscellaneous articles to serve as an antidijte. Tom had scarcely finished his short survey, when the door of the bedroom opened, ana Drysdale emerged in a loosi3 jacket lined with silk, his velvet caj) on his head, and other- wise gorgeously attired. He was a pleasant-looking follow, of middle size, witli dark hair, and a merry broAvn eye, with a twmkle in it, which spoke Avell for his sense of humour ; otherwise, his large features were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a thoroughly Avell-bred gentleman. His first act, after nodding to Tom, was to seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the contents, having, as he said, " ' a whoreson longing for that poor creature, small beer.' We were playing Van-John in Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled bones and mulled j^ort. A fellow can't enjoy his broakfast after that without something to cool his co]"ix)ers." Tom was as yet ignorant of what Van-John might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at the beer which the otlier handed to him ; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up Jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. In another minute, a bouncing and scrattling was heard on the stairs, and a white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his Avay ; for his brow was broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look, anil a way he had of goiiig 'snuzzling' about the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for nervous iieople. Tom, however, was used to dogs, and soon became friends Avith him, v/hich evidently pleased his host. And then the breakfast ai-rived, all smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colours went, than Drysdale. They were introduced to Tom, who thought them somewhat ordi- nary and rather loud young gentlemen. One of them remon- strated vigorously against the presence of that confounded dog, and so Jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the four fell to work upon the breakfast. It was a good lesson in gastronomy, but the results are scarcely worth repeating here. It is wonderful, though, how you feel draAvn to a man who feeds you well ; and, as Tom's A BREAKFAST AT DUYSDALE'S. 25 aytpetite got less, bis liking and respect for his host undoubt- edly increased. Wlien they had nearly finished, in walked the Honourable Piers, a tall slight man, two or three years older than the rest of them ; good-looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but Avith a drawing up of his nostril, and a dramng down of the corners of his mouth, which set Tom against him at once. The cool, sui)ercilious lialf-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to own. " Here, Henry," said the Honourable Piers to the scout in attendance, seating himsiilf, and inspecting the half-cleared dishes ; " what is there for my breakfast 1 " Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two. " I don't want these cold things ; haven't you kept mo any gudgeon 1 " " Why, sir," said Henry, " there was only two dozen this morning, and Mr. Drysdale told me to cook them all." " To be sure I did," said Drysdale. "Just half a dozen for each of us four : they were first-rate. If you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you." " Just go and get me a broil from the kitchen," said the Honourable Piers, without deigning an answer to Dr3^sdale. " Very sorry, sir ; kitchen's shut by now, sir," answered Henry. " Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets." " I say, Henry," shouted Drysdale to the retreating scout ; " not to my tick, mind I Put them down to Mr. St. Cloud." Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently re- turned to his waiting ; and the Honourable Piers set to work upon his breakfast, without sho^wing any further ill-teuiper certamly, exce^it by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn. Tom thought he detected signs of coming hostilities be- tween his host and St. Cloud, for Drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance of roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong ; the fact being, that during Drysdale's first term, the other had lived on him — drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his dog-cart, and winning his money ; all which Drysdale, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in Oxford, had stood without turning a hair, ijut St. Cloud added to these little favours a hall 20 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. jjatTonizinp, half coiitemptuoiis maTiiier, which he used with prat success towards some of the other gentlemen-commoners, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, hut which Drysdale, who didn't care three straws about ki. owing St. Cloud, wasn't going to put up with. However, nothing happened beyond a little sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be gratihed with come of the remnants cy his fond master, and then curled himself up on the sofa along which Drysdale lounged. "What are you going to do to-day, Drysdale?" said one of the others. "I've ordex'ed a leader to be sent on over the bridge, and mean to drive my dog-cart over, and dine at Abingdon. Won't you come t " " Who's going besides 1 " asked Drysdale, " Oh, only St. Cloud and Farley here. There's lots of room for a fourth." " No, thank'ee ; teaming's slow work on the back seat. Besides, I've half promised to go down in the boat." " In the boat ! " shouted the other. " Wlij'^, you don't mean to say you're going to take to pulling I " " Well, I don't know • I rather think 1 am. I'm dog- tired of driving and doing the High Street, and playing cards and billiards all day, and our boat is likely to be head of the river, I think." " By Jove ! I should as soon have thought of your taking to reading, or going to University Sermon," put in St. Cloud. " And the boating-men, too," went on Farley ; " did yon ever see such a set, St. Cloud 1 with their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters." " I'll bet a guinea there isn't one of them has more than 200Z. a year," put in Chanter, whose father could just write his name, and was making a colossal fortune by supplying bad iron rails to the new railway companies. " What the devil do I care," broke in Drysdale ; " I know they're a deal more amusing than you fellows, who can do nothing that don't cost pounds." " Getting economical ! " sneered St. Cloud. " Well, I don't see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and blistering one's hands, only to get abused by that little brute Miller the coxswain," said Farley. " Why, you won't be able to sit straight in your chair for a month," said Chanter ; " and the captain will make you dine at one, and fetch you out of anybody's rooms, confound his A BUEAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S. 27 iir piideiice, whether he knows them or not, at eleven o'clock every night." "Two cigars a day, and a pint and a half of liquid," and Farley inserted his cod-fisli face into the tankard ; " fancy Drysdale on training allowance ! " Here a new comer entered m a bachelor's gown, who was warmly greeted by the name of Sanders by Drysdale. St. Cloud amd he exchanged the coldest possible nods ; and the other two, taking the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke, and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude half-whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a game at pyramids till luncheon time. Sanders took a cigar which Drysdale offered, and began asking him about his friends at home, and what he had been doing in the vacation. They were evidently intimate, though Tom thought that Drysdale didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as Sanders took his fancy at once. However, eleven o'clock struck, and Tom had to go off to lecture, where we cannot follow him just now, but must remain with Drys- dale and Sanders, who chatted on very pleasantly for some twenty minutes, till a knock came at the door. It was not till the third summons that Drysdale shouted "Come in," with a shrug of his shoulders, and an impatient kick at the sofa-cushion at his feet, as though not half pleased at the approaching visit. Header ! had you not ever a friend a few years older than yourself, whose good opinion you were anxious to keeji t A iaWow teres atqi(e rotundus ; who could do everything better than you, from Plato and tennis down to singing a comic song and playing quoits'? If you have had, wasn't he always in your rooms or company whenever anything happened to show your little weak points 1 Sanders, at any rate, occupied this position towards our young friend Drysdale, and the latter, much as he liked Sanders's company, would have preferred it at any other time than on an idle morning just at the beginning of term, when the gentlemen-tradesmen, who look upon undergraduates in general, and gentlemen-commoners in particular, as their lawful prey, are in the habit of calUng in flocks. The new arrival was a tall, florid man, with a half servile, half impudent, manner, and a foreign accent ; dressed in sumptuous costume, with a velvet-faced coat, and a gorgeous plush waistcoat. Under his arm he carried a large parcel, which he proceeded to open, and placed upon a sofa the con- tents, consisting of a couple of coats, and three or four waist- 2B TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. coiit-s and pairs of trousers. He saluted Sainlorp with a mo::t obsequious bow, looked nervously at Jack, who opened one eye from between his master's legs and growled, and then, turning to Drysdale, asked, if he should have the honour of seeing him try on any of thj clothes ? "No; I can't be bored with trying them on now," said Drysdale ; " leave them where they are." Mr. Schloss woiild like very much on his return to ton'u, in a day or two, to be able to assure his principals, that Mr. Drysdale's orders had been executed to his satisfaction. He had also some very beautiful new stulfs with liim, which he should like to submit to Mr. Drysdale, and \\'itliout more ado began unfolding cards of the most fabulous plushes and cloths. Drysdale glanced first at the cards and then at Sandei^s, who sat puffing his cigar, and watching Schloss's proceedings with a look not unlike Jack's when any one he did not approve of approached his master. " Couf(jund your patterns, Schloss," said Drysdale ; " I tell you I have more things than I want already." "The large stri])e, such as these, is now very much worn in London," went on Schloss, without heeding the rebuff, and spreading his cards on the table. " D trousers," replied Drysdale ; " you seem to tliink, Schloss, that a fellow has ten pairs of legs." " Monsieur is pleased to joke," smiled Schloss ; "but, to be in the mode, gentlemen must have variety." "Well, I won't order any now, that's flat," said Drysdale. "Monsieur will do as he ])leases ; but it is impossible that he should not have some plash waistcoats ; the i'abric is only just out, and is making a sensation." " Now look here, Schloss ; wUl you go if I order a waist- coat?" " Monsieur is very good ; he sees how tasteful these new patterns are." " I wouldn't be seen at a cock-fight in one of them ; they're as gaudy as a salmon-fly," said Drysdale, feeling the stuff which the obsequious Schloss held out. " But it seems nice stuff, too," he went on j "I shouhlu't mind having a couple of waistcoats of it of this pattern;" and he chucked across to Schloss a dark tartan waistcoat which was lying near him. " Have you got the stuff in that pattern V "Ah ! no,'' said Schloss, gathering up the waistcoat ; "but it shall not hinder. 1 shall have at once a loom for Monsieur set up in Paris." "Set it up at Jericho if you like," said Drysdale; "and now go I" A BKEAKFAST AT DrwYSDALE'S. 29 " May I ask, Mr. Schloss," broke in Sanders, " what it will cost to set up the loom 1 " " Ah. ! indeed, a trifle only ; some twelve, or perhaps four- teen, pounds." Sanders gave a chuckle, and pujffed away at his cigar. ' By Jove," shouted Drysdale, jerking himself in a sitting posture, and upsetting Jack, who went trotting about the room, and snuffling at Schloss's legs ; " do you mean to say, Schloss, you were going to make me waistcoats at fourLcun guineas apiece]" " Not if Monsieur disapproves. Ah ! the large hound is not friendly to strangers ; I will call again when Monsieur is more at leisure." And Schloss gathered up his cards and beat a hasty retreat, followed by Jack with his head on one side, and casting an enraged look at Sanders, as he slid through the door. "Well done, Jack, old boy!" said Sanders, patting him; " what a funk the fellow was in. Well, you've saved your master a pony this fine morning. Cheap dog you've got, Drysdale." " D the fellow," answered Drysdale, " he leaves a bad taste in one's mouth ;" and he went to the table, took a pull at the tankard, and tlien threw himself down on the sofa again, and Jack jumped up and coiled himself round by his master's legs, keo[jing one half-open eye winking at him, and giving an occasional wag Avith the end of his taper tail. Sanders got up, and began handling the new things. First ho held up a pair of bright blue trousers, with a red stripe across them, Drysdale looking on from the sofa. " I say Drysdale, you don't mean to say you really ordered theso thunder-and-lightning atfairs ?" " Heaven only knows," said Drysdale ; " I daresay I did. I'd order a full suit cut out of my grandmother's farthingale to get that cursed Scliloss out of my rooms sometimes." " You'U never be able to wear them ; even in Oxford the boys would mob you. Why don't you kick him down stairs ?" suggested Sanders, putting down the trousers, and turning to Drysdale. " Well, I've been very near it once or twice ; but, I don't know — my name's Easy — besides, I don't want to give up the beast altogether ; he makes the best trousers in England." "And these waistcoats," went on Sanders ; "let me see; three light silk waistcoats, peach-colour, fawn-colour, and lavender. Well, of course, you can only wear these at your weddings. You may be married the first time in the peach ar fawn-colour ; and then, if you have luck, and bury your ^0 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. first wife soon, it will be a delicate compliment to take to No. 2 in the lavender, that being half-mourning ; but still, you see, we're in difficulty as to one of the three, either the peach or the fawn-colour — " Here he was interrupted by another knock, and a boy entered from the fashionable tobacconist's in Oriel Lane, who had general orders to let Drysdale have his fair share of any- thing very special in the cigar line. He deposited a two- pound box of cigars at three guineas the pomid, on the table, and withdrew in silence. Then came a boot- maker with a new pair of top-boots, which Drysdale had ordered in November, and had forgotten next day. This artist, wisely considering that his young patron must have plenty of tops to last him through the hunting season (he himself having supplied three previous pairs ia October), had retained the present pair for show in his win- dow ; and every one knows that boots wear much better for being kept some time before use. Now, however, as the hunting season was drawing to a close, and the place in the window was wanted for spring stock, he judiciously sent in the tops, merely adding half-a-sovereign or so to the price for interest on his outlay since the order. He also kindly left on the table a pair of large plated spurs to match the boots. It never rains but it pours. Sanders sat smoking his cigar in provoking silence, while knock succeeded knock and trades- man followed tradesman ; each depositing some article ordered, or supposed to have been ordered, or which ought in the judgment of the depositors to have been ordered, by the luck- less Drysdale : and new hats, and ties, and gloves, and pins, jostled balsam of Neroli, and registered shaving-soap, and fancy letter-paper, and Eau de Cologne, on every available table. A visit from two livery-stable-keepers in succession followed, each of whom had several new leaders which they were anxious Mr. Drysdale should try as soon as possible. Drysdale growled and grunted, and wished them or Sanders at the bottom of the sea ; however, he consoled himself with the thought that the worst was now past, — there was no other possible suppliei of undergraduate wants who could arrive. Not so ; in another minute a gentle knock came at the door. Jack pricked up his ears and wagged his taQ ; Drysdale recklessly shouted, " Come in ! " the door slowly opened about eighteen inches, and a shock head of hair entered the room, from which one lively little gimlet eye went glancing about into every corner. The other eye was closed, but whether as a perpetual wink to indicate the unsleeping wariness of the owner, or because that hero had really lost the power of using A BKEAKFAST AT DRYSDALE's. 31 it in some of his numerous encounters with men and beasts, no one, so far as I know, has ever ascertained. "Ah! Mr. Drysdale, sir!" began the head ; and then rapidly withdrew behind the door, to avoid one of the spurs, which (being the missile nearest at hand) Drysdale instantly dis- charged at it. As the spur fell to the tloor, the head reappeared in the room, and as quickly disappeared again, in deference to the other spur, the top boots, an ivory-haudled hair-brush, and a translation of Euripides, which in turn saluted each succes- sive appearance of said head ; and the griu was broader on each reappearance. Then Drysdale, having no other article within reach which he could throw, burst into a loud fit of laughter, in which Sanders and the head heartily joined, and shouted, " Come in, Joe, you old fool I and don't stand bobbing your ugly old mug in and out there, like a jack in the box." So the head came in, and after it the body, and closed thj door behind it ; and a queer cross-grained, tough-looking body it was, of about fifty years standing, or rather slouching, clothed in an old fustian coat, and corduroy breeches and gaiters, and being the earthly tabernacle of Joe Muggles, the dog- fancier of St. Aldate's. " How the deuce did you get by the lodge, Joe t " inquired Drysdale. Joe, be it known, had been forbidden the college for importing a sack of rats into the inner quadrangle, upon the turf of which a match at rat-killing had come oil" between the terriers of two gentlemen-commoners. This little event might have passed unnoticed, but that Drysdale had bought from Joe a dozen of the slaughtered rats, and nailed them on the doors of the four college tutors, three to a door ; whereupon inquiry had been made, and Joe had been out- lawed. " Oh, please Mr. Drysdale, sir, I just watched the 'ed porter, sir, across to the buttery to get his mornin', Pud then I tips a wink to the under porter (pal o' mine, sir, the under- porter) and makes a run of it right up." *' Well, you'll be quod'ed if you're caught ! 'Nov/ what do you want?" " Why, you see, Mr. Diysdale, sir," said Joe, in his most insinuating tone, "my mate hcv' got a old dog brock, sir, from the Heythrop kennel, and Ilonble Werrdiam, sir, of New Inn 'AH, sir, he've jist been down our yard with a fight- ing chap from town, Mr. Drysdale — in the fancy, sir, he is, and hev got a matter of tliree dogs down, a stoppin at Milky BiU's. And he says, says he, Mr. Drysdale, as arra one of he's doirs '11 diuw the old im three times, while arra Oxford 32 TOM EEOWN AT OXFORD. dog '11 draw un tM'ice, and Honble Wernliam chaffs as how he '11 back nn for a fi' pun note ; " — and Joe stopped to caress Jack, who was fawning on him as if he undeidtood every Avord. "Well, Joe, what thon ?" said Drysdale. " So you see, ]\Ir. Drysdale, sir," went on Joe, fondling Jack's muzzle, "my mate says, says he, 'Jack's the dog as can draw a brock,' says he, ' agin any Lonnun dog as c-ver was wlielped ; and Mr. Drysdale,' says he, ' aint the man as 'd see two poor chaps bounced out of their honest name by ari'a town chap, and a 11' pun note 's no more to he, for the matter o' that, then to Honble Wernham his self,' says my mate." " So I'm to lend you Jack for a match, and stand the stakes 1 " " Well, Mr. Drysdale, sir, that was what my mate was a sayin'." " You're cool hands, you and your mate," said Drysdale ; "here, take a drink, and get out, and I'll think about it.'' Drysdale was now in a defiant humour, and resolved not to let Sanders think that his presence could keep him from any act of folly to which he was inclined. Joe took his drink ; and just then several men came in from lecture, and drew off" Drysdale's attention from Jack, who quietly followed Joe out of the room, Avhen that Avorthy disappeared. Drysdale only laughetl when he found it out, and went down to the yard that afternoon to see the match between the London dog and his own pet. " How in the world are youngsters with vinlimited credit, plenty of ready money, and fast tastes, to be kept from making fools and blackguards of themselves up here," thought Sanders as he strolled back to his college. And it is a question which has exercised other heads besides his, and probably is a long way yet from being well solved. CIIAPTEII IV. THE BT. AMBROSE BOAT-CLUB : ITS MINISTRY AND TSEIIl BUDGET. We left our hero, a short time back, busily engaged on his diuuL-r conmions, and resolved forthwith to make great friends with Hardy. It never occurred to bim that there could be TnE ST. AMBROSE BOAT-OIUB. S3 the slightest difficulty in carrying out this resolve. After such a passage as they two had had together that afternoon, he felt that tlie usual outworks of acquaintanceship had been cleared at a bound, and looked upon Hardy already as an old friend to whom he could talk out his mind as fi-eely as he had been used to do to his old tutor at school, or to Arthur. Iklore- over, as there were already several things in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he was all the more pleased that chance had thrown him across a man of so much older stand- ing than himself, and one to whom he instLnctively felt that he could look up. Accordingly, after grace had been said, and he saw that Hardy had not finished his dinner, but sat down again when the fellows had left the hall, he strolled out, meaning to wait for Ids victim outside, and seize upon him then and there ; so he stopped on the steps outside the hall-door, and, to pass the time, joined himself to one or two other men ^vith whom he had a speaking acquaintance, who were also hanging about, AYhile they ^vere talking, Hardy came out of hall, and Tom turned and .stepped forward, meaning to speak to him. To his utter discomfiture. Hardy walked quickly away, look- ing straight before him, and without showing, by look or gesture, that he was conscious of our hero's existence, or had ever seen him before in his life. Tom was so taken aback that he made no effort to follow. He just glanced at his companions to see whether they had noticed the occurrence, and was glad to see that they had not (being deep in the discussion of the merits of a new hunter of Simmons's, which one of them had been riding) ; so he walked away b}^ himself to o-^nsider what it could mean. But the more he puzzled about it, the less could he understand it. Surely, he thought, Hardy must have seen me ] and yet, if he had, why did he not recognise me 1 My cap and gown can't be such a disguise as all that. And yet common decency must have led him to ask whether I was any the worse for my ducking, if he knew me He scouted the notion, which suggested itself once or twice, that Hardy meant to cut him ; and so, not being able to come to any reasonable conclusion, suddeidy bethought him that he was asked to a wine-partv ; and, putting his specula- tions aside for the moment, with the full intention neverthe- less of clearing up the mystery as soon as possible, he betook himself to the rooms of his entertainer. 'I'hoy were fair-sized rooms in the second quadrangle, tnrnislied plainly but well, so far as Tpii:g into the humour of the thing, droned out from tie MS. handed to him — " Chairs to mend, 01(1 chairs to nieud, Rush Lottoni'd, cane bottom d, Chairs to mend. Maid, ajiproach. If thou wouklst know "Wluit the stai'' May deign to show." "Now, tinker," said Diysdale, nodding at Blako, who rattled on, — " Chance feeds ns, chance leads ns Round the land in jollity ; Rag-dealing, nag-stealing, Everywhere we roam ; Bra, s mending, ass vending. Happier than the quality ; Swipes soaking, pipes smoking, Ev'ry barn a home ; Tmk, tink, a tink a tink. Our life is full of fun, boys ; Clink tink, a tink a tink, Our busy hammers ring ; Clink tink, a tink a tink, Our job will soon be done, boys ; Then tune we merrily The bladder and the string. " Dbysdale, as Silly Sally. " Oh, dear ! what can the matter he ? Dear, dear ! what can the matter be ? Oh, dear ! what can the matter be ? There's such a look in her eye. Oh, lawk ! I declare I be all of a tremble : My mind it misgives me about Sukey Wimble, A splatter-faced wench neither civil nor nimbk ! She'll bring Billy to beggary." Tom, as Mother Patrico. " Show your band ; Come, show your hand ! Would you know What fate hath planned ? Heaven forefend, A J, heav'n forefend 1 What may these Cross Imes portend I " HOW DRYfeDALE A^D BLAKE WENT FISHING. 61 Blake, as the Tinker. " Owl, pheasant, all's pleasant; Nothing comes amiss to us ; Hare, rabliit, snare, nab it ; Cock, or hen, or kite ; Tom cat, with strong fat, A dainty snpper is to us ; Hedge-hog and sedge-frog To stew is our delight ; Bow, wow, with angi-y bark My lady's dog assails us ; We sack him up, and clap A stopper on his din. Now po]) him in the pot ; His store of meat avails ns ; Wife cooks him nice and hot, And granny tans his skin." Drysdale, as Silly Sally. " Oh, lawk ! what a calamity 1 Oil, r.iy ! what a calamity ! Oh, dear ! what a calamity ! Lost and forsaken bo I. I'm out of my senses, and nought will content me, But pois'ning Poll Ady who helped circumvent me ; Come tell me the means, for no power shall piuvent me : Oh, give rne revenge, or I die.'' Tom, as Mother Patrico. " Pause awhile ! Anon, anon ! fJive me time The stars to con. True love's course Sliall yet run smooth ; True shall prove The favour'd youth." Blake, as the Tinker. " Tink tink, a tink a tink. We'll work and then get tipsy, oh ! Clink tink, on each chink, Our busy hammers ring. Tink tink, a tink a tink, How merry lives a gipsy, oh I Chanting and ranting ; As happy as a king." Drysdale, as Silly Sally " Joy ! joy ! all will end happily ' Joy ! joy ! all will end hapjiily ! Joy ! joy ! all will "^nd happllj' ! %. ill will be constant to I. 62 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOBD Oh, thankee, good dame, here's my pnrsc and my thunMe; A fig for Poll Ady and fat Sukey \Vimble ; I now could jump over the steeple so nimble ; "With joy i be ready to cry. " Tom, as Mother Patrico. «' William shall Be rich and great ; And shall prove A constant mate. Thank not "ne, But thank your fate, On whose high Decrees I wait." "Well, won't that do? won't it bring the house down! I'm going to send for dresses to London, and we'll start next week." "What, on the tramp, singing these songs?" " Yes ; we'll begin in some out-of-the-Avay place till we get used to it." " And end in the lock-up, I should say," said Tom; "it'E be a good lark, though. Now, you haven't told me how you got home." " Oh, we left camp at about five — " " The tinker having extracted a sovereign from Drysdalc,' interrupted Blake. " What did you give to the little gipsy yourself?" retorted Drysdale; "I saw your adieus under the thorn-bush. — Well we got on all right to old IMurdoch's, at Kiugston Inn, by about seven, and there we had dinner; and after dinner the old boy came in. He and I arc great chums, for I'm often there, and always ask him in. But that beggar Blake, who never saw him before, cut me clean out in five minutes. Fancy his swearing he is Scotch, and that an ancestor of his in the six- teenth century married a Murdoch !" " Well, when you come to think what a lot of ancestors one must have had at that tune, it's probably true," said Blake. "At any rate, it took," went on Drysdale. "I thought old Murdoch would have wept on his neck. As it was,°he scattered suutf enough to fill a pint pot over him out of his mull, and began talking Gaelic. And Blake had tlie cheek to jabber a lot of gibberish back to him, as if he understood every word." "Gibberish! it was the purest Gaelic," said Blaka laugh- ing. "I heard a lot of Greek words myself," said Drysdale; HOW DKYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING. 63 "but old Murdoch was too pleased at hearing his own clapper going, and too full of whiskey, to find him out." " Let alone that I doubt wliether ho remembers more than about five words of his native tongue himself," said Blake. " The old boy got so excited that he went upstairs for liis plaid and dirk, and dressed himself up in them, apologising that he could not appear in the full garb of old Gaul, in honour of his new-found relative, as his daugliter had cut up his old kilt for 'trews for tlie bairnies' during liis absence from home. Then they took to more toddy and singing Scotch songs, till at eleven o'clock they were standing on their chairs, right hands clasped, each with one foot on the table, glasses in the other hands, the toddy flying over the room as they swayed about roaring lilie maniacs, what was it? — oh, I have it: * Wug-an-toorej all agree, IFw^-an-toorey, ww^'-an-toorey.' " " He hasn't told you that he tried to join us, and tumbled over the back of his chair into the dirty- plate basket." "A libel! a libel!" shouted Drysdale ; "the leg of my chair broke, and I stepped down gracefully and safely, and when I looked up and saw what a tottery performance it was, 1 concluded to give them a wide berth. It would be no joke to have old Murdoch topple over on to you. I left them * wug-an-tooreying,' and went out to look after the trap, which was ordered to be at the door at half-past ten. I found Murdoch's ostler very drunk, but sober compared with that rascally help whom we had been fools enough to take with us. They had got the trap out and the horses in, but that old rascal Satan was standing so quiet that I suspected something wrong. Sure enough, when I came to look, they had him up to the cheek on one side of his mouth, and third bar on the other, his belly-band buckled across his back, and no kicking strap. The old brute was chuckling to himself what he would do with us as soon as we had started in that trim. It took half-an-hour getting all right, as I was the only one able to do anything." " Yes, you would have said so," said Blake, " if you had seen him trying to put Jack up behind. He made six shots with the old dog, and dropped him about on his head and the broad of his back as if he had been a bundle of eels." " The fact is, that that rascally ostler had made poor old Jack drunk too," explained Drysdale, " a»d he wouldn't be lifted straight. However, we got off at last, and hadn't gone a mile before the help (who was maundering away some cursed sentimental ditty or other behind), lurched more 64 TOJI BllOWN AT OXFORD. heavily tliau usual, and pitched off into the night somewhere. Blake looked for liim for half-an-hour, and couldn't find a hair of him." "You don't mean to say the man tumbled off, and you never found liiin ? " said Tom, in horror. "Well, that's about the fact," said Drysdale; "but it isn't so bad as you think. We had no lamps, and it was aji uncommon bad night for running by holloas." " But a first-rate night for running by scent," broke in Blake; "the fellow leant againsi, me until he made his exit, and I'd have backed myself to have hit the scent again half- a-mile off, if the v.'ind had only been right." " He may have broken his neck," said Tom. " Can a fellow sing with a broken neck ? " said Drysdale ; " lianged if I know 1 But don't I tell you, we heard him maundering on somewhere or other 1 and when Biake shouted, he answered m endearing terms ; and when Blake swore, he rebuked him piously out of the pitch darkness, and told him to go home and repent. I nearly dropped off the box for laughing at them ; and then he ' uplifted his testimony,' as he called it, against me, for driving a horse called Satan. I believe he's a ranting methodist spouter." "I tried hard to find him," said Blake; "for I should dearly have liked to have kicked him safely into the ditch." "At last Bhtck Will himself couldn't have held Satan another minute. So Blake scrambled up, and away we came, and knocked into college at one for a finish : the rest you know." "Well, you've had a pretty good day of it," said Tom, who had been hugely amused ; " but I should feel nervous about the help, if 1 were you." " Oh, he'll come to no gi-ief, I'll be bound," said Drysdale ; " but what o'clock is it 1 " '' Three," said ]]lake, looking at his watch and getting up ; " time to turn in." " The first time I ever heard you say that," said Drysdale. " Yes ; but you forget we were up this morning before the world was aired. Good-night, Brown." _ And off the two went, leaving Tom to sport his oak tliis time, and retire in wonder to bed. Diysdale was asleep, with Jack curled up on the foot of the bed, in ten minutes. Blake, by the help of wet towels and a knotted piece of whipcord round his forehead, read Pindar till the chapel bell began to ring. AN EXPLOSION. 65 CHAPTER VII. AN EXPLOSION. Our hero soon began to feel that he was contracting his first college friendship. The great, strong, badly-dressed, badly- appointed servitor, who seemed almost at the same time utterly reckless of, and nervously aKve to, the opinion of all around him, with his bursts of womanly tenderness and Berserker rage, alternating like the storms and sunshine of a July day on a high moorland, his keen sense of humour and appreciation of all the good things of this life, the use and enjoyment of which he was so steadily denying himself from high principle, had from the first seized powerfully on all Tom's sympathies, and was daily gaining more hold upon him. Blessed is the man who has the gift of making friends ; for it is one of God's best gifts. It involves many things, but above all, the power of going out of oneself, and seeing and appreciating whatever is noble and living in another man. But even to him who has the gift, it is often a great puzzle to find out whether a man is really a friend or not. The following is recommended as a test in the case of any man about whom you are not quite sure ; especially if he should happen to have more of this world's goods, either in the shape of talents, rank, money, or what not, than you — Fancy the man stripped stark naked of everything in the world, except an old pair of trousers and a shirt, for decency's sake, without even a name to him, and dropped clown in the middle of Holborn or Piccadilly. Would you go up to him then and there, and lead him out from amongst the cabs and omnibuses, and take him to your own home, and feed him, and clothe him, and stand by him against all the world, to your last sovereign, and your last leg of mutton ? If you wouldn't do this, you have no right to call him by the sacred name of friend. K you would, the odds are that he Avould do the same by you, and you may count yourself a rich man. For, probably, were friendship expressible by, or convertible into, current coin of the realm, one such friend would be worth to a man, at least 100,000^. How many millionaires are there in England 1 I can't even guess ; but more by a good many, I fear, than there are men who have ten real friends. But friendship is not so expressible or convertible. It is more precious than wisdom ; and wisdom " cannot be "gotten for gold, nor shall rubies be mentioned in com- F 66 TOM BROWN AT OXFOEL. " parisoii thereof." Not all the riches that ever came out cf earth and sea are worth the assurance of one such real ahiding friendship in your heart of hearts. But for the worth of a friendship conunonly so called — meaning therehy a sentiment founded on the good dinners, good stories, opera stalls, and days' shooting you have gotten or hope to get out of a man, the snug things in his gift, and his powers of procuring enjoyment of one kind or another to your miserable body or intellect — why, such a friendship as that is to be appraised easily enough, if you find it worth your wliile ; but you will have to pay your pound of flesh for it one way or another — you may take your oath of that. If you follow my advice, you will take a 10^. note down, and retire to your crust of bread and liberty. Tom was rapidly falling into friendship with Hardy. He was not bound hand and foot and carried away captive yet, but he was abeady getting deep in the toils. One evening he found himself as usual at Hardy's door about eight o'clock. The oak was open, but he got no answer when he knocked at the inner door. Nevertheless he entered, having quite got over all shyness or ceremony by this time. The room was empty, but two tumblers and the black bottle stood on the table, and the kettle was hissing away on the hob. " Ah," thought Tom, " he expects me, I see ; " so he turned his back to the fire and made himself at home. A quarter of an hour passed, and still Hardy did not return. " Never knew him out so long before at this time of night," thought Tom. " Perhaps he's at some party. I hope so. It would do him a deal of good ; and I know he might go out if he hked. Next term, see if I won't make him more sociable. It's a stupid custom that freshmen don't give parties in their first term, or I'd do it at once. ^Vlly won't he be more sociable 1 No, after all, sociable isn't the word ; he's a very sociable fellow at bottom. What in the world is it that he wants ? " And so Tom balanced himself on the two hind legs of one of the Windsor chairs, and betook himself to pondering what it_ was exactly which ought to be added to Hardy to make him an unexceptionable object of hero-worship ; when the man himself came suddenly into the room, slamming his oak behind him, and casting his cap and gown fiercely on to the sofa before he noticed our hero. Tom jumped up at once. « My dear fellow, what's the matter 1 " he said ; " I'm sorry I came in ; shall I go ? " "No— don't go — sit down," said Hardy, abruptly; and then began to smoke fast without saying another word. AN EXPLOSION, 67 Tom waited a few minutes watching him, and then broke bilence again, — " I am sure something is the matter, Hardj ; you look dreadfully put out — what is it 1 " " What is it 1 " said Hardy, bitterly ; " Oh, nothing at all — nothing at all ; a gentle lesson to servitors as to the duties of their position ; not pleasant, perhaps, for a youngster to swallow ; but I ought to be used to such things at any rate by this time. I beg your pardon for seeming put out." " Do tell me what it is," said Tom. " I'm sure I am very sorry for anything which annoys you." "I believe you are," said Hardy, looking at him, "and I'm much obliged to you for it. "What do you think of that fellow Chanter's offering Smith, the junior servitor, a boy just come up, a bribe of ten pounds to prick him in at chapel when he isn't there ?" "The dirty blackguard," said Tom ; "by Jove, he ought to be cut. He will be cut, won't he 1 You don't mean that he really did offer him the money 1 " "I do," said Hardy, "and the poor little fellow came here after hall to ask me what he should do, with tears in his eyes." " Chanter ought to be horsewhipped in quad," said Tom. "I will go and call on Smith directly. "What did you do?" " Why, as soon as I could master myself enough not to lay hands on him," said Hardy, " I went across to his rooms where he was entertaining a select party, and just gave him his choice between writing an abject apology then and there to my dictation, or having the whole business laid before the principal to-morrow morning. He chose the former alterna- tive, and I made him write such a letter as I don't think he will forget in a hurry." "That's good," said Tom; "but he ought to have been borsewhipped too. It makes one's fingers itch to think of it. However, Smith's all right now." "All right!" said Hardy, bitterly. "I don't know what you call 'all right.' Probably the boy's self-respect is hurt for life. You can't salve over this sort of thing with an apology-plaster." "Well, I hope it isn't so bad as that," said Tom. " Wait tUl you've tried it yourself," said Hardy. " I'll tell you what it is ; one or two things of this sort — and I've seen many more than that in my time — sink down into you, and leave marks like a red-hot iron." " But, Hardy, now, really, did you ever krow a bribe offered before?" said Tom. F 2 ()8 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. Hardy thought for a moment. "!N'o," he said, "I can' say that I have; but things as bad, or nearly as bad, often." He paused a miaute, and then went on : "I tell you, if it were not for my dear old father, who would break his heart over it, I would cut the whole concern to-morrow. I've been near doing it twenty times, and enlisting in a good regiment." " Would it be any better there, though 1" said Tom, gently, for he felt that he was in a magazine. " Better ! yes, it must be better," said Hardy : " at any rate the youngsters there are marchers and fighters ; besides, one would be in the ranks and know one's place. Here one is by way of being a gentleman — God save the mark ! A young officer, be he never such a fop or profligate, must take his turn at guard, and carry his life in his hand all over the world, wherever he is sent, or he has to leave the service. Service ! — yes that's the word ; that's what makes every young red-coat respectable, though he mayn't think it. He is serving his Queen, his country — the devil, too, perhaps — very likely — but still the other in some sort. He is bound to it, sworn to it, must do it ; more or less. But a youngster up here, with health, strength, and heaps of money — bound to no earthly service, and choosing that of the devil and his OAvn lusts, because some service or other he must have — T want to know where else under the sun you can see such a sight as that?" Tom mumbled somethmg to the effect that it was by no means necessary that men at Oxford, either rich or poor, need embark in the service which had been alluded to; which remark, however, only seemed to add fuel to the fire. For Hardy now rose from his chair, and began striding up and down the room, his right arm behind his back, the hand gripping his left elbow, his left hand brought round in front close to his body, and holding the bowl of his pipe, from which he was blowing off clouds in puffs like an engiue just starting with a heavy train. The attitude was one of a man painfully trying to curb himself. His eyes burnt like coals under his deep brows. The man altogether looked awful, and Tom felt particularly uncomfortable and puzzled. After a turn or two. Hardy burst out again — " And who are they, I should like to know, these fellows who dare to offer bribes to gentlemen ? How do they live 1 What do they do for themselves or for this University 1 By heaven, they are ruining themselves body and soul, and making this place, which was meant for the training of learned and brave and righteous Englishmen, a he and a ecare. And who tries to stop them ? Here and there a don AH EXPLOSION, 69 is doing his work like a man ; the rest are either washing their hands of the business, and spending their time in looking after those who don't want looking after, and cram- ming those who would be better without the cramming, or else standing by, cap in hand, and shouting, ' Oh young men of large fortune and great connexions ! you future dispensers of the good tlmigs of this realm ! come to our colleges, and all shall be made pleasant!' and the shout is taken up by undergraduates, and tradesmen, and horse-dealers, and cricket- cads, and dog-fanciers, ' Come to us, and us, and us, and we will be your toadies ! ' Let them ; let them toady and cringe to their precious idols, tiU. they bring this noble old place down about their ears. Down it will come, down it must come, for doAvn it ought to come, if it can find nothing better to worship than rank, money, and intellect. But to live in the place and love it too, and see all this going on, and groan and writhe under it, and not be able " At this point in his speech Hardy came to the turning- point in his march at the farther end of the room, just oppo- site his crockery cupboard ; but, instead of turning as usual, he paused, let go the hold on liis left elbow, poised himself for a moment to get a purchase, and then dashed liis right fist full against one of the panels. Crash went the sHght deal boards, as if struck with a sledge-hammer, and crash went glass and crockery behind. Tom jumped to his feet, in doubt whether an assault on him would not follow; but the fit was over, and Hardy looked round at him A\dth a rueful and deprecating face. For a moment Tom tried to look solemn and heroic, as befitted the occasion ; but, somehow, the sudden contrast flashed on hhn, and sent him off, before he could think about it, into a roar of laughter, ending in a violent fit of coughing; for in his excitement he had swal- lowed a mouthful of smoke. Hardy, after holding out for a moment, gave in to the humour of the thing, and the appeal- ing look passed into a smile, and the smile into a laugh, as he turned towards his damaged cujDboard, and began ojDening it carefully in a legitimate manner. " I say, old fellow," said Tom, coming up, " I should think you must find it an expensive amusement. Do you often walk into your cupboards like that ?" " You see, Bro-RTi, I am natm-ally a man of a very quick temper." " So it seems," said Tom ; " but doesn't it hurt your knuckles 1 I should have something softer put up for me if I were you ; your bolster, with a velvet cap on it, or a doctor of divinity's gown, now." 70 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. "You be hanged," said Hardy, as he disengaged the last eplmter, and gently opened the ill-used cupboard door. " Oh, thunder and turf, look here," he went on, as the state of afi'airs inside disclosed itself to his view ; " how many times heve I told that thief George never to put anything on this side of my cujjboard ! Two tumblers smashed to bits, and I've only four in the world. Lucky we had those two out on the table." "And here's a great piece cut of the sugar-basin, you see," said Tom, holding up the broket article ; " and, let me see, one cup and three saucers gone to glory." " Well, it's lucky it's no worse," said Hardy, peering over his shoulder ; " I had a lot of odd saucers, and tliere's enough left to last my time. Never mind the smash, let's sit down again and be reasonable." Tom sat down in high good humour. He felt himself more on an equality with his host than he had done before, and even thought he might venture on a little mild expostu- lation or lecturing. But while he was considering how to improve the occasion Hardy began himself. " I shouldn't go so furious, Brown, if I didn't care about the place so much. I can't bear to think of it as a sort of learning machine, in which I am to grind for three years to get certam degrees which I want. No — this place, and Cambridge, and our great schools, are the heart of dear old England. Did you ever read Secretary Cook's address to the Vice-Chancellor, Doctors, &c. in 1G36 — more critical times, perhaps, even than ours ? No ? Well, listen then •" and he went to his bookcase, took down a book, and read : " ' The ' very truth is, that all wise princes respect the welfare of ' their estates, and consider that schools and universities are * (as in a body) the noble and vital parts, which being vigorous ' and sound send good blood and active spirits into the veins ' and arteries, wliich cause health and strength ; or, if feeble ' or ill-affected, corrupt all the vital parts ; whereupon gi-ow 'diseases, and in the end, death itself.' A low standard up here for ten years may corrupt half the parishes in the king- dom." " That's true," said Tom, " but " " Yes ; and so one has a right to be jealous for Oxford Every Englishman ought to be." ''But 1 reaUy think, Hardy, that you're unreasonable," said Tom, who had no mind to be done out of liis chance of lecturing his host. " I am very quick-tempered," said Hardy, " as I told you just now.'' •' hardy's history. 71 " But you're not fair on tlie fast set up here. They can't help being rich men, after all." " No ; so one oughtn't to expect them to he going through the eyes of needles, I suppose. But do you mean to say you ever heard of a more dirty, blackguard business than tliisi" said Hardy ; "he ought to be expelled the University." " I admit that," said Tom ; " but it was only one of them, you know. I don't believe there's another man in the set who would have done it." " Well, I hope not," said Hardy; '' I may be hard on them — as you saj'-, they can't help bemg rich. But, now, I don't want you to think me a violent one-sided fanatic ; shall I tell you some of my experiences up here — some passages from the life of a servitor 1 " "Do," said Tom ; "I should like nothing so well." CHAPTEE VIII. hardy's history. " My father is an old coijimander in the Eoyal Navy. He was a second cousin of Nelson's Hardy, and that, I believe, was what led him into the navy, for he had no interest what- ever of his own. It was a visit Avhich Nelson's Hardy, then a young lieutenant, paid to his relative, my grandfather, which decided my father, he has told me : but he always had a strong bent to sea, though he was a boy of very studious habits. " However, those were times when brave men who knew and loved their profession couldn't be overlooked, and my dear old father fought his way up step by step — not very fast certainly, but still fast enough to keep him in heart about his chances in life. I could show you the accoimts of some of the affairs he Avas in, in James's History, which you see up on my shelf there, or I could tell them you mj'self j but I hope some day you will know him, and then you will hear them in perfection. "My father was made commander towards the end of the war, and got a ship, in wliich he sailed with a convoy of merchantmen from Bristol. It was the last voyage he ever made in active service ; but the Admiralty was so well satis- fied with his conduct in it that they kept his ship in commis- sion two years after peace was declared. And well they 72 TOM BROWN AT OXFOSD. miglit be ; for in the Spanish main he fought an action which lasted, on and oif, for two days, with a French sloop of war, and a privateer, which he always thought was an American, either of which ought to have been a match for him. But he had been with Vincent in the Arrow, and was not likely to think much of such small odds as that. At any rate he beat them off, and not a prize could either of them make out of his convoy, though I believe his ship was never fit for anything afterwards, and was broken up as soon as she was out of com- mission. We have got lier compasses, and the old flag which flew at the peak through the whole voyage, at home now. It was my father's own flag, and his fancy to have it always flying. More than half the men were killed, or badly hit — the dear old father amongst the rest. A ball took off part of his knee-cap, and he had to fight the last six hours of the action sitting in a chair on the quarter-deck ; but he says it made the men fight better than when he was among them, seeing him sitting there sucking oranges. " Well, he came home with a stiff leg. The Bristol mer- chants gave him the freedom of the city in a gold box, and a splendidly-mounted sword with an inscription on the blade, which hangs over the mantel-piece at home. When I first left homo, I asked him to give me his old service sword, which used to hang by the other, and he gave it me at once, though 1 was only a lad of seventeen, as he would give me his right eye, dear old father, which is the only one he has now ; the other he lost from a cutlass-wound in a boarding party. There it hangs, and those are his epaulettes in the tin case. They used to lie under my pillow before I had a room of my own, and many a cowardly down-hearted fit have they helped to pull me through, Brown ; and many a mean act have they helped to keep me from doing. There they are always ; and the sight of them brings home the dear old man to me as nothing else does, hardly even his letters. I must be a great scoundrel to go very wrong with such a father. "Let's see — where was I? Oh, yes ; I remember. Well, my father got his box and sword, and some very handsome letters from several great men. We have them all in a book at home, and I know them by heart. The ones he values most are from CoUingwood, and his old captain, Vincent, and from his cousin, Nelson's Hardy, who didn't come off very well himself after the war. But "my poor old father never got another ship. For some time he went up every year to London, and was always, he says, very kindly received by the people in power, and often dined with one and another Lord f the Admiralty who had been an old messmate. But he HAEDY'S HISTORY. 7.^ was longing for employment ; and it used to prey on him while he was in his prime to feel year after year slipping away and he still without a sliip. But why should I ahuse people, and think it hard, when he doesn't 1 ' You see. Jack,' he said to me the last time we spoke about it, ' after all, I was a battered old hulk, lame and half blind. So was Nelson, you'll say ; but every man isn't a Nelson, my boy. And though I might think I could con or figlit a ship as well as ever, I can't say other folk who didn't know me w^ere wrong for not agreeing with me. "Would you now, Jack, appoint a lame and blind man to command your ship, if you had one 1 ' But he left off applying for work soon after he was fifty (I just remember the time), for he began to doubt then whether he was quite so fit to command a small vessel as a younger man ; and, though he had a much better chance after that of getting a ship (fol William IV. came to the throne, who knew all about him), he never went near the Admiralty again. ' God forbid,' he said, * that his Majesty should take me if there's a better man to bo had.' " But I have forgotten to tell you how I came hito the world, and am telling you my father's story instead of my own. You seem to Like hearing about it though, and you can't understand one without the other. However, when my father was made commander, he married, and bought, with his prize-money and savings, a cottage and piece of land, in a village on the south coast, where he left his wife when he went on his last voyage. They had waited some years, for neither of them had any money ; but there never were two people who wanted it less, or did more good without it to all who came near them. They had a hard time of it, too, for my father had to go on half-pay ; and a commander's half-pay isn't much to live upon and keep a family. For they had a family ; three, besides me ; but they are all gone. And my mother, too ; she died when I was quite a boy, and left Irim and me alone ; and since then I have never known what a woman's love is, for I have no near relations ; and a man with such prospects as mine had better keep do'\\Ti all — however, there's no need to go into my notions ; I won't wander any more if I can help it. "I know my father was very poor when my mother died, and I think (though he never told me so) that he had mort- gaged our cottage, and was very near having to sell it at one time. The expenses of my mother's illness had been very heavy ; I know a good deal of the best furniture was sold — all, indeed, exce^Dt a handsome arm-chair, and a little work- table of my mother's. She used to sit in the chaix, in her '74 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. last illness, on our lawn, and watch the sunsets. And he sal by her, and watched her, and sometimes read the Bible to her ; while I played about with a big black dog we had then, named Vincent, after my father's old captain ; or with Burt, his old boatswain, who came with his wife to live with my father before I can recollect, and lives with us still. He did everything in the garden and about the house j and in the house, too, when his wife was ill, for he can turn his hand to anything, hke most old salts. Tt was he who rigged up the mast and weather-cock on the lawn, and used to let me run up the old flag on Sundays, and on my father's wedding-day, and on the anniversary of his action, and of Vincent's action in the Arroiv. "After my mother's death my father sent away all the servants, for the boatswain and his wife are more like friends. I was wrong to say that no woman has loved me since my mother's deatli, for I believe dear old Nanny loves me as if I were her own child. My father, after this, used to sit silent for hours together, doing nothing but look over the sea ; but, except for that, was not much changed. After a short time he took to teaching me to read, and from that time I never was away from him for an hour, except when I was asleep, until I went out into the world. " As I told you, my father Avas naturally fond of study. He had kept up the little Latin he had learnt as a boy, and had always been reading whatever he could lay his hands on ; 60 that I couldn't have had a better tutor. They were no lessons to me, particularly the geography ones ; for there was no part of tlie world's sea-coast that he did not know, and could tell me what it and tlie people who lived there were like ; and often wlien Burt happened to come in at such times, and heard what my father was talking about, he would give us some of his adventures and ideas of geography, which were very queer indeed. " When I was nearly ten, a new vicar came. He was about my father's age, and a widower, like him ; only he had no child. Like him, too, he had no private fortune, and the hvmg is a very poor one. He soon became very intimate with us, and made my father his churchwarden ; and, after being present at some of our lessons, volunteered to teach me Greek, which, he said, it was time I should begin to learn. This was a great rehef to my father, who had bought a Greek grammar and dictionary, and a delectus, some time before ; and I could see him often, dear old father, with his glass in his eye, puzzling away over them when I was playing, or read- ing Cook's Voyages, for it had grown to be the wtsh of his haedy's history. 75 heart that I should be a scholar, and should go into orders. So he was going to teach me Greek liimself, for there was no one in the parish except the Vicar who knew a word of any- thing but English — so that he could not have got me a tutor, and the tliought of sending me to school had never crossed his mind, even if he could have afforded to do either. My father only sat by at the Greek lessons, and took no part ; but hrst he began to put in a word here and there, and tlien would repeat words and sentences himself, and look over my book while I construed, and very soon was just as regular a pupil of the Vicar's as I. " The Vicar was for the most part very proud of his pupils, and the kindest of masters ; but every now and then he used to be hard on my father, which made me furious, though he never seemed to mind it. I used to make mistakes on pur- pose at those times to show that I was worse than he at any rate. But this only happened after we had had a political discussion at dinner ; for we dined at three, and took to our Greek afterwards, to suit the Vicar's time, who was generally a guest. My father is a Tory, of course, as you may guess, and tlie Vicar was a Liberal, of a very mild sort, as I have since thought ; ' a Whig of '88,' he used to call himself. But he was in favour of the Eeform BUI, which Avas enough for my father, who lectured him about loyalty, and opening the flood-gates to revolution ; and used to call up old Burt from the kitchen, where he was smoking his pipe, and ask him what he used to think of the Eadicals on board ship ; and Burt's regular reply was — " ' Skullcs, yer honour, regular skullfs. I wouldn't give the twist of a fiddler's elbow for all the lot of 'em as ever pre- tended to handle a swab, or hand a topsail.' " The Vicar always tried to argue, but, as Burt and I were the only audience, my father was always triumphant ; only he took it out of us afterwards at the Greek, Often I used to think, when they were reading history, and tallving about the characters, that my father was much the most liberal of the two. " About tills time he bought a smaU half-decked boat of ten tons, for he and Burt agreed that I ought to learn to handle a boat, although I was not to go to sea ; and when they got the Vicar in the boat on the summer evenings (for he was always ready for a sail though he was a very bad saHor), I believe they used to steer as near the wind as pos- sible, and get into short chopping seas on purpose. But 1 don't think he was ever frightened, though he used sometimes to be very ill. 76 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. " And so I went on, learning all I could from my father, and the Vicar, and old Burt, till I was sixteen. By that time I had begun to think for myself ; and I had made up my mind that it was time I should do something. Ko boy ever wanted to leave home less, I believe ; but I saw that I must make a move if I was ever to be what my father wished me to be. So I spoke to the Vicar, and he quite agreed with me, and made inquiries amongst his acquaintance ; and so, before I was seventeen, I was offered th-^. place of under-master in a commercial school, about twenty miles from home. The Vicar brought the offer, and my father was very angry at first ; but we talked him over, and so I took the situation. " And I am very glad I did, although there were many drawbacks. The salary was S5l, a year, and for that I had to drill all the boys in English, and arithmetic, and Latin, and to teach the Greek grammar to the five or six who paid extra to learn it. Out of school I had to be always with them, and was responsible for the discipline. It was weary work very often, and what seemed the worst part of it to me, at the time, was the trade spirit which leavened the whole of the establishment. The master and owner of the school, who was a keen vulgar man, but always civil enough to me, thought of nothing but what would pay. And this seemed to be what filled the school. Fathers sent their boys, because the place was so practical, and nothing was taught (except as extras) which was not to be of so-called real use to the boys in the world. We had our work quite clearly laid doAvn for us ; and it was, not to pi;t the boys in the way of getting real knowledge or understanding, or any of the things Solomon talks about, but to put them in the way of getting on. "I spent three years at that school, and in that time I grounded myself pretty well in Latin and Greek — better, I believe, than I should have done if I had been at a first- rate school myself ; and I hope I did the boys some good, and taught some of them that cunning was not the best quality to start in life with. And I was not often very un- happy, for I could always look forward to my holidays with my father. " However, I own that I never was better pleased than one Christmas, when the Vicar came over to our cottage, and brought with him a letter from the Principal of St. Ambrose College, Oxford, appointing me to a servitorship. My father was even more deliglited than I, and that evening produced a bottle of old rum, which was part of his ship's stock, and had gone all through his action, and been in his cellar ever since, haedy's history. 77 And we three in the parlour, and old Burt and his wife in the kitchen, finished it that night ; the hoatswain, I must own, taking the lion's share. The Vicar took occasion, in the course of the evening, to hint that it was only poor men who took these places at the University ; and that I might find some inconvenience, and suffer some annoyance, by not being exactly in the same position as other men. But my dear old father would not hear of it ; I was now going to be amongst the very pick of English gentlemen — what could it matter whether I had money or not 1 That was the last thing which real gentlemen thought of. Besides, why was I to be so very poor? he should be able to allow me whatever would be necessary to make me comfortable. 'But, Jack,' he said suddenly, later in the evening, * one meets low fellows every- where. You have met them, I know, often at that con- founded school, and wiU meet them again. Never you be ashamed of your poverty, my boy.' I promised readily enough, for I didn't think I could be more tried in that way than I had been already. I had lived for three years amongst people whose class notoriously measured all things by a money standard ; now that was all over, I thought. It's easy making promises in the dark. The Vicar, however, would not let the matter rest ; so we resolved ourselves into a Committee of "Ways and Means, and my father eflgaged to lay before us an exact statement of his affairs next day. I went to the door with the Vicar, and he told me to come and see him in the morning. " I half-guessed what he Avanted to see me for. He knew all my father's affairs perfectly well, and wished to prepare me for what was to come in the evening. ' Your father,' he said, * is one of the most liberal men I have ever met ; he is almost the only person who gives anything to the schools and other charities in this parish, and he gives to the utmost. You would not wish him, I know, to cut off these gifts, which bring the highest reward with them, when they are made in the s]jirit in which he makes them. Then he is getting old, and you would never like him to deny himself the comforts (and few enough they are) which he is used to. He has nothing but his half-pay to live on ; and out of that he pays 50^. a year for insurance ; for he has insiired his life, that you may have something beside the cottage and land when he dies. I only tell you this that you may know the facts before- hand. I am sure you would never take a penny from liim if you could help it. But he won't be happy unless he makes you some allowance ; and he can do it without crippling him- self. He has been paymg off an old mortgage on his property 78 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. here for many years, by instalments of 40^. a year, and the last was paid last Michaelmas; so that it will not incon- venience him to make you that allowance. Now, you will not be able to live properly upon that up at Oxford, even as a servitor. I speak to you now, my dear Jack, as your oldest friend (except Burt), and you must allow me the privilege of an old friend. I have more than I Avant, and I propose to make up your allowance at Oxford to 80^. a year, and upon that I think you may manage to get on. I^ow, it will not be quite candid, but I think, onder the circumstances, we shall be justified in representing to your father that 40^. a year will be ample for him to allow you. You see what I mean V " I remember almost word fOr word what the Vicar said ; for it is not often in one's life that one meets with this sort of friend. At first I thanked him, but refused to take anything from him. I had saved enough, I said, to carry me through Oxford. But he would not be put off; and I found that his heart was as much set on making me an allowance himself as on saving my father. So I agreed to take 251. a year from him. " When we met again in the evening, to hear my father's statement, it was as good as a play to see the dear old man, with his spectacles on and his papers before him, proving in some wonderful way that he could easily allow me at least 801. or lOOZ. a year. I believe it cost the Vicar some twinges of conscience to persuade him that all I should want would be 4:01. a year ; and it was very hard work ; but at last we suc- ceeded, and it was so settled. During the next three weeks the preparations for my start occupied us all. The Vicar looked out all his old classics, which he insisted that I should take. There they stand on that middle sheK — all well bound, you see, and many of them old college prizes. ]\Iy father made an expedition to the nearest town, and came back with a large new portmanteau and hat-box ; and the next day the leading tailor came over to fit me out with new clothes. In fact, if I lud not resisted stoutly, I should have come to college with half the contents of the cottage, and Burt as a valet; for the old boatswain was as bad as the other two. But I compromised the matter with him by accepting his pocket compass and the picture of the brig which hangs there ; the two things, next to his old wife, which he values, I beheve, most in the world. " Well, it is now two years last Octoher since I came to Oxford as a servitor; so you see I have pretty nearly finished my time here. I was more than twenty then — much older, hardy's histoky. 79 as you know, tlian most freslimen. I daresay it was partly owing to the difference in age, and partly to the fact that I knew no one when I came up, but mostly to my o^vn bad management and odd temper, that I did not get on better than I have done with the men here. Sometimes I think that our college is a bad specimen, for I have made several ■friends amongst out-college men. At any rate, the fact is, as you have no doubt found out — and I hope I haven't tried at all to conceal it — that I am out of the pale, as it were. In fact, with the exception of one of the tutors, and one man who was a freshman with me, I do not loiow a man in college except as a mere speaking acquaintance. " I had been rather thi'own off my balance, I think, at the change in my life, for at first I made a great fool of myself. I had believed too readdy what my father had said, and thought that at Oxford I should see no more of what I had been used to. Here I thought that the last thing a man would be valued by would be the length of his purse, and that no one would look down upon me because I performed some services to the college in return for my keep, instead of paying for it in money. "Yes, I made a great foci of myself, no doubt of that; and, what is worse, I broke my promise to my father — I often was ashamed of my poverty, and tried at first to hide it, for some- how the spirit of the place carried me along with it. I couldn't help wishing to be thought of and treated as an equal by the men. It's a very bitter thing for a proud, shy, sensi live fellow, as I am by nature, to have to bear the sort of assumption and insolence one meets with. I furnished my rooms well, and dressed well. Ah ! you may stare ; but this is not the furniture I started with ; I sold it all when I came to my senses, and put in this tumble-down second-hand stuff, and I have worn oi\t my fine clothes. I know I'm not well dressed now. (Tom nodded ready acquiescence to this posi- tion.) Yes, though I still wince a little now and then — a good deal oftener than I Hke — I don't carry any false colours. I can't quite conquer the feeKng of shame (for shame it is, I am afraid), but at any rate I don't try to hide my poverty any longer, I haven't for these eighteen months. I have a grim sort of pleasure in pushing it in everybody's face." (Tom assented with a smile, remembering how excessively uncomfortable Hardy had made him by this little peculiarity the first time he was in his rooms.) "The first thing which opened my eyes a little was the conduct of the tradesmen. My bills all came in within a week of the delivery of the furniture and clothes j some of them wouldn't leave the things 80 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. mthout payment, I was very angry and vexed ; not at the bills, for I had my savings, which were much more than enough to pay for everything. But I knew that these same tradesmen never thought of asking for payment under a year, oftener two, from other men. Well, it was a lesson. Credit for gentle- men-commoners, ready-money dealings with servitors ! I owe the Oxford tradesmen much for that lesson. If they would only treat every man who comes up as a servitor, it would save a deal of misery. " My cure was completed by much higher folk, though. I can't go through the whole treatment, but wUl give you a specimen or two of the doses, giving precedence (as is the way here) to those administered by the highest in rank, I got them from all sorts of people, but none did me more good than the lords' pills. Amongst other ways of getting on, I took to sparring, which was then very much in vogue. I am a good hand at it, and very fond of it, so that it wasn't alto- gether fiunkeyism, I'm glad to think. In my second term two or three lighting men came do^vn fi'om London, and gave a benefit at the Weirs. I was there, and set to with one of them. We were well matched, and both of us did our very best ; and when we had had our turn we drew down the house, as they say. Several young tufts and others of the faster men came up to me afterwards and complimented me. They did the same by the professional, but it didn't occur to me at the time that they put us both in the same category. "I am free to own that I was really pleased two days after- wards, when a most elaborate flunkey brought a card to my door inscribed, ' The Viscount Philippine, Ch, Ch., at home to-night, eight o'clock — sparring.' Luckily, I made a light dinner, and went sharp to time into Christ Church. The porter directed me to the noble Viscount's rooms ; they were most splendid, certainly — first-floor rooms in Peckwater. I was shown into the large room, which was magnificently fur- nished and lighted. A good space was cleared in the centre ; there were all sorts of bottles and glasses on the sideboard. There might have been twelve or fourteen men present, almost all in tufts or gentlemen-commoners' caps. One or two of our coUege I recognised. The fighting man was also there, stripped for sparring, which none of the rest were. It was plain that the sport had not begun ; I think he was doing some trick of strength as I came in. My noble host came forward with a nod, and asked me if I would take anything, and when I declined, said, ' Then wiU you put on the gloves V I looked at him, rather surprised, and thought it an odd way to treat the only stranger in his own rooms. However, I« haiidy's history. 81 stripped, put on the gloves, and one of tlie others came forward to tie them for mo. While he was doing it I heard my host say to the man, ' A five-pound note, mind, if yon do it within the quarter-ofan hour.' 'Only half- minute time, then, my lord,' he answered. The man who w^as tying my gloves said, in a low voice, ' Ee steady ; don't give him a chance to knock you down.' It flashed across me in a moment now why I was there ; but it was too late to draw back, so we stood up and began sparring. I played very steadily and light at first to see whether my suspicions were well founded, and in two minutes I was satisfied. My opponent tried every dodge to bring on a rally, and when he was foiled I could see that he was shifting his glove. I stopped and insisted that his gloves should be tied, and then we went on again. " I kept on the defensive. The man was in bad training, and luckily I had the advantage by an inch or so ia length of arm. Before five minutes were over, I had caught enough of the bystanders' remarks to know that my noble host had betted a pony that I shoidd be knocked down in a quarter- of-an-hour. JNIy one object now was to make him lose his money. My opponent did his utmost for his patron, and fairly winded himself in his efforts to get at me. He had to call time twice himself. I said not a word ; my time w^ould come, I knew, if I could keep on my legs, and of this I had little fear. I held myself together, made no attack, and my length of arm gave me the advantage in every counter. It was all I could do, though, to keep clear of his rushes as the time drew on. On he came time after time, careless of guard- ing, and he was full as good a man as I. 'Time's up ; it's past the quarter.' ' No, by Jove, half a minute yet ; now's your time,' said my noble host to his man, who answered by a last rush. I met him as before with a steady counter, but this time my blow got home under his chin, and he staggered, lost, his footing, and went fairly over on to his back. " Most of the bystanders seemed delighted, and some of th( ui hurried towards me. But I tore off the gloves, flung thorn on the ground, and turned to my host. I could hardly speak, but I made an effort, and said quietly, 'You have brought a stranger to your rooms, and have tried to make him fight for your amusement ; now I tell you it is a blackguard act of yours — an act which no gentleman would have done.' My noble ho.-;t made no remark. I threw on my coat and waist- coat, and then turned to the rest and said, 'Gentlemen would not have stood by and seen it done.' I went up to the side- board, kiiicorked a bottle of champagne, ami half iiUcd a- tumbler, before a word was spoken. Then ouq of the visitors 82 TOM BUOWN AT OXFORD. stepped forward and said, ' Mr. Hardy, I hope you won't go , there has been a mistake ; we did not know of this. I am sure many of us are very sorry for what has occurred ; stay and look on, we will all of us spar.' I looked at him, and then at my host, to see whether the latter joined in the apology. Not he ; he was domg the dignified sulky, and most of the rest seemed to me to be with him. ' Will any of you spar with meV I said, tauntingly, tossing off the champagne. ' Certainly,' the new speaker said directly, ' if you wish it, and are not too tired. I will spar with you myself; you will, won't you, James 1 ' and he turned to one of the other men. If any of them had backed him by a word I should probably have stayed. Several of them, I learnt afterwards, would have liked to have done so, but it was an awkward scene to interfere in. I stopped a moment, and then said, Avith a sneer, * You're too small, and none of the other gentlemen seem inclined to offer.' " I saw that I had hiu't hun, and felt pleased at the mo- ment that I had done so. I was now ready to start, and I could not think of anything more unpleasant to say at the moment ; so I went up to my antagonist, who was standing with the gloves on still, not quite knowing what to be at, and held out my hand. ' I can shake hands with you at any rate,' I said ; ' you only did what you were paid for in the regular way of business, and you did your best.' He looked rather sheepish, but held out his gloved hand, which I shook. 'IS^ow, I htve the honour to wish you all a very good evening ;' and so I left the place and got home to my own rooms, and sat down there with several new ideas in my head^ On the whole, the lesson was not a very bitter one, for I felt that I had had the best of the game. The only thing I really was sorry for was my own insolence to the man who had come forward as a peacemaker. I had remarked his face before. I don't know how it is with you, but I can never help looking at a tuft — the gold tassel draws one's eyes somehow : and then it's an awful position, after aU, for mere boys to be placed in. So I knew his face before that day, though I had only seen him two or three times in the street. Now it waa much more clearly impressed on my mind ; and I called it up and looked it over, half hoping that I should detect some- thing to justify me to myself, but without success. How- ever, I got the whole affair pretty well out of my head by bedtime. " While I was at breakfast the next morning, my scout came in with a face of the most ludicrous importance, and quite a deferential manner. I declare I don't think he has ever got hakdy's history. 83 back since that day to his original free-and-easy swagger. He laid a card on my table, paused a moment, and then said, ' His ludship is houtside watin', sir.' " I had had enough of lords' cards ; and the scene of yesterday rose painfully before me as I threw the card into the fire without looking at it, and said, 'TeU him I am engaged.' " My scout, with something like a shudder at my audacity, replied, ' Plis ludship told me to say, sir, as his bis'ness was very particular, so hif you was engaged he would call again in 'arf an hour.' " ' Tell him to come in, then, if he won't take a civil hint.' I felt sure who it would be, but hardly knew whether to be pleased or annoyed, when in another minute the door opened, and in walked the peacemaker. I don't know which of us was most embarrassed ; he walked straight up to me without lifting his eyes, and held out his hand, saying, ' I hope, Mr. Hardy, you will shake hands with me now.' " ' Certainly, my lord,' I said, taking his hand ; ' I am sorry for what I said to you yesterday, when my blood was up.' " * You said no more than we deserved,' he answered, twirl- ing his cap by the long gold tassel ; * I could not be com- fortable without coming to assure you again myself, that neither I, nor, I believe, half the men in Philippine's rooms yesterday, knew anything of the bet. I really cannot tell you how annoyed I have been about it.' " I assured him that he might make himself quite easy, and then remained standing, expecting him to go, and not know- ing exactly what to say further. But he begged me to go on with my breakfast, and sat down, and then asked me to give him a cup of tea, as he had not breakfasted. So in a few minutes we were sitting opposite one another over tea and bread and butter, for he didn't ask for, and I didn't offer, any- thing else. It was rather a trying meal, for each of us was doing all he could to make out the other. I only hope I Avas as pleasant as he was. After breakfast he went, and 1 thought the acquaintance was probably at an end ; he had done all thac a gentleman need have done, and had ■R'ell-nigh healed a raw place in. my mental skin. " But I was mistaken. Without intruding himself on me, he managed somehow or another to keep on building up the acquaintance little by little. For some time I looked out very jealously for any patronising airs, and even after I was con- vinced that he had nothing of the sort in him, avoided him as much as I could, though he was the most pleasant and q2 84 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. best-informed man 1 knew. However, we became intimate, and I saw a good deal of him, in a quiet way, at his own rooms. I wouldn't go to his parties, and asked him not to come to me here, for my horror of being thought a tuft-hunter had become almost a disease. He was not so old as I, but he was just leaving the University, for he had come up early, and lords' sons are allowed to go out in two years ;— I suppose because the authorities think they will do less harm here in two than three years ; but it is somewhat hard on poor men, who have to earn their bread, to see such a privilege given to those who want it least. When he left, he made me promise to go and pay him a visit — which I did in the long vacation, at a splendid place up in the North, and enjoyed myself more than I care to own. His father, who is quite worthy of his son, and all his family, were as kind as people could be. " "Well, amongst other folk I met there a young sprig of nobUity who was coming up here the next term. He had been brought up abroad, and, I suppose, knew very few men of his own age in England. He was not a bad style of boy, but rather too demonstrative, and not strong-headed. He took to me wonderfully, was delighted to hear that I was up at Oxford, and talked constantly of how much we should see of one another. As it happened, I was almost the first man he met when he got off the coach at the ' Angel,' at the begin- ning of his first term. He almost embraced me, and nothing would serve but I must dine with him at the inn, and we spent the evening together, and parted dear friends. Two days afterwards we met in the street ; he was with two other youngsters, and gave me a polished and distant bow ; in another week he passed me as if we had never met. " I don't blame him, poor boy. My only wonder is, that any of them ever get through this place without being thoroughly spoilt. From Vice-Chancellor down to scout's boy, the whole of Oxford seems to be in league to turn their heads, even if they come up with them set on straight, which toadying servants at home take care shall never happen if they can hinder it. The only men who would do them good up here, both dons and undergraduates, keep out of their way, very naturally. Gentlemen-commoners have a little better chance, though not much, and seem to me to be worse than the tufts, and to furnish most of their toadies. "Well, are you tired of my railing? I daresay I am rabid about it all. Only it does go to my heart to think what this place might be, and what it is. I see I needn't give you any more of my experience. "A BROWN BAIT." 85 *' You'll Tinderstand now some of the things that have pvizzled you about me. Oh ! I know they did ; you needn't look apologetic. I don't wonder, or blame you. ] am a very queer bird for the perch I have lit on ; I know that as well as anybody. The only wonder is that you ever took the trouble to try to lime me. Now have another glass of toddy. Why ! it is near twelve. I must have one pipe and turn in. No Aristophanes to-night." CHAPTE.R IX. "a brown bait." Tom's little exaltation in his own eyes consequent on the cupboard-smashing escapade of his friend was not to last long. Not a week had elapsed before he himself arrived suddenly in Hardy's room in as furious a state of mind as the other had so lately been in, allowing for the difference of the men. Hardy looked up from his books and exclaimed : — ** What's the matter ? Wliere have you been to-night 1 You look fierce enough to sit for a portrait of Sanguinoso Volcanoni, the bandit." " Been ! " said Tom, sitting down on the spare Windsor chair, which he usually occupied, so hard as to make it crack again ; " been ! I've been to a wine party at Hendon's. Do you know any of that set 1" "No, except Grey, who came into residence in the same term with me j we have been reading for degree together. You must have seen him here sometimes in the evenings." " Yes, I remember ; the fellow with a stiff neck, who won't look you in the face." "Ay, but he is a sterling man at the bottom, I can tell you." " Well, he wasn't there. You don't know any of the rest 1 " " No." " And never went to any of their parties 1 " "No." " You've had no loss, I can teU you," said Tom, pleased that the ground was clear for him. " I never was amongst such a set of waspish, dogmatical, over-bearing fellows in my life." "Why, what in the name of fortune have they been doing to you 1 How did you fall among Guch Philistines 1 " 86 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " I'm such an easy fool, you see," said Tom, " I go oil directly with any fellow that asks me ; fast or slow, it's all the same. I never think twice about the matter, and gene- rally, I Hke all the fellows I meet, and enjoy everything. But just catch me at another of their stuck-up wines, that's all." " But you won't tell me what's the matter." " Well, I don't know why Hendon should have asked me. He can't think me a likely card for a convert, I should think. At any rate, he asked me to wine, and I went as usual Every- thing was in capital style (it don't seem to be any part of their creed, mind you, to drink bad wine), and awfully gentlemanly and decorous." "Yes, that's aggravating, I admit. It would have been in better taste, of coiirse, if they had been a little blackguard and indecorous. No doubt, too, one has a right to expect bad wine at Oxford. Well ? " Hardy spoke so gravely, that Tom had to look across at him for half a minute to see whether he was in earnest. Then he went on with a grin. " There was a piano in one corner, and muslin curtains — I give you my word, muslin curtains, besides the stuff ones." "You don't say so !" said Hardy; "put up, no doubt, to insult you. No wonder you looked so furious when you came in. Anything else 1 " "Let me see — yes — I coxmted three sorts of scents on the mantel-piece, besides Eau-de-Cologne. But I could have stood it all well enough if it hadn't been for their talk. From one thing to another they got to cathedrals, and one of them called St. Paul's 'a disgrace to a Christian city.' i couldn't stand that, you know. I was always bred to respect St. Paul's ; weren't you ? " " My education in that line was neglected," said Hardy, gravely. " And so you took up the cudgels for St. Paul's 1 " " Yes, I plumped out that St. Paul's was the finest cathedral in England. You'd have thought I had said that lying was one of the cardinal virtues — one or two just treated me to a sort of pitying sneer, but my neighbours were down upon me with a vengeance. I stuck to my text though, and they drove me into saying I liked the Ptatcliffe more than any building in Oxford ; which I don't believe I do, now I come to think of it. So when they couldn't get me to budge for their talk, they took to telling me that everybody who knew anything about chiu'ch architecture was against me — of course meaning that I knew nothing about it — for the matter of that, I don't mean to say that I do "—Tom paused ; it had suddenly occurred tg "A BROWN BAIT." 87 him that there might be some reason in the rough handling he had got. "But what did you say to the authorities?" said Hardy, who was greatly amused. " Said I didn't care a straw for them," said Tom; "there was no right or wrong in the matter, and I had as good a right to my opinion as Pugin — or whatever his name is — and the rest." " What heresy ! " said Hardy, laughing ; " you caught it for that, I suppose ?" " Didn't I ! They made such a noise over it, that the men at the other end of the table stopped talking (they were all freshmen at our end), and when they found what was up, one of the older ones took me in hand, and I got a lecture about the middle ages, and the monks. I said I thought England was well rid of the monks ; and then we got on to Pro- testantism, and fasting, and apostolic succession, and passive obedience, and I don't know what all ! I only know I was tired enough of it before coffee came ; but I couldn't go, you know, with all of them on me at once, could 1 1 " " Of course not ; you were like the 6,000 unconquerable British infantry at Albuera. You held your position by sheer fighting, suffering fearful loss." " Well," said Tom, laughing, for he had talked himself into good humour again, " I dare say I talked a deal of nonsense ; and, when I come to think it over, a good deal of what some of them said had something in it. I should like to hear it again quietly ; but there were others sneering and giving themselves airs, and that puts a fellow's back up." "Yes," said Hardy, "a good many of the weakest and vainest men who come up take to this sort of thing now. They can do nothing themselves, and get a sort of platform by going in for the High Church business from Avhich to look down on their neighbours." "That's just what I thought," said Tom; "they tried to push, mother Church, mother Church, down my throat at every turn. I'm as fond of the Church as any of them, but I don't want to be jumping up on her back every minute, like a sickly chicken getting on the old hen's back to warm its feet Avhenever the ground is cold, and fancying himself taller than all the rest of the brood." "You were unlucky," said Hardy; "there are some very fine fellows amongst them." "Well, I haven't seen much of them," said Tom, "and I don't want to see any more, for it seems to me all a Gothic- mouldings and man-millinery business." 88 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " You won't tliink so whftn you've been up a little longer," said Hardy, getting up to make tea, which operation he had hardly commenced, when a knock came at the door, and in answer to Hardy's " Come in," a slight, shy man appeared, who hesitated, and seemed inclined to go when he saw that Hardy was nst alone. "Oh, come in, and have a cup of tea, Grey. You know Brown, I think ? " said Hardy, looking round from the fire, where he was filling his teapot, to watch Tom's reception of the new comer. Our hero took his feet do^^Ti, drew himself up and made a solemn bow, which Grey returned, and then sKd nervously into a chair and looked very uncomfortable. However, in another minute Hardy came to the rescue and began pouring out the tea. He was evidently tickled at the idea of con- fronting Tom so soon with another of his enemies. Tom saw this, and put on a cool and majestic manner in consequence, which evidently increased the discomfort of Grey's seat, and kept Hardy on the edge of an abyss of laughter. In fact, he had to ease himself by talking of indifferent matters and laughing at nothing. Tom had never seen him in this sort of humour before, and couldn't help enjoying it, though he felt that it was partly at his own expense. But when Hardy once just approached the subject of the wine party, Tom bristled up so quickly, and Grey looked so meekly wretched, though he knew nothing of what was coming, that Hardy suddenly changed the subject, and turning to Grey, said — " What have you been doing the last fortnight ] You haven't been here once. I've been obliged to get on with my Aristotle without you." " I'm very sorry indeed, but I haven't been able to come," said Grey, looking sideways at Hardy, and then at Tom, who sat regarding the wall, supremely indifferent. " Well I've finished my Ethics," said Hardy ; " can't you come in to-morrow night to talk them over 1 I suppose you're through them too ? " " No, really," said Grey, " I haven't been able to look at them since the last time I was here." " You must take care," said Hardy. " The new examiners are all for science and history ; it won't do for you to go in trusting to your scholarship." " I hope to make it up in the Eastei vacation," said Grey. "You'll have enough to do then," said Hardy ; " but how is it you've dropped astern so ? " " Why, tlie fact is," said Grey, hesitatingly, " that the curate of St. Peter's has set up some night-schools, and want(jd -A BROWN BAIT." 89 Mome help. So I have been Jomg what 1 could to help him ; and really," looking at his watch, " I must be going. I only wanted to tell you how it was I didn't come now." Hardy looked at Tom, who was taken rather aback by this announcement, and began to look less haughtily at the wall. He even condescended to take a short glance at his neighbour. " It's unlucky," said Hardv ; " but do you teach every night 1 " " Yes," said Grey. " I used to do my science and history at night, you know ; but I find that teaching takes so much out of me, that I'm only fit for bed now, when I get back. I'm so glad I've told you. I have wanted to do it for some time. And if you would let me come in for an hour directly after hall, instead of later, I think I coiild still manage that." " Of course," said Hardy, "come when you like. But it's rather hard to take you away every night, so near the examinations." " It is my own wish," said Grey. " I should have been very glad if it hadn't happened just now ; but as it has, I must do the best I can." "Well, but I should like to help you. Can't I take a night or two off your hands 1 " " No ! " said Tom, fired with a sudden enthusiasm ; " it will be as bad for you. Hardy. It can't want much scholarship to teach there. Let me go. I'll take two nights a week, if you'll let me." " Oh, thank you," said Grey ; " but I don't know how mj friend might like it. That is — I mean," he said, getting verj red, " it's very kind of you, only I'm used to it ; and — and they rely on me. But I really must go — good night ; " and Grey went off in confusion. As soon as the door had fairly closed, Hardy could stand it DO longer, and lay back in his chair, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. Tom, wholly unable to appreciate the joke, sat looking at him with perfect gravity. " What can there be in your look, Brown," said Hardy, when he could speak again, " to frighten Grey so 1 Did you see what a fright he was in at once, at the idea of turning you into the night-schools 1 There must be some lurking Protestantism in your face somewhere, wh:ch I hadn't detected.' " I don't believe he was frightened at me a bit. He wouldn't have you either, remember," said Tom. " Well, at any race, that don't look as if it were all mere Gothic-mouldings and man-millinery, does it 1 " said Hardy. Tom sipped his tea, and considered. 90' TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " One can't help admiring him, do you know, for it," he said. " Do you think he is really thrown back, now, in his own reading by this teaching ? " - I'm sure of it. He is such a quiet fellow, that nothing else is likely to draw him off reading ; and I can see that he doesn't got on as he used, day by day. Unless he makes it up somehow, he won't get his first." "He don't seem to like the teaching work much,' said Tom. "Not at all, as far as I can see." " Then it is a very fine thing of him," said Tom. " And you retract your man-millinery dictum, so far as he is concerned 1 " " Yes, that I do, heartily ; but not as to the set in general." " WeU; they don't suit me either ; but, on the whole, they are wanted — at any rate, in this college. Even the worst of them is making some sort of protest for self-denial, and against self-indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than here." " A nice sort of protest — muslin curtains, a piano, and old claret." " Oh, you've no right to count Hendon among them ; he has only a httle hankering after medisevalism, and thinks the whole thing gentlemanly." " I only know the whole clamjamfery of them were there, and didn't seem to protest much." " Brown, you're a bigot. I should never have thought you would have been so furious against any set of fellows. T begin to smell Arnold." " No you don't. He never spoke to me against anybody." " Hallo ! It was the Eugby atmosphere, then, I suppose. But I tell you they are the only men in this college who are making that protest, whatever their motives may be." " What do you say to yourself, old fellow ? " " Nonsense ! I never deny myself any pleasure that I can afford, if it isn't wrong in itself, and doesn't hinder any one else. I can tell you I'm as fond of fine things and good living as you." "//a thing isn't wrong, and you can afford it, and it don't hurt anybody ! Just so ; well, then, mustn't it be right for you to have ? You wouldn't have it put under your nose, I suppose, just for you to smell at, and let it alone 1 " " Yes ; I know all that. I've been over it all often enough, and thevsj's truth in it. But, mind you, it's rather slippery ground, especially for a freshman ; and there's a great deal to be said on the other side — I mean, for denying oneself just for the sake of the self-deniaL" "A BEOWN BAIT." 91 " Well, they don't deny themselves the pleasure of looking at a feUow as if he were a Tiirk, hecause he likes St. Paul's better than Westminster Abbey." " How that snubbing you got at the Ecclesiological wine party seems to rankle. — There now ! don't bristle up like a hedgehog. I'll never mention that unfortunate wine again. I saw the eight come in to-day. You are keeping much better time ; but there is a weak place or two forward." " Yes," said Tom, delighted to change the subject, " I find it awfully hard to pull up to Jervis's stroke. Do you think I shall ever get to it 1 " " Of course you Avill. AVliy, you have only been pulling behind him a dozen times or so, and his ia the most trying stroke on the river. You quicken a little on it ; bu.t I didn't mean you. Two and five are the blots in the boat." *' You think sol" said Tom, much relieved. " So does Miller, I can see. It's so provoking — Drysdale is to pull two in the races next term, and Blake seven, and then Diogenes will go to five. He's obliged to pull seven now, because Blake won't come down this term ; no more "wdll Drysdale. They say there wUl be plenty of time after Easter." " It's a great pity," said Hardy. " Isn't it 1 " said Tom ; " and it makes Miller so savage. He walks into us all as if it were our faults. Do you think he's a good coxswain 1 " "First-rate on most points, but rather too sharp-tongued. You can't get a man's best out of him without a little praise." ■ " Yes, that's just it ; he puts one's back up," said Tom. " But the Captain is a splendid fellow, isn't he ? " " Yes ; but a little too easy, at least with men like Blake and Drysdale. He ought to make them train, or turn them out." " But who could he get 1 There's nobody else. If you would pull, now — why shouldn't you 1 I'm sure it would make us all right." " I don't subscribe to the club," said Hardy ; " I wish I had, for I should like to have pulled with you, and behind Jervis, this year." "Do let me tell the Captain," said Tom ; "I'm sure he'd manage it somehow." " I'm afraid it's too late," said Hardy ; " I cut myself off from everything of the sort two years ago, and I'm beginning |o think I was a fool for my pains," 92 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. Nothing more was said on the subject at the time, but Tom went away in great spiiits at having drawn this confession out of Hardy — the more so, perhaps, because he flattered himself that he had had something to say to the change in his friend. CHAPTER X. SUMMER TERM, flow many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with the beginning of our second term at the University 1 So far as external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what a man could iind to ask for at that period of his life, if a fairy godmother were to alight in his rooms and offer him the usual three wishes. The sailor who had asked for " all the grog in the world," and " all the baccy in the world," was indeed driven to " a little more baccy " as his third requisition ; but, at any rate, his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on what he held to be sub- stantial wants ; he felt himself actually limited in the matters of grog and tobacco. The condition which Jack would have been in as a wisher, if he had been started on his quest with the assurance that his utmost desires in the direction of alcohol and narcotics were already provided for, and must be left out of the question, is the only one affording a pretty exact parallel to the case we are considering. In our second term we are no longer freshmen, and begin to feel ourselves at home, while both " smalb " and " greats " are sufficiently distant to be altogether ignored if we are that way inclined, or to be looked forward to with confidence that the game is in our own hands if we are reading men. Our financial position — unless we have exercised rare ingenuity in in- volving ourselves — is all that heart can desire ; we have ample allowances paid in quarterly to the University bankers without thought or trouble of ours, and our credit is at its zenith. It is a part of our recognised duty to repay the hospitality we have received as freshmen ; and all men will be sure to come to our first parties, to see how we do the thing ; it will be our own faults if we do not keep them in future. We have not had time to injure our characters to any material extent Avith the authorities of our OAvn college, or of the University. Our spirits are never likely to be higher, or our digestions better. These and many other comforts and advantages environ the fortunate youth returning SUMMER TERM. 93 to Oxford after his first vacation ; thrice fortunate, however, if, as happened in our hero's case, it is Easter term to which he is retiu-ning ; for that Easter term, with the four days' vacation, and Httle Trinity term at the end of it, is sui-ely the cream of the Oxford year, Tlien, even in this our stern northern climate, the sun is beginning to have power, the days have lengthened out, great-coats are unnecessary at morning chapel, and the miseries of numbed hands and shivering skins no longer accompany every puU on the river and canter on BuUingdon. In Christ Church meadows and the college gardens the birds are making sweet music in the tall elms. You may almost hear the thick grass growing, and the buds on tree and shrub are changing from brown, red, or purple, to emerald green under your eyes ; the glorious old city is putting on her best looks and bursting out into laughter and song. In a few weeks the races begin, and Cowley marsh will be alive with white tents and joyous cricketers. A quick ear, on the towhig-path by the Gut, may feast at one time on those three sweet sounds, the thud thud of the eight-oar, the crack of the riiies at the Weirs, and the click of the bat on the Magdalen ground. And then Commemoration rises in the background, with its clouds of fair visitors, and visions of excursions to Woodstock and Xuneham in the summer days — of windows open on to the old quadrangles in the long still evenings, tlirough which silver laughter and strains of sweet music, not made by man, steal out and puzzle the old cehbate jackdaws, peering down from the battlements with heads on one side. To crown all, long vacation, beginning with the run to Henley regatta, or up to town to see the match with Cambridge at Lord's, and taste some of the sweets of the season, before starting on some pleasure tour or reading party, or dropping back into the quiet pleasures of English country life ! Surely, the lot of young Englishmen who frequent our universities is cast in pleasant places. The country has a right to expect some- thing from those for whom she finds such a life as this in the years when enjoyment is keenest. Tom was certainly alive to the advantages of the situation, and entered on his kingdom without any kind of scruple. He was very glad to find things so pleasant, and quite resolved to make the best he could of them. Then he was in a particularly good humour with himself ; for, in deference to the advice of Hardy, he had actually fixed on the books which he should send in for his little-go examination before going down for the Easter vacation, and had read them through at home, devoting an hour or two almost daily to 94 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. this laudaUe occupation. So he felt himself entitled to take things easily on his return. He had brought back with him two large hampers of good sound wine, a gift from his father, who had a horror of letting his son set before his friends the fire-water which is generally sold to the undergraduate. Tom found that his father's notions of the rate of consumption prevalent in the university were wild in the extreme. " In his time," the squire said, "eleven men came to his first wine party, and he had opened nineteen bottles of port for them. He was very glad to hear that the habits of the place had changed so much for the better ; and as Tom wouldn't want nearly so much wine, he should have it out of an older bin." Accordingly the port which Tom employed the first hour after his leturn in stacking carefully away in his cellar, had been more than twelve years in bottle, and he thought with unmixed satisfaction of the pleasing efiect it would have on Jervis and Miller, and the one or two other men who knew good wine from bad, and guided public opinion on the subject, and of the social importance which he would soon attain from the reputation of giving good wine. The idea of entertaining, of being hospitable, is a pleasant and fascinating one to most young men ; but the act soon gets to be a bore to all but a few curiously constituted individuals. With these hospitality becomes first a passion and then a faith — a faith the i:)ractice of which, in the cases of some of its professors, reminds one strongly of the hints on such subjects scattered about the New Testament. Most of us feel, when our friends leave us, a certain sort of satisfaction, not unHke that of paying a bill ; they have been done for, and can't expect anything more for a long time. Such thoughts never occur to your really hospitable man. Long years of narrow means cannot hinder him from keeping open house for whoever wants to come to him, and setting the best of everything before all comers. He has no notion of giving you anything but the best he can command, if it be only fresh porter from the nearest mews. He asks himself not, " Ought I to invite A or B ? do I owe liim anything 1 " but, " Would A or B like to come here 1 " Give me these men's houses for real enjoyment, though you never get any- thing very choice there, — (how can a man produce old wine who gives his oldest every day ?) — seldom much elbow room or orderly arrangement. The high arts of gastronomy and scientific drinking, so much valued in our highly civilized community, are wholly unheeded by him, are altogether above him, are cultivated in fact by quite another set, who STJMMEE TEEM. 95 have very little of the genuine spirit of hospitality in them ; ■fiom whose tables, should one by chance happen upon them, one rises, certainly with a feeling of satisfaction and ex- pansion, chiefly physical, but entirely without that expansion of heart which one gets at the scramble of the hospitable man. So that we are driven to remark, even in such every- day matters as these, that it is the invisible, the spiritual, which after all gives value and reality even to dinners ; and, with Solomon, to prefer to the most touching diner Russe, the diuTier of herbs where love is, though I trust that neither we nor Solomon should object to weU-dressed cutlets with our salad, if they happened to be going. Readers will scarcely need to be told that one of the first things Tom did, after depositing his luggage and unpacking his wine, was to call at Hardy's rooms, where he found his friend deep as usual in his books, the hard-worked atlases and dictionaries of all sorts taking up more space than ever. After the first hearty greetings, Tom occupied his old place with much satisfaction, "How long have you been up, old fellow?" he began; " you look quite settled." " I only went home for a week. Well, what have you been doing in the vacation ?" *' Oh, there was nothing much going on ; so, amongst oth'r things, I've nearly floored my little-go work." " .f^ravo ! you'll find the comfort of it now. I hardly thougut you would take to the grind so easily." " It's pleasant enough for a spurt," said Tom ; " but I shall never manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. But what in the world have you been doing to your walls 1 " Tom might well ask, for the corners of Hardy's room were covered with sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups. In the line of sight, from about the height of four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away nearly to the bookcases or fireplace. " Well, don't you thiuk it a great improvement on the old paper ? " said Hardy. " I shall be out of rooms next term, and it will be a hint to the College that the rooms want papering. You're no judge of such matters, or I should ask you whether you don't see great artistic taste in the arrangement." " Wliy, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates," said Tom, who had got up to examine the decorations. "And what in the world are all these queer pins fori" ha 96 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. weut on, pulling a strong pin with a large red sealiug-was head out of the map nearest to him. " Hullo ! take care there ; what are you about ?" shouted Hardy, getting up and hastening to the corner. " Why, you irreverent beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of Greece and Eome." " Oh, I beg your pardon ; I didn't know I was in such iugust company ; " saying which, Tom proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back into the walk " Now, just look at that," said Hardy, takuig the pin out from the place where Tom had stuck it. " Pretty doings there would be amongst them with your management. This pin is Brasidas ; you've taken him aw^ay from Naupactus, where ho was watching the eleven Athenian galleys anchored under the temple of Apollo, and stuck him down right in the middle of the Pnyx, -where he will be instantly torn in pieces by a ruthless and reckless mob. You call yourself a Tory indeed ! However, 'twas always the same with you Tories ; calculating, cruel, and jealous. Use your leaders up, and throw them over — that's the golden rule of aristocracies." ' Hang Brasidas," said Tom, laughing ; " stick him back at Naupactns again. Here, which is Cleon ? The scoundrel ! give me hold of him, and I'll put him in a hot berth." " That's be, with the yellow head. Let him alone, 1 teU you, or all will be hopeless confusion when Grey comes for his lectm-e. We're only in the third year of the war." " I like your chaff about Tories sacrificing their great men," taid Tom, putting his hands in his pockets to avoid tempta- tion. " How about your precious democracy, old fellow 1 Which is Socrates 1 " " Here, the dear old boy ! — this pin with the great grey lead, in the middle of Athens, you see. I pride myself on my Athens. Here's the Pirajus and the long walls, and the niU of Mars. Isn't it as good as a picture ? " " Well, it is better than most maps, I think/' said Tom; " but you're not going to slip out so easily. I want to know whether your pet democracy did or did not mui'der Socrates." " Pm not bound to defend democracies. But look at my pins. It may be the natural fondness of a parent, but I declare they seem to me to have a great deal of character, con- sidering the material. You'll guess them at once, I'm sure, if you mark the colour and shape of the wax. This one now, for instance, who is he 1 " " AJcibiades," answered Tom, doubtfully. " AJcibiades ! " shouted Hardy ; " you fresh from Rugby, SUMIVIER TERM. 97 and not know your Thucydides better than that 1 There's Alcibiades, that little purj^le-headed, foppish pin, by Socrates. This rusty-coloured one is that respectable old stick-in-the- mud, Nicias." ** Well, but you've made Alcibiades nearly the smallest of the whole lot," said Tom. "So he was, to my mind," said Hardy; "just the sort of insolent young ruffian whom I should have liked to buy at my price, and sell at his own. He must have been very like some of our gentlemen-commoners, with the addition of brains." " I should really think, though," said Tom, "it must be a capital plan for making you remember the history." "It is, I flatter myself. I've long had the idea, but I should never have worked it out and found the value of it but for Grey. I invented it to coach him in his history. You see we are in the Grecian corner. Over there is the Eoman. You'll find Livy and Tacitus worked out there, just as Herodotus and Thucydides are here ; and the pins are stuck for the Second Punic War, where we are just now. I shouldn't wonder if Grey got his first, after all, he's pick- ing up so quick in my corners ; and says he never forgets any set of events when he has pricked them out with the pins." " Is he working at that school stiU V asked Tom. " Yes, as hard as ever. He didn't go down for the vacation, ind I really believe it was because the curate told him the school would go wrong if he went away." " It's very plucky of him, but I do think he's a gi'eat fool not to knock it off now tUl he has passed, don't you 1 " " 'No," said Hardy ; " he is getting more good there than he can ever get in the schools, though I hope he'll do well in them too." " Well, I hope so ; for he deserves it. And now, Hardy, to change the subject, I'm going to give my first wine next Thursday ; and here's the first card which has gone out for it. You'll promise me to come, now, won't you 1 " " What a hurry you're in," said Hardy, taking the card, which he put on nis mantel-piece, after examining it. "But youll promise to come, now?" " I'm very hard at work ; I can't be sure." " You needn't stay above half an hour. I've brought back some famous wine from the governor's cellar ; and T want so to get you and Jervis together. He is sure to come." " Why, that's the beU for chapel beginning already/ said H 98 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Hardy ; " I had no notion it was so late. I must be off, to put the new servitor up to his work. Will you come in aftor halH" " Yes, if you wUl come to me next Thursday." " We'll talk about it. But mind you come to-night : for you'll find me working Grey in the Punic Wars, and you'll see how the pins act. I'm very proud of my show." And so Hardy went off !o chapel, and Tom to Drysdale's rooms, not at all satisfied that he had made Hardy safe. He found Drysdale lolling on his sofa, as usual, and fondling Jack. He had just arrived, and his servant and the scout were unpacking his portmanteaus. He seemed pleased to see Tom, but looked languid and used up. " Where have you been this vacation 1 " said Tom ; " you look seedy." " You may say that," said Drysdale. " Here, Henry, get out a bottle of Schiedam. Have a taste of bitters 1 there's nothing like it to set one's digestion right." " No, thank'ee," said Tom, rejecting the glass which Hem-y proffered him ; " my appetite don't want improving." " You're lucky, then," said Drysdale. " Ah, that's the right stuff! I feel better already." " But where have you been 1 " " Oh, in the little village. It's no use being in the country at this time of year. I just went up to Limmer's, and there I stuck, with two or three more, tiU to-day." "I can't stand London for more than a week," said Tom. « What did you do all day ? " "We hadn't much to say to daylight," said Drysdale "What with theatres, and sparring-cribs, and the Coal-hole and Cider- cellars, and a little play in St. James's Street now and then, one wasn't up to early rising. However, I was better than the rest, for I had generally breakfasted by two o'clock." "No wonder you look seedy. You'd much better havo been in the country." " I should have been more in pocket, at any rate," said Drysdale. " By Jove, how it runs away with the ready ! I'm fairly cleaned out ; and if I haven't luck at Van John, I'll be hanged if I know how I'm to get through term. But, look here, here's a bundle of the newest songs — first-rate, some of them." And he threw some papers across to Tom, who glanced at them without being at all edified. " You're going to pull regularly, I hope, this term, Drysdale 1 " " Yes, I think so ; it's a cheap amusement, and I want a little training for a change." SUM5fER TERM. 99 " Thaf s all right." "I've brough-t down some dresses for our gipsy business, by the way. I didn't forget that. Is Blake back t " " I don't know," said Tom ; " but we shan't have time before the races." " Well, afterwards will do ; though the days oughtn't to be too long. I'm all for a little darlaiess in masquerading." "There's five o'clock striking. Are you going to dine in haU?" "!N'o ; I shall go to the Mitre, and get a broil." " Then I'm off. Let's see, — will you come and wine with me next Thursday 1 " " Yes ; only send us a card, 'to remind.' "* " All right ! " said Tom, and went oii to hall, feeling dis- satisfied and uncomfortable about his fast friend, for whom he had a sincere regard. After hall, Tom made a short round amongst his acquaint- ance, and then, giving himself up to the strongest attraction, returned to Hardy's rooms, comforting himseK with the thought that it really must be an act of Christian charity to take such a terrible reader off his books for once in a way, when his conscience pricked him for intruding on Hardy during his hours of work. He found Grey there, who was getting up his Eoman history, under Hardy's guidance ; and the two were working the pins on the maps and lists in the Roman corner when Tom arrived. He begged them not to stop, and very soon was as much interested in what they were doing as if he also were going into the schools in May ; for Hardy had a way of throwing life into what he was talking about, and, like many men with strong opinions, and passion- ate natures, either carried his hearers off their legs and away with him altogether, or roused every spark of combativeness in them. The latter was the effect which his lecture on the Punic Wars had on Tom. He made several protests as Hardy went on ; but Grey's anxious looks kept him from going fairly into action, till Hardy stuck the black pin, which represented Scipio, triumphantly in the middle of Carthage, and, turning round said, " And now for some tea, Grey, before you have to turn out." Tom opened fire while the tea was brewing. " You couldn't say anything bad enough about aristocracies this morning, Hardy, and now to-night you are crowing over the success of the heaviest and cruelest oligarchy that ever lived, and praising them up to the skies." " Hullo ! here's a breeze ! " said Hardy, smiling ; " but I rejoice, Brown, in that they thrashed the Carthaginians ? n2 100 TOM i^OWN AT OXFOED and not, as you seem to think, in that they, being aristocrats, tlirashed the Carthaginians ; for oligarchs they were not at tliis time." " At any rate they answer to the Spartans in the struggle, and the Carthaginians to the Athenians ; and yet all your sympathies are with the Eomans to-night in the Punic Wars, though they were with the Athenians before dinner." "I dery your position The Carthaginians were nothing but a great trading aristocracy — with a glorious family or two I grant you, like that of Hannibal ; but, on the whole, a dirty, bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aristocracy — of whom the world was well rid. They like the Athenians indeed ! Why, just look what the two peoples have left behind them " " Yes," interrupted Tom ; "but we only know the Cartha- ginians through the reports of their destroyers. Your heroes tram})led them out with hoofs of iron." " Do you think the Eoman hoof could have trampled out their Homer if they ever had one ? " said Hardy. " The Romans conquered Greece too, remember." " Eut Greece was never so near beating them." " True. Eut I hold to my point. Carthage was the mother of all hucksters, compassing sea and land to sell her wares." "And no bad line of hfe for a nation. At least English- men ought to think so." "1^0, they ought not; at least if 'Punica fides' is to be the rule of trade. Selling any amount of Erummagem wares never did nation or man much good, and never will. Eh, Grey 1 " Grey winced at being appealed to, but remarked that he hoped the Church would yet be able to save England from the fate of Tyre and Carthage, the great trading nations of the old world : and then, swallowing his tea, and looking as if he had been caught robbing a henroost, he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out of college to the night-school. "What a pity he is so odd and shy," said Tom ; " I should so like to know more of him." " It is a pity. He is much better when he is alone with me. I think he has heard from some of the set that you are a furious Protestant, and sees an immense amount of stiif- neckedness in you." "But about England and Carthage," said Tom, shirking the subject of his own peculiarities ; " you don't really think m like them ] It gave me a turn to hear you translating * Punica fides ' into Erummagem wares just now." "I think that successful trade is our rock ahead. The SOTIMER TERM. 101 devil who holds new markets and twenty per cent, profits in his gift is the devil that England has most to fear from. * Because of unrighteous dealings, and riches gotten hy deceit, the kingdom is translated from one people to another/ said the wise man. Think of that opium war the other day : I don't believe we can get over many more such businesses as that. Grey falls back on the Church, you see, to save the nation ; but the Church he dreams of vnll never do it. Is there any that can ? There must be surely, or we have believed a lie. Eiit this work of making trade righteous, of Christianizing trade, looks Hke the very hardest the Gospel has ever had to take in hand — in England at any rate." Hardy spoke slowly and doubtfully, and paused as if asking for Tom's opinion. " I never heard it put in that way. I know very little of politics or the state of England. But come, now ; the putting down the slave-trade and comi^ensating our planters, that shows that we are not sold to the trade devil yet, sui'ely." " I don't think we are. E"o, thank God, there are plenty of signs that we are likely to make a good fight of it yet." They talked together for another hour, di'awing their ohairs round to the fire, and looking dreamily mto the embers, as is the wont of men who are throwing out suggestions, and helping one another to think, rather than arguing. At the end of that time, Tom left Hardy to his books, and went away laden with several new ideas, one of the clearest of which was that he was awfully ignorant of the contemporary history of his own country, and that it was the thing of all others which he ought to be best informed on, and thinking most about. So, being of an impetuous turn of mind, he went straight to his rooms to commence his new study, wnere, after diligent hunting, the only food of the kind he required which turned up was the last number of Bell's Life from the pocket of his greatcoat. Upon this he fell to work, in default of anything better, and was soon deep in the P.R column, which was full of interesting speculations as to the chances of Bungaree in his forthcoming campaign against the British middle-weights. By the time he had skimmed through the well-known sheets, he was satisfied that the columns of his old acquaintance were not the place, except in the police reports, where much could be learnt about the present state or future prospects of England. Then, the first evening of term being a restless time, he wandered out 102 TOM BIlO^^^? at oxfoed. again, and before long landed, as his custom was, at Drysdale's door. On entering the room he found Drysdale and Blake alone together, the former looking more serious than Tom had ever seen him before. As for Blake, the restless, haggard ex- pression sat more heavily than ever on his face, sadly marring its beauty. It was clear that they changed the subject of their talk abruptly on his entrance ; so Tom looked anywhere except straight before him as he was greeting Blake. He really felt very sorry for him at the moment. However, in another five minutes, he was in fits of laughter over Blake's description of the conversation between himself and the coachman who had driven the Glo'ster day-mail by which he had come up : in which conversation, nevertheless, when Tom came to think it over, and try to repeat it afterwards, the most facetious parts seemed to be the " sez he's " and the " sez I's " with which Jehu larded his stories ; so he gave up the attempt, wondering what he could have found in it to laugh at. "By the way, Blake," said Drysdale, "how about our excursion into Berkshire masquerading this term 1 Are you game 1 " "Not exactly," said Blake ; " I really must make the most of such time as I have left, if I'm to go into the schools this term." "If there's one thing Avhich spoils Oxford, it is those schools," said Drysdale ; " they get in the way of everything. I ought to be going up for smalls myself next term, and I haven't opened a book yet, and don't mean. Follow a good example, old fellow, you're cock-sure of your first, everybody knows." " I wish everybody would back his opinion, and give me a shade of odds. Why, I have scarcely thought of my history." "Why the d — 1 should they make such a fuss about history? One knows perfectly well that those old black- guard heathens were no better than they should be ; and what good it can do to lumber one's head with who their grand- mothers were, and what they ate, and when and where and why they had their stupid brains knocked out, I can't see for the life of me." "Excellently well put. Where did you pick up such sound views, Drysdale ? But you're not examiner yet ; and, on the whole, I must rub up my history somehow. I wish I knew how to do it." " Can't you put on a coach 1 " said Drysdale, STOOIER TERM. ]03 " I have oue on, but history is his -weak pohit," said Blake. " I think I can help you," said Tom. " I've just been liearing a lecture in Eoman history, and one that won't be so easy to forget as most ; " and he went on to explain Hardy's plans, to which Blake listened eagerly. " Capital ! " he said, when Tom had finished. " In whose rooms did you say they are 1 " " In Hardy's, and he works at them every night with Grey." " That's the queer big servitor, his particular pal," put in Drysdale ; " there's no accounting for tastes." " You don't know him," retorted Tom ; " and the less you say about him the better." " I know he wears highlows and short flannels, and — " "Would you mind asking Hardy to let me come to his lectures 1 " interrupted Blake, averting the strong language which was rising to Tom's lips. " I think they seem jiist the tldngs I want. I shouldn't like to offer to pay him, unless you think — " " I'm quite sure," interrupted Tom, " that he won't take anything. I will ask him to-morrow whether he will let you come, and he is such a kind good fellow that I'm almost sure he wiU." " I should like to know your pal, too, Brown/' said Drysdale ; " you must introduce me* with Blake." " K'o, I'll be hanged if I do," said Tom. " Then I shall introduce myself," said Drysdale ; " see if I don't sit next him, now, at your wine on Thursday." Here Drysdale's scout entered, with two notes, and ■s\dshed to know if Mr. Drysdale would require anything more. Nothing but hot water ; he could put the kettle on, Drysdale said, and go ; and Avhile the scout was fulfilling his orders, he got up carelessly, whistling, and walking to the fire, read the notes by the light of one of the candles which were burning on the mantel-piece. Blake was watching him eagerl}'', and Tom saw this, and made some awkward efforts to go on talking about the advantages of Hardy's plan for learning history. But he was talking to deaf ears, and soon came to a stand stilL He saw Drysdale crumple up the notes in ills hand and shove them into his pocket. After standing for a few seconds in the same position, with his back to them, he turned round with a careless air, and sauntered to the table where they were sitting. " Let's see, what were we saying 1 " he began. *' Oh, about your eccentric pal, Brown." " You've answers from both ] " interrupted Blake. Diys- 104 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. dale nodded, aud was begmning to speak again to Tom, ■when Blake got up and said, with white lips, " I miist see them." " No, never mind, what does it matter ? " " Matter ! by Heaven, I must and will see them now." Tom saw at once that he had better go, and so took up his cap, wished them good night, and went off to his own rooms He might have been sitting there for about twenty minutes, when Drysdale entered. " I couldn't help coming over. Brown," he said, " I must talk to some one, and Blake has gone off raging. I don't know what he'll do — I never was so bothered or savage in my life." " I am very sorry," said Tom ; " he looked very bad in your rooms. Can I do anything 1 " " No, but I must talk to some one. You know — no you don't, by the way — but, however, Blake got me out of a tremendous scrape in my first term, and there's nothing that I am not bound to do for him, and wouldn't do if I could. Yes, by George, whatever fellows say of me, they shall never say I didn't stand by a man who has stood by me. Well, he owes a dirty 300^. or 400Z. or something of the sort — nothing worth talking of, I know — to people in Oxford, and they've been leading him a dog's life this year and more. Now, he's just- going up for liis degree, and two or three of these creditors — - the most rascally of course — are sueing him in the Vice-Chan^ cellor's Court, thinking now's the time to put the screw on. He will be ruined if they are not stopped somehow. Just after I saw you to-day, he came to me about it. You never saw a fellow in such a state ; I could see it was tearing him to pieces, telling it to me even. However, I soon set him at ease as far as I was concerned ; but, as the devil will have it, I can't lend him the money, though 60^. would get him over the examination, and then he can make terms. My guardian advanced me 200^. beyond my allowance just before Easter,_and I haven't 20/. left, and the bank here has given me notice not to overdraw any more. However, I thought to settle it easily enough; so I told him to meet me at the Mitre in half-an-hour for dinner, and when he was gone I sat down and wrote two notes— the first to St. Cloud. That fellow was with us on and off in town, and one night he and I went partners at roulette, I finding ready-money for the time, gains and losses to be equally shared in the end. I left the table to go and eat some supper, and he lost 80/., and paid it out of my money. I didn't much care, and he cursed the luck, and acknowledged that he owed me 40/. at the time. AYell, SUMMER TERM. 105 I jusL reminded liim of this 40^. and said I should he glad of it (I know he has plenty of money just now), hut added, that it might stand if he would join me and Blake in borrowing 60^. ; I was fool enough to add that Blake was in difficulties, and I was most anxious to help him. As I thought that St. Cloud would probably pay the 40Z. but do no more, I wrote also to Chanter — heaven knows why, except that the beast rolls in money, and has fawned on me till I've been nearly sick this year past — and asked him to lend Blake 50^. on our joint note of hand. Poor Blake ! wlien I told him what I had done at the Mitre, I think I might as well have stuck the carving-knife into him. ~We had a wretched two hours ; then you came in, and I got my two answers — here they are." Tom took the proffered notes, and read : — " Dear Drtsdale, — Please explain the allusion in yours to some mysterious 40^. I remember perfectly the occurrence to which you refer in another part of your note. You were tired of sitting at the table, and went off to supper, leaving me (not by my own desire) to play for you with your money. I did so, and had abominable luck, as you will remember, for I handed you back a sadly dwindled heap on your return to the table. I hope you are in no row about that night ? I shall be quite ready to give evidence of what passed if it will help you in any way; I am always yours very truly, A. St, Cloud. "P.S. I must decline the little joint operation for Blake's benefit, which you j^ropose." The second answer ran : — " Dear Drysdale, — I am sorry that I cannot accommodate ^[r. Blake, as a friend of yours, but you see his acceptance is mere waste paper, and you cannot give security until you are of age, so if you were to die the money would be lost. Mr. Blake has always carried his head as high as if he had 5,000^. a year to spend ; perhaps now he will turn less haughty to men who could buy him up easy enough. I remain yours sincerely, Jabez Chanter." Tom looked up, and met Drysdale's eyes, w hich hadmore of purpose in them than he had ever seen before. " Fancy poor Blake reading those two notes," he said, " and 'twas I brought them on him. However, he shall have the money somehow to-morrow, if I pawn my watch. I'll be even with those two some day." The two remained in conference for 106 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. some time longer ; it is hardly worth while to do more than relate the result. At three o'clock the next day, Blake, Drysdalc, and Tom were in the back-parlour of a second-rate inn, in the Corn- market. On the table were pens and ink, some cases of Eau-de-Cologne and jewellery, and behind it a fat man of for- bidding aspect who spent a day or two in each term at Oxford. He held in his thick red da^np hand, ornamented as to the fore-finger with a huge ring, a piece of paper. " Then I shall draw for a hundred-and-hve 1 " "J£ you do, we won't sign," said Drysdale ; "now, be quick, Ben" (the fat man's name was Benjamin), "you infernal shark, we've been wrangling long enough over it, Draw for a 1001. at three months, or we are oif." " Then, Mr. Drysdale, you gents will take part in goods. I wish to do all I can for gents as comes well introduced, but money is very scarce just now." "!N"ot a stuffed bird, bottle of Eau-de-Cologne, ring, or cigar, will we have. So now, no more nonsense, put down 751. on the table." The money-lender, after another equally useless attempt to move Drysdale, who was the only one of the party who spoke, produced a roll of notes, and coimted out 75Z., think- ing to himself that he would make this young spark sing a different tune before very long. He then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that the interest was nothing considering the risk, and he hoped they would help him to something better with some of their friends. Drysdale reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen, that he was getting cent, per cent. The document was signed, — Drysdale took the notes, and they went out. "Well, that's well over," said Drysdale, as they walked towards High Street. " I'm proud of my tactics, I must say ; one never does so well for oneself as for any one else. K I had been on my own hook that fellow would have let me in for 20^. worth of stuffed birds and bad jewellery. Let's see, what do you want, Blake ? " " Sixty will do," said Blake. " You had better take G5/. ; there'll be some law costs to pay," and Drysdale handed him the notes. "Now, Brown, shall we divide the balance,— a fiver a-piece ? " "No, thank you," said Tom, " I don't want it ; and, as you two are to hold me harmless, you must do what you like with the money." So Drysdale pocketed the lOl. after which they walked in silence to the gates of St. Ambrose. The most MUSGULAE CHRISTIAOTTY. 107 reckless youngster doesn't begin this sort of thing without reflections which are apt to keep him silent. At the gates Blake wrung both their hands. " I don't say much, but I sha'n't forget it." He got out the words with some difficulty, and went oflF to his rooms. CHAPTEE XI. MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITT. Within the next week or two several important events had happened to one and another of our St. Ambrose friends. Tom had introduced Blake to Hardy, after some demur on the part of the latter. Blake was his senior by a term ; might have called on him any time these three years ; why should he want to make his acquaintance nowl But when Tom ex- plained to him that it would be a kind tiling to let r>lake come and coach up history with him, for that unless he took a high degree in the coming examination, he would have to leave the college, and probably be ruined for life. Hardy at once consented. Tom did not venture to inquire for a day or two how the two hit it off together. When he began cautiously to approach the subject, he was glad to find that Hardy liked Blake. " He is a gentleman, and very able," he said ; " it is curious to see how quickly he is overhauling Grey, and yet how Grey takes to him. He has never looked scared at him (as he still does at you, by the way) since the first night they met. Blake has the talent of setting people at their ease without saying anything. I shouldn't wonder if Grey thinks he has sound Church notions. It's a dangerous talent, and may make a man very false if he doesn't take care." Tom asked if Blake would be up in his history in time. Hardy thought he might perhaps, but he had great lee-way to make up. If capacity for taking in cram would do it, he would be all right. He had been well crammed in his science, and had put him (Hardy) up to many dodges which might be useful in the schools, and which you couldn't get without a private tutor. Then Tom's first wine had gone off most successfully. Jervis and Miller had come early and stayed late, and said all that was handsome of the port, so that he was already a social hero with the boating set. Drysdale, of course, had been there, rattling away to everybody in his reckless fashion, and setting a good example to the two or three fast men whom Tom knew 108 "^OM BKOWN AT OXFOED. well enough to ask, and who consequently behaved iwetty well, and gave themselves no airs, though as they went away together they grumbled slightly that Brown didn't give claret. The rest of the men had shaken together well, and seemed to enjoy themselves. The only drawback to Tom had been that neither Hardy or Grey had appeared. They excused themselves afterwards on the score of reading, but Tom felt aggrieved in Hardy's case ; he knew that it was only an excuse. Then the training had begun seriously. Miller had come up specially for the first fortnight, to get them well in hand, as he said. After they were once fairly started, he would have to go down till just before the races ; but he thought he might rely on the Captain to keep them up to their work in the interval. So Miller, the coxswain, took to drawing the bow up to the ear at once. At the very beginning of the term, five or six weeks before the races, the St. Ambrose boat was to be seen every other day at Abingdon ; and early dinners, limitation of liquids and tobacco, and abstinence from late supper parties, pastry, ice, and all manner of trash, likely in Miller's opinion to injxire nerve or wind, were hanging over the crew, and already, in fact, to some extent enforced. The Captain shrugged his shoulders, submitted to it all himself, and worked away with imperturbable temper ; merely hinting to Miller, in private, that he was going too fast, and that it would be impossible to keep it up. Diogenes highly approved ; he would have become the willing slave of any tyranny which should insist that every adult male subject should pull twenty miles, and never imbibe more than a quart of liquid, in the twenty-four hours. Tom was inclined to like it, as it helped him to realize the proud fact that he was actually in the boat. The rest of the crew were in all stages of mutiny, and were only kept from breaking out by their fondness for the Captain and the knowledge that Miller was going in a few days. As it was, Blake was the only one who openly rebelled. Once or twice he stayed away. Miller swore and grumbled, the Captain shook his head, and the crew in general rejoiced. It is to one of these occasions to which we must now turn. If the usual casual voyager of novels had been standing on Sand ford lock at about four, on the afternoon of April — th, 184 , he might have beheld the St. Ambrose eight-oar coming with a steady swing up the last reach. If such voyager were in the least conversant with the glorious mystery of rowing, he would have felt his heart warm at the magnificent sweep and life of the stroke, and would, on the whole, have been pleased MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 10b wifh the performance of the crew generally, considered as a college crew in the early stages of training. They came " hard all" up to the pool below the lock, the coxswain standing in the stern with a tiller-rope in each hand, and then shipped oars ; the lock-gates opened, and the boat entered, and in another minute or two was moored to the bank above the lock, and the crew strolled into the little inn which stands by the lock, and, after stopping in the bar to lay hands on several pewters full of porter, passed through the house into the quoit and skittle-grounds behind. These were already well filled with men of other crews, playing in groups or looking on at the players. One of these groups, as they passed, seized on the Captain, and Miller stopped with him ; the rest of the St. Ambrose men, in no humour for skittles, quoits, or any relaxation except rest and grumbling, took possession of the first table and seats which offered, and came to anchor. Then followed a moment of intense enjoyment, of a sort only appreciable by those who have had a twelve mUes' training pull with a coxswain as sharp as a needle, and in an awful temper. " Ah," said Drysdale, taking the peAvter down from his lips, with a sigh, and handing it to Tom, who sat next him, " by Jove, I feel better." " It's almost worth while pulling ' hard all' from Abingdon to get such a thirst," said another of the crew. " I'll tell you what, though," said Drysdale, " to-day's the last day you'll catch me in this blessed boat." Tom had just finished his draught, but did not reply ; it was by no means the first time that Drysdale had announced this resolve. The rest were silent also. " It's bad enough to have to pull your heart out, without getting abused all the way into the bargain. There MiUer stands in the stern — and a devilish easy thing it is to stand there and walk into us — I can see him chuckle as he comes to you and me, Brown — 'Now, 2, well forward;' '3, don't jerk;' 'Now, 2, throw your weight on the oar; come, now, you can get another pound on.' I hang on lake grim Death, — then its ' Time, 2 ; now, 3 — ' " "Well, it's a great compliment," broke in Tom, with a laugh : "he thinks he can make something of us." " He'U make nothing of us first, I think," said Drysdale. " I've lost eight pounds in a fortnight." The Captain ought to put me in every place in the boat, in turn, to make it water- tight. I've larded the bottom boards under my seat so that not a drop of water wiU ever come through again." " A very good thing for you, old feUow," said Diogenes ; 110 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. '< you look ten times better than you did at the beginning of term." ,^ ^ " I don't know what you call a good thing, you old fluter. I'm obliged to sit on my hip-bones — I can't go to a lecture — all the tutors think I'm poking fun at them, and put me on directly. I haven't been able to go to lecture these ten days." " So fond of lecture as he is, too, poor feUow," put in Tom . „ ., "But they've discommonsed me for staying away, said Drysdale ; "not that I care much for that, though." "Well, Miller goes down to-morrow morning — I heard him say so," said another. " Then we'll memorialize the Captain and get out of these Abingdon pulls. Life isn't worth having at this rate." " No other boat has been below Sandford yet." And so they sat on and plotted, and soon most of the other crews started. And then they took their turn at skittles, and almost forgot their grievances, which must be explained to thosG who don't know the river at Oxford. The river runs along the south of the city, getting into the university quarter after it passes under the bridge connecting Berks and Oxfordsliii'e, over which is the road to Abingdon. Just below this bridge are the boat-builders' establishments on both sides of the river, and then c-n the Oxfordshire side is Christchiirch meadow, opposite which is moored the university barge. Here is the goal of all university races ; and the racecourse stretches away down the river for a mile and a half, and a little below the starting-place of the races is Iffley Lock. The next lock below Iffley is the Sandford Lock (where we left our boat's crew playing at skittles), which is about a mile and a half below Iffley. Below Sandford there is no lock till you get to Abingdon, a distance of six mUes and more by the river. Now, inasmuch as the longest distance to be rowed in the races is only the upper mile and a half from Iffley to the university barge, of course aU the crews think themselves very hardly treated if they are taken farther than to Sandford. Pulling " hard all" from Sandford to Iffley, and then again from Iffley over the regular com'se, ought to be enough in all conscience. So chorus the crews ; and most captains and coxswains give in. But here and there some enemy of his kind — some uncomfortable, worriting, energizing mortal, like Miller — gets command of a boat, and then the unfortunate crew are dragged, bemoaning their fate, down below Sandford, where no friendly lock intervenes to break the long, steady swing of the training pull MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. Ill every two miles, and the result fur the time is blisters and mutiny. I am bound to add that it generally tells, and that the crew which has been undergoing that peine forte et dure is very apt to get the change out of it on the nights of hard races. So the St. Ambrose crew played out their skittles, and settled to appeal to the Captain in a body the next day, after Miller's departure ; and then, being summoned to the boat, they took to the water again, and paddled steadily up home, arriving just in time for hall for those who hked to hurry. Drysdale never liked hurrying himself ; besides, he could not dine in hall, as he was discommonsed for persistent absence from lectures, and neglect to go to the Dean when sent for to explain his absence. " I say, Bro\vn, hang hall," he said to Tom, who was throwing on his things ; " come and dine with me at the Mitre. Til give you a bottle of hock ; it's very good there." " Hock's about the worst thing you can drink in training," said Miller. " Isn't it Jervis ? " '' It's no good, certainly," said the Captain, as he put on his cap and gown ; " come along. Miller." " There, you hear 1" said Miller. "You can drink a glass of sound sherry, if you want wine ; " and he followed the Captain. Drysdale performed a defiant pantomime after the retiring coxswain, and then easily carried his point with Tom, except as to the hock. So they walked up to the Mitre together, where Drysdale ordered dinner and a bottle of hock in the coffee-room. "Don't order hock, Drysdale ; I shan't drink any." " Then I shall have it all to my own cheek. If you begin making a slave of yourself to that Miller, he'll very soon cut you down to a glass of water a day, with a pinch of rhubarb in it, and make you drinli that standing on your head." " Gammon ; but I don't think it's fair on the rest of the crew not to train as well as one can." " Tou don't suppose drinking a pint of hock to-night will make you pull any the worse this day six weeks, when the races begin, do you V "No; but—" " Hullo ! look here," said Drysdale, who was inspecting a printed bill pinned up on the wall of the coffee-room ; " Wombwell's menagerie is in the town, somewhere down by Worcester. What fun ! We'll go there after dinner." The food arrived, with Drysdale's hock, which he seemed to enjoy all the more from the assurance which every glass 112 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. gave him that he was defying the coxswain, and doing just the thing he would most dislike. So he drank away, and facetiously speculated how he could be such an idiot as to go on pulling. Every day of his life he made good resolutions in the reach above the Gut that it should be his last per- formance, and always broke them next day. He supposed the habit he had of breaking all good resolutions was the way to account for it. After dinner they set off to find the wild-beast show ; and, as they will be at least a quarter of an hour reaching it, for the pitch is in a part of the suburbs little known to gowns- men, the opportunity may be seized of making a few remarks to the patient reader, which impatient readers are begged to skip. Our hero on his first appearance in public some years since, was without his own consent at once patted on the back by the good-natured critics, and enrolled for better or worse in the brotherhood of muscular Christians, who at that time were begmning to be recognised as an actual and lusty portion of general British life. As his biographer, I am not about to take exceptions to his enrolment ; for, after con- sidering the persons up and down her Majesty's dominions to whom the new nick-name has been applied, the principles which they are supposed to hold, and the sort of lives they are supposed to lead, I cannot see where he could in these times have fallen upon a nobler brotherhood. I am speaking of course under correction, and with only a slight acquaiu- tance with the faith of muscular Christianity, gathered almost entu'ely from the witty expositions and comments of persons of a somewhat dyspeptic habit, who are not amongst the faithful themselves. Indeed, I am not aware that any authorized articles of belief have been sanctioned or published by the sect, Church, or whatever they may be. Moreover, at the age at which our hero has arrived, and having regard to his character, I should say that he has in all lilcelihood thought very little on the subject of belief, and woidd scarcely be able to give any formal account of his own, beyond that contained in the Church Catechism, which I for one think may very well satisfy him lor the present. Nevertheless, liad he been suddenly caught at the gate of St. Ambrose's College, by one of the gentlemen who do the classifying for the British public, and accosted with, " Sir, you belong to a \)ody whose creed is to fear God, and walk 1000 mdes in 1000 lours;" I beHeve he would have replied, "Do I, sir? I'm /ery glad to hear it. They must be a very good set of fellowa How many weeks' training, do they allow 1" MUSCTJLAE CURISTIANITY. 113 But in tlie course of my inquiries on the subject of muscular Christians, their works and ways, a fact has forced itself on my attention, which, for the sake of ingenious youth, like my hero, ought not to be passed over. I find, then, that, side by side with these muscular Christians, and apparently claiming some sort of connexion with them (the same concern, as the pirates of trade-marks say), have risen up another set of persons, against "svhom I desire to caution my readers and my hero, and to warn the latter that I do not mean on any pretence whatever to allow him to connect himself with them, however much he may be taken with their off-hand, " hail- brother well-met" manner and dress, which may easily lead careless observers to take the counterfeit for the true article. I must call the persons in question " musclemen," as dis- tinguished from muscular Christians ; the only point in common between the two being, that both hold it to be a good thing to have strong and well-exercised bodies, ready to be put at the shortest notice to any work of which bodies are capable, and to do it well. Here all likeness ends ; for the " muscleman " seems to have no belief whatever as to the purposes for which his body has been given him, except some hazy idea that it is to go up and down the world with him, belabouring men and captivating women for his benefit or pleasure, at once the servant and fomenter of those fierce and brutal passions which he seems to think it a necessity, and rather a fine thing than otherwise, to indulge and obey. Whereas, so far as I know, the least of the muscular Cliristians has hold of the old chivalrous and Christian belief, that a man's body is given him to be trained and brought into sub- jection, and then used for the protection of the weak, the advancement of all righteous causes, and the subduing of the earth which God has given to the children of men. He does not hold that mere strength or activity are in themselves worthy of any respect or worship, or that one man is a bit better than another because he can knock him down, or carry a bigger sack of potatoes than he. For mere power, whether of body or intellect, he has (I hope and believe) no reverence whatever, though, cceteris paribus, he would probably himself, as a matter of taste, prefer the man who can lift a hundred- weight round his head with his little finger to the man who can construct a string of perfect Sorites, or expound the doctrine of " contradictory inconceivables." The above remarks occur as our hero is marching inno- cently down towards his first " town and gown " row, and 1 should scarcely like to see him in the middle of it, without protesting that it is a mistake. I know that he, and other I 114 TOM BROWN At OXFORD. yoiuigsters of his kidney, will have fits of fighting, or de siiiuT to fight with their poorer brethren, just as children have the measles. But the shorter the fit the better foi the patient, for like the measles it is a great mistake, and a most unsatisfactory complaint. If they can escape it alto- gether so much the better. But instead of treating the fit as a disease, " musclemen " professors are wont to represent it as a state of health, and tv. let their disciples run about in middle age with the measles on them as strong as ever. Now although our hero had the measles on him at this particular time, and the passage of arms which I am about shortly to describe led to residts of some importance in his history, and cannot therefore be passed over, yet I msh at the same time to disclaim, both in my sponsorial and individual character, all sympathy with town and gown rows, and with all other class rows and quarrels of every sort and kind, whether waged with sword, pen, tongue, fist, or otherwise. Also to say that in all such rows, so far as I have seen or read, from the time when the Eoman plebs marched out to Mons Sacer, down to 1848, when the English chartists met on Kennington Com- mon, the upper classes are most to blame. It may be that they are not the aggi-essors on any given occasion : very pos- sibly they may carry on the actual fighting with more faii'ness (though this is by no means true as a rule) ; nevertheless the state of feeling which makes such things possible, especially in England, where men in general are only too ready to be led and taught by their superiors in rank, may be fairly laid at their door. Even in the case of strikes, which just now will of course be at once thrown in my teeth, I say fearlessly. Let any man take the trouble to study the question honestly, and he will come to the conviction that all combinations -of the men for the purpose of influencing the labour market, whether in the much and unjustly abused Trades' Societies, or in other forms, have been defensive organizations, and that the masters might, as a body, over and over again have taken the sting out of them if they would have acted fairly, as many indi- riduals amongst them have done. Whether it may not be too late now, is a tremendous question for England, but one which time only can decide. When Drysdale and Tom at last found the caravans, it was just getting dark. Something of a crowd had collected out- siile, and there was some hissing as they ascended the short flight of steps which led to the platform in front of the show ; but they took no notice of it, paid their money, and entered. Inside they found an exciting scene. The place was pre! ty MUSCULAE CHRISTIANITY. 115 well lighted, and tlie birds and beasts were all alive in their several deus and cages, wallcing up and down, and each utter- ing remonstrances after its own manner, the shrUl notes of birds mingling with the moan of the beasts of prey and chattering of the monkeys. Feeding time had been put off till night to suit the undergraduates, and the undergraduates were proving their appreciation of the attention by playing off all manner of practical jokes on birds and beasts, their keepers, and such of the public as had been rash enough to venture in. At the farther end was the keeper, who did the showman, vainly endeavouring to go through his usual jogtrot descrii)tion. His monotone was drowned, every minute by the chorus of voices, each shouting out some new fact in natural history touching the biped or quadxuped whom the keeper was attempting to describe. At that day a great deal of this sort of chaff was current, so that the most dunder- headed boy had plenty on the tip of his tongue. A small and indignant knot of townspeople, headed by a stout and severe middle-aged woman, vrith two big boys, her sons, fol- lowed the keeper, endeavouring by caustic remarks and withering glances to stop the flood of chaff, and restore the legitimate authority and the reign of keej)er and natural history. At another point was a long Irishman in cap and gown, who had clearly had as much wine as he could carry, close to the bai-s of the panther's den, through which he was earnestly endeavouring, with the help of a crooked stick, to draw the tail of whichever of the beasts stopped for a moment in its uneasy walk. On the other side were a set of men bent on bxu'ning the wretched monkeys' fingers with the lighted ends of their cigars, in which they seemed successful enough, to ju.dge by the angry chatterings and slu-iekings of their victims. The two iiew comers paused for a moment on the platform inside the curtain ; and then Drysdale, rubbing his hands, and in high glee at the sight of so much misrule in so small a place, led the way dowij on to the floor deep in sawdust, exclaiming, " AYell, this is a lark ! We're just in for all the fun of the fair." Tom followed his friend, who made straight for the show- man, and planted himself at his side, just as that worthy, pointuig with his pole, was proceeding — " This is the jackal, from — " " The Caribee Hielands, of which I'm a native mysel'," shouted a gownsman. " Tliis is the jackal, or lion's provider," began again the much-enduring keeper. tl6 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. "Who always goes before the lion to purwide his pur- wisions, purwiding there's anything to purwide," put in Drysdale. " Hem — really I do think it's scandalous not to let the keeper tell about the beasteses," said the unfortunate matron, with a half turn towards the persecutors, and grasping her bag. " My dear madam," said Drysdale, in his softest voice, " I assure you he knows nothiug about the beasteses. We are Doctor Buckland's favourite pupils, are also well knoAvn to the great Panjandrum, and have eaten more beasteses than the keeper has ever seen." " I don't know who you are, young man, but you don't know how to behave yoiu'selves," rejoined the outraged female ; and the keeper, giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with his pole, proceeded — " The little hanimal in the upper cage is the hopossum, of North America — " " The misguided offspring of the racoon and the gum-tree," put in one of his tormentors. Here a frightful roaring and strugglmg at a little distance, muigled with shouts of laughter, and " Hold on, Pat !" " Go it, panther ! " interrupted the lectui'e, and caused a rush to the other side, where the long Irishman, Donovan, by name, with one foot against the bars, was holding on to the tail of one of the panthers, which he had at length managed to catch hold of. The next moment he was flat on his back in the sawdust, and his victim was bounding wildly about the cage. The keeper hurried away to look after the outraged panther ; and Drysdale, at once installing himself as show- man, began at the next cage — " This is the wild man of the woods, or whangee-tangee, the most untameable — good heavens, ma'am, take care ! " and he seized hold of the unfortunate woman and pulled her away from the bars. " Oh, goodness ! " she screamed, " it's got my tippet ; oh, Bill, Peter, catch hold ! " Bill and Peter proved unequal to the occasion, but a go-\ynsman seized the vanishing tippet, and after a moment's struggle with the great ape, restored a meagre half to the proper owner, while Jacko sat griiuiing over the other half, picking it to pieces. The poor woman had now had enough of it, and she hurried off with her two boys, followed by the few townspeoj^le who were still in the show, to lay her case directly before the mayor, as she informed the delinquents from the platform before disappearing. Her wrongs were likely to be more speedily avenged, to judge by MUSCULAE CHRISTIANITY. 117 the angry muriniirs which, arose outside immediately after her exit. But still the high jinks went on, Donovan leading all mis- chief, until the master of the menagerie appeared inside, and remonstrated with the men. " He must send for the police," he said, " if they would not leave the heasts alone. He had put off the feeding in order to suit them ; would they let his keepers feed the beasts quietly 1 " The threat of the police was received with shouts of defiance by some of the men, though the greater part seemed of the opinion that matters were getting serious. The proposal for feeding, however, was welcomed by all, and comparative quiet ensued for some ten minutes, while the baskets of joints, bread, stale fish, and potatoes were brought in, and the contents distributed to the famishing occupants of the cages. In the interval of peace the showman-keeper, on a hint from his master, again began his round. But the spirit of mischief was abroad, and it only needed this to make it break out again. In another two minutes the beasts, from the lion to the smallest monkey, were struggling for their suppers with one or more undergraduates ; the elephant had torn the gown off Donovan's back, having only just missed his arm ; the manager in a confusion worthy of the tower of Babel, sent off a keeper for the city police, and tui-ned the gas out. The audience, after the first moment of surprise and indig- nation, groped their way towards the steps and mounted the platform, where they held a council of war. Should they stay where they were, or make a sally at once, break through the crowd and get back to their colleges. It was curious to see how in that short minute individual character came out, and the coward, the cautious man, the resolute, prompt Englishman, each was there, and more than one species of each. Donovan was one of the last up the steps, and as he stumbled up caught something of the question before the house. He shouted loudly at once for descending, and ofier- ing battle. " But, boys," he added, " first wait till I adthress the meeting," and he made for the opening in the canvas through which the outside platform was reached. Stump oratory and a free fight were just the two temptations which Donovan was wholly unable to resist ; and it was with a face radiant with de\'il-may-care delight that he burst thi-ough the opening, followed by all the rest (who felt that the matter was out of their hands, and must go its own way after the Irishman), and rolling to the front of the outside platforaij 118 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. rested one hand on tlie rail, and waved the other gracefully towards the crowd. This was the signal for a hurst of defiant shouts and hissing. Donovan stood hlandly waving his hand for silence. Drysdale, running his eye over the nioh, turned to the rest and said, "There's nothing to stop us, not twenty grown men in the whole lot." Then one of the men Ughting upon the drumsticks, which the usual man in corduroys had hidden aw&y, hegan heating the big drum furiously. One of the unaccountable whims wliich influence cro\3ils seized on the mob, and there was almost perfect silence. This seemed to take Donovan by surprise; the open air was having the common effect on him ; he was getting unsteady on his legs, and his brains were wan- dering. " IS'ow's your time, Donovan, my boy — begin." " Ah, yes, to be sure, what'll I say ] let's see," said Donovan, putting his head on one side — " Friends, Romans, countrymen," suggested some wag. " To be sure," cried Donovan ; '' Friends, Romans, country men, lend me your ears." " Bravo Pat, well begun ; pull their ears well when you've got 'em." " Bad luck to it ! where was 1 1 you divels — I mean ladies and gentlemen of Oxford city as I was saying, the poets — " Then the storm of shouting and hissing arose again, and Donovan, after an ineffectual attempt or two to go on, leaned forward, and shook his fiat generally at the mob. Luckily for him, there were no stones about ; but one of the crowd, catching the first missile at hand, which happened to be a cabbage-stalk, sent it mth true aim at the enraged orator. He jerked his head on one side to avoid it ; the motion unsteadied his cap ; he threw up his hand, which, instead of catching the falling cap, as it was meant to do, sent it spinning among the crowd below. The owner, without a moment's hesitation, clapped both hands on the bar before him and followed his property, vaulting over on to the heads of those nearest the platform, amougst whom he fell, scattering them right and left. " Come on, gown, or he'll be murdered," sang out one of Donovan's friends. Tom was one of the first down the steps ; they rushed to the spot in another moment, and the Irishman rose, plastered with dirt, but otherwise none the worse for his feat ; his cJip, covered with mud, was proudly stuck on, hind part before. He was of course thirsting for battle, but not quite so much master of his strength as usual ; so his two friends, who were luckily strong and big men, seized him, one to each arm. MUSCULAK CHRISTIANITY. 119 "Come along, keep together," was the word ; "there's no time to lose. Push for the corn-market." The cry of " Town ! town ! " now rose on all sides. The gownsmen in a compact body, with Donovan in the middle, pushed rapidly across the open space in which the caravans were set up and gained the street. Here tliey were compara- tively safe : they were followed close, but could not be sur- rounded by the mob. And now again a bystander might have amused himself by noting the men's characters. Three or four pushed rapidly on, and were out of sight ahead in no time. The greater part, without showing any actual signs of fear, kept steadily on, at a good pace. Close behind these, Donovan struggled violently with his two conductors, and shouted defiance to the town ; while a small and silent rear- guard, amongst whom were Tom and Drysdale, walked slowly and, to all appearance, carelessly behind, within a few yards of the crowd of shouting boys who headed the advancing town. Tom himself felt his heart beating quick, and I don't think had any particular desire for the fighting to begin, with such long odds on the to^vn side ; but he was resoh'^ed to be iu it as soon as any one if there was to be any. Thus they marched through one or two streets without anything more serious than an occasional stone passuig their ears. Another turn would have brought them into the open parts of the to-vvn, within hearing of the colleges, when suddenly Donovan broke loose from his supporters, and rushing with a shout on the advanced guard of the town, drove them back in confusion for some yards. The only thing to do was to back him up ; so the rear-guard, shouting " Gown ! gown ! " charged after him. The eifect of the onset was Uke that of Blount at Flodden, when he saw Marmion's banner go down, — a wide space was cleared for a moment, the town driven back on to the pavements, and up the middle of the street, and the rescued Donovan caught, set on his legs, and dragged away again some paces towards college. But the charging body was too few in number to improve the first success, or even to insure its own retreat. " Darkly closed the war around." The town lapped on them from the pavements, and poured on them down the middle of the street, before ihej had time to rally and stand together again. What happened to the rest — who was doAvn, who up, who fought, who fled, — Tom had no time to inquire ; for he found himself suddenly the centre of a yelluig circle of enemies. So he set his teeth and buckled to his work ; and the thought of splendid single combat, and glory such as he had read of in college stories, and tradition handing him down as the hero of that great niglit, flashed 120 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. into his head as he cast his eye roimd for foeaen worthy of his steel. None such appeared ; so, selecting the one most of his own size, he squared and advanced on him. But the challenged one declined the comhat, and kept retreating ; while from behind, and the sides, one after another of the " town " rushing out dealt Tom a blow and vanished again into the crowd. For a moment or two he kept his head and temper ; the assailants indi-^idually were too insignificant to put out his strength upon ; but head and temper were rapidly going ; — he was like a bull in the arena with the picadores sticking their little javelins in him. A smart blow on the nose, which set a myriad of stars dancing before his eyes, finished the business, and he rushed after the last assailant, dealing blows to right and left, on small and great. The mob closed in on him, still avoiding attacks in front, but on flank and rear they hung on him, and battered at him. He had to turn sharply round after every step to shake himself clear, and at each turn the press thickened, the shouts waxed louder and fiercer ; he began to get unsteady ; tottered, swayed, and, stumbling over a prostrate youth, at last went down full length on to the pavement, carrying a couple of his assailants with him. And now it would have fared hardly with him, and he would scarcely have reached college with sound bones, — for I am sorry to say an Oxford town mob is a cruel and brutal one, and a man who is down has no chance with it, — but that for one moment he and his prostrate foes were so jumbled together that the town could not get at him, and the next the cry of " Gown ! gown ! " rose high above the din ; the town were swept back again by the rush of a reinforce- ment of gownsmen, the leader of whom seized him by the shoulders and put him on his legs again ; while his late antagonists crawled away to the side of the road. " Why, Brown ! " said his rescuer, — Jervis, the Captain, — " this you 1 Not hurt, eh ?" " Not a bit," said Tom. ^ " Good ; come on, then ; stick to me." In three steps they joined the rest of the gown, now numbering some twenty men. The mob was close before them, gathering for another rush. Tom felt a cruel, wild devil beginning to rise in him : he had never felt the like before. This time he longed for the next crash, which happily for him, was fated never to come off. "Your names and colleges, gentlemen," said a voice close behind them at this critical moment. The " town " set up a derisive shout, and, turning round, the gownsmen found the velvet sleeves of one of the proctors at their elbow, and liip MUSCULAR CHRISTIANTTY. 121 satellites, vulgarly called bull-dogs, taking notes of them They -were completely caught, and so quietly gave the required information. " You will go to your colleges at once," said the proctor, " and remain within gates. You will see these gentlemen to the High-street," he added to his marshal ; and then strode on after the crowd, which was vanishing down the street. The men turned and strolled towards the High-street, the marshal keeping, in a deferential but wide-awake manner, pretty close to them, but without making any show of watch ing them. When they reached the High-street he touched his hat and said civilly, " I hope you will go home now, gentlemen, the senior proctor is very strict." " All right, marshal ; good night," said the good-natured ones. " D — his impudence," growled one or two of the rest, and the marshal bustled away after his master. The men looked at one another for a moment or two. They were of different colleges, and strangers. The High-street was quiet ; so, without the exchange of a word, after the manner of British youth, they broke up into twos and threes, and parted. Jervis, Tom, and Drysdale, who turned up quite undamaged, saun- tered together towards St. Ambrose's. " I say, where are we going 1 " said Drysdale. " l!Tot to college, I vote," said Tom. " Ko, there may be some more fan." " Mighty poor fun, I should say, you'll find it," said Jervis ; " however, if you will stay, I suppose I must. I can't leave you two boys by yourselves." " Come along then, down here." So they turned down one of the courts leading out of the High-street, and so by back streets bore up again for the disturbed districts. " Mind and keep a sharp look out for the proctors," said Jervis ; " as much row as you please, bu.t we musn't be caught again." " "Well, only let's keep together if we have to bolt." They promenaded in lonely dignity for some five minutes, keeping eyes and ears on full strain. "I tell you what," said Drysdale, at last, "it isn't fair, these enemies in the camp ; what with the ' town ' and their stones and fists, and the proctors with their ' name and college,' we've got the wrong end of the stick." " Both wrong ends, I can tell you," said Jervis. " Holloe, Brown, your nose is bleeding.'' <' Is it ? " said, Tom, drawing his hand across his face • " 'twa§ 122 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOED. that confounded little fellow then who ran np to my side while I was squaring at the long party. I felt a sharp crack, and the little rascal holted iuto the crowd before 1 could turn at him." " Cut and come again," said Drysdale, laughing. "Ay, that's the regular thing in these blackguard strett squabbles. Here they come then," said Jervis. " Stead v, aU." They turned round to face the town, which come shoutini; down the street behind them in pursuit of one gownsman, ;■. little, harmless, quiet fellow, who had fallen in with them on his way back to his college from a tea with his tutor, and, like a wise man, was gi'ving them leg-bail as hard as he could foot it. But the little man was of a courageous, though prudent soul, and turned panting and gasping on his foes the moment he found himself amongst friends again. " Now, then, stick togetlier ; don't let them get round us," said Jervis. They walked steadily dov/n the street, which was luckily a narrow one, so that three of them could keep the whole of it, halting and showing front every few yards, when the crowd pressed too much. " Down with them ! Town, town ! That's two as was in tlie show." " Mark the velvet-capped chap. Town, town ! " shouted the hinder part of the mob ; but it was a rabble of boys as before, and the front rank took very good care of itself, and forbore from close quarters. The small gownsman had now got his wind again ; and smarting under the ignominy of his recent flight, was always a pace or two nearer the crowd than the other three, ruffling up like a little bantam, and shouting defiance between the catchings of his breath. " You vagabonds ! you cowards ! Come on now, I say ! Gown, gown ! " And at last, emboldened by the repeated halts of the mob, and thirsting for revenge, he made a dash at one of the nearest of the enemy. The suddenness of the attack took both sides by surprise, then came a rush by two or three of the town to the rescue. " No, no ! stand back — one at a time," shouted the Captain, throwing himself between the combatants and the mob. " " Go it, little 'un ; serve him out. Keep the rest back, boys : steady ! " Tom and Drysdale faced towards the crowd, whUo the little gownsman and his antagonist — who defended himself vigorously enough now — came to close quarters, in the rear of the gown line ; too close to hurt one another, but what with hugging and cufiflng, the townsman in another half-minute MUSCULAR CHEISTIANITY. 123 was sitting quietly on the pavement with, his back against the wall, his enemy squaring in front of him, and daring him to renew the combat. " Get up, you coward ; get up, I say, you coward ! He won't get up," said the little man, eagcrl}' turning to the Captain. " Shall I give him a kick ] " " No, let the cur alone," replied Jervis. " Now, do any more of you want to fight 1 Come on, like men, one at a time. I'll fight any man in the crowd." Whether the challenge would have been answered must rest uncertain ; for now the crowd began to look back, and a cry arose, " Here they are, proctors ! now they'll run." " So we must, by Jove, Brown," said the Captain. " What's your college 1 " to the httle hero. " Pembroke." " Cut away, then ; your close at home ;" "Very well, if I must : good night," and away went the small man as fast as he had come ; and it has never been neard that he came to further grief or performed other feats that night. *' Hang it, don't let's run," said Drysdale. "Is it the proctors 1 " said Tom. " I can't see them." " Mark the bloody-faced one ; kick him over," sang out a voice in the crowd. "Thank'ee," said Tom, savagely. " Let's have one rush at them." " Look ! there's the proctor's cap just through them ; come along, boys — well, stay if you like, and be rusticated, I'm off;" and away went Jervis, and the next moment Tom and Drysdale followed the good example, and, as they had to run, made the best use of their legs, and in two minutes were well ahead of their pursuers. They turned a corner ; " Here, Brown ! alight in this public, cut in, and it's all right." Next moment they were in the dark passage of a quiet Httle inn, and heard with a chuckle part of the crowd scurry by the door in pursuit, while they themselves suddenly appeared in the neat little bar, to the no small astonishment of its occupants. I^ese were a stout elderly woman in spectacles, who was stitching away at plain work in an arm-chair on onb side of the fire ; the foreman of one of the great boat-builders, who sat opposite her, smoking liis pipe, with a long glass of clear ale at his elbow ; and a bright-eyed, neat-handed barmaid, who was leaning against the table, and talking to the others aa they entered. 124 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. CHAPTER XIL THE captain's NOTIONS. The old lady dropped her work, the barmaid turned round ■with a start and little ejaculation, and the foreman stared with all his eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, ex- claimed — " Bless us, if it isn't Muster Drysdale and Muster Brown, of Ambrose's. Why what's the matter, sir ? Muster Brown, you be all covered wi' blood, sir." " Oh dear me ! poor young gentleman ! " cried the hostess : — " Here, Patty, run and tell Dick to go for the doctor, and get the best room " — " No, please don't ; it's nothing at all," interrupted Tom, laughing ; — " a basin of cold water and a towel, if you please, Miss Patty, and I shall be quite presentable in a minute. I'm very sorry to have frightened you all." Drysdale joined in assurances that it was nothing but a little of his friend's " claret," which he would be all the better for losing, and watched with an envious eye the in- terest depicted in Patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh pumped water, and held the towel. Tom bathed his face, and very soon was as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a slight swelling on one side of his nose. Drysdale meantime — seated on the table — had been ex- plaining the circumstances to the landlady and the foreman. " And now, ma'am," said he, as Tom joined them and seated himself on a vacant chair, " I'm sure you must draw famous ale." "Indeed, sir, I think Dick — that's my ostler, sir — is as good a brewer as is in the town. We always brews at homo, sir, and I hope always shall." " Quite right, ma'am, quite right," said Drysdale ; " and I don't think we can do better than follow Jem here. Let us have a jug of the same ale as he is drinking. And you'll take a glass with us, Jem ? or will you have spirits ? " Jem was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to its being the best in Oxford, and Patty drew the ale, and sup- plied two more long glasses. Drysdale, with apologies, produced his cigar-case ; and Jem, under the influence of the ale and a first-rate Havannah (for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half as much), volunteered to go and rouse the yard and conduct them safely back to coUege. This offer was of course politely declined, and then, Jeiii's how THE CAPIAIN'S NOTIONS. 125 for bed having come, he, being a methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our two young friends in sole possession of the bar, Xothing could liave suited the two young gentlemen better, and they set to work to make them- selves agreeable. They listened with, lively interest to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a mdow woman in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum Dick and her niece Patty. They applauded her resolution of not bringing up her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no very available answer to her appeals for advice as to what trade they should be put to ; all trades were so full, and things were not as they used to be. The one thing, apparently, which was wanting to the happiness of Drysdale at Oxford, was the discovery of such beer as he had at last found at " The Choughs." Dick was to come up to St. Ambrose's the first thing in the morning and carry off his barrel, which would never contain in future any other liquid. At last that worthy appeared in the bar to know when he was to shut up, and Avas sent out by his mistress to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. And so, after paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, they found themselves in the street, and set off for college, agreeing on the way that " The Choughs " was a great find, the old lady the best old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest girl in Oxford. They found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along them, knocked at the college gates at half-past eleven. The stout porter received them with a long face. *' Senior proctor's sent down here an hour back, gentlemen, to find whether you was in college." " You don't mean that, porter ? How kind of him ! WTiat did you say 1 " "Said I didn't know, sir; but the marshal said, if you come in after, thai you was to go to the senior proctor's at half-past nine to-morrow." " Send my compHments to the senior proctor," said Drysdale, " and say I have a very particular engagement to-morrow morning, which will prevent my having the pleasure of calling on him." " Very good, sir," said the porter, giving a little dry chuckle, and tapping the keys against his leg ; " only perhaps you wouldn't mind Avriting him a note, sir, as he is rather a parti eular gentleman." " Didn't he send after any one else 1 " said Tom, "Yes, sir, Mr. Jervis, sir." " "Well, and what about him i " 126 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " Oh, sii', Mr. Jervis ! an old hand, sir. He'd been in gates a long time, sir, when the marshal came." "The sly old beggar ! " said Drysdale, "good night, porter . inind you send my message to the proctor. If he is set on seeing me to-morrow, you can say that he will find a broiled chicken and a hand at picquet in my rooms, if he likes to tlrop in to lunch." The porter looked after tbem for a moment, and then retired to his deep old chair in the lodge, pulled liis night-cap over his ears, put up his feet before the fire on a high stool, and folded his hands on his lap. " The most impidentest thing on the face of the earth is a gen'l'man-commoner in his first year," soliloquized the little man. " 'Twould ha' done that one a sight of good, now, if he'd got a good hiding in the street to-night. But he's better than most on 'em, too," lie went on ; " uncommon free with his tongue, but just as free with his arf-sovereigns. Well, I'm not going to peach if the proctor don't send again in the morning. That sort's good for the college ; makes tilings brisk ; has his ivin from town, and don't keep no keys. I wonder, now, if my Peter's been out a fighting ] He's pretty nigh as hard to manage, is that boy, as if he was at college hisseK." And so, muttering over his domestic and professional grievances, the small janitor composed himself to a nap. I may add, parenthetically, that his hopeful Peter, a precocious youth of seventeen, scout's boy on No. 3 Staircase of St. Ambrose's College, was represented in the boot cleaning and errand line by a substitute for some days ; and when he returned to duty was minus a front tooth. " What fools we were not to stick to the Captain. I wonder what we shall get," said Tom, who was troubled in his mind at the proctor's message, and not gifted naturally with the recklessness and contempt of authority which in Drysdale's case approached the sublime. " Who cares ? I'll be bound, now, the old fox came straight home to earth. Let's go and knock him up." _ Tom assented, for he was anxious to consult Jervis as to his proceedings in the morning ; so they soon found them- selves drumming at his oak, which was opened shortly by " the stroke " in an old boating-jacket. They followed him in. At one end of his table stood his tea-service and the remains of his commons, which the scout had not cleared away ; at the other, open books, note-books, and maps showed tliat the Capt.in read, as he rowed, " hard all." " Well, are you two only just in 1" " Only just, my Captain," answered Drysdale. THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIOXS. 127 •' Have you been well thrashed, then ? Yon don't look much damaged." " We are innocent of fight since your sudden departure — flight, shall I call it ]— my Captain." " Where have you been ]" " \Vhere ! why in the paragon of all pothouses ; snug little bar with red curtains ; stout old benevolent female in spec tacles ; barmaid a houri ; and for malt, the most touching tap in Oxford — home-brewed, too, wasn't it, Brown V " Yes, the beer was undeniable," said Tom. "Well, and you dawdled there till now?" said Jervis. " Even so. What with mobs that wouldn't fight fair, and and captains who would run away, and proctors and marshals who would interfere, we were ' perfectly disgusted with the whole proceedings,' as the Scotchman said when he was sen- tenced to be hanged." " AYell ! Heaven, they say, protects children, sailors, and drunken men ; and whatever answers to Heaven in the academical system protects freshmen," remarked Jervis. "Not us, at any rate," said Tom, "for we are to go to the proctor to-morrow morning." " What, did he catch you in your famous public 1 " " No ; the marshal came round to the porter's lodge, asked if we were in, and left word that, if we were not, we were to go to him in the morning. The porter told us just now as we came in." "Pshaw," said the Captain, with disgust; "now you'll both be gated probably, and the Avhole crew wUl be thrown out of gear. Why couldn't you have come home when I did ? " " We do not propose to attend the levee of that excellent person in office to-morrow morning," said Drysdale. " Ho will forget all about it. Old Copas won't say a word — catch him. He gets too much out of me for that." " Well, you'll see ; I'll back the proctor's memory." " But, Captain, what are you going to stand 1 " " Stand ! nothing, unless you like a cup of cold tea. You'll get no wine or spirits here at this time of night, and the buttery is shut. Besides, you've had quite as much beer as is good for you at your paragon public." "Come, now. Captain, just two glasses of sherry, and I'll promise to go to bed." " Not a thimbleful." " You old tyrant ! " said Drysdale, hopping off his perch on the elbow of the sofa. " Come along, Brown, let's go and diaw for some supper, and a hand at Van Jolin. There's sixre 128 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. to be some going up my staitcase ; or, at any rate, there's & cool bottle of claret in my rooms." " Stop and have a talk, Drown," said the Captain, and prevailed against Drysdale, who, after another attempt to draw Tom off, departed on liis quest for drink and cards. " He'll never do for the boat, I'm afraid," said the Captain ; " with his rascally late hours, and drinking, and eating all sorts of trash. It's a pity, too, for he's a pretty oar for his weight." " He is such uncommon good company, too," said Tom. " Yes ; but I'll tell you what. He's just a leetle too good company for you and me, or any fellows who mean to take a degree. Let's see, this is only his third term 1 I'll give him, perhaps, two more to make the place too hot to hold him. Take my word for it, he'll never get to his little-go." " It wUl be a great pity, then," said Tom. "So it vnlL But after all, you see, what does it matter to him 1 He gets rusticated ; takes his name off witli a flourish of trumpets — what then ] He falls back on 5,000/. a year in land, and a good accumulation in consols ; runs abroad, or lives in town for a year. Takes the hoiinds when he comes of age, or is singled out by some discerning constituency, and sent to make laws for his country, having spent the Avhole of his life hitherto in breaking all the laws he ever came under. You and I, perhaps, go fooHng about Avith him, and get rusti- cated. We make our friends miserable. We can't take our names off, but have to come cringing back at the end of our year, marked men. Keep our tails between our legs for the rest of our time. Lose a year at our professions, and mosl likely have the slip casting up against us in one way or another for the next twenty years. It's like the old story of the giant, and the dwarf, or like fighting a sweep, or any other one- sided busuiess." " But I'd sooner have to fight my own way in the world after all ; wouldn't you ? " said Tom. " H — m — m ! " said the Captain, throwing himself back in the chair, and smiling ; " can't ausv/er off hand. I'm a third- year man, and begin to see the other side rather clearer than I did when I was a freshman like you. Three years at Oxford, ^.y tjoy, Avill teach you something of what rank and money count for, if they teach you nothing else." " Why here's tlio Captain smgiug the same song as Hardy," thought Tom. " So you two have to go to the proctor to-morrow ? " " Yes." " Shall you go 1 Drysdale won't." " Of course 1 shall It seems to me childish not to go ; a^ THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS. 129 if 1 wore back in tlie lower school again. To tell you tlie truth, the being sent for isn't pleasant; but the other I couldn't stand." "Well, I don't feel anything of that sort. Eut I tliink you're right on the whole. The clinnces are that he'll re- member your name, and send for you again if you don't go ; and then you'll be worse off." *' You don't think he'll rusticate us, or anything of that sorf? " said Tom, Avho had felt horrible twinges at the Captain's picture of the effects of rustication on ordinary mortals. " No ; not unless he's in a very bad humour. I was caught three times in one night in my freshman's term, and only got an imposition." " Then I don't care," said Tom. " But it's a bore to have been caught in so seedy an affair ; if it had been a real good roAv, one wouldn't have minded so much." "Why, what did you expect? It was neither better nor worse than the common run of such things." " Well, but throe parts of the crowd were boys." " So they are always — or nine times out of ten at any rate." " But there was no real lighting : at least, I only know I got none." " There isn't any real fighting, as you call it, nine times out of ten." " AVhat is there, then ? " " Why, something of this sort. Five shopboys, or scouts' boys, full of sauciness, loitering at an out-of-the-way sti'ect corner. Enter two freshmen, full of dignity and bad wine. JCxplosion of inflammable material. Freshmen mobbed into High-street or Broad sti'eet, where the tables are turned by the gathering of many more freshmen, and the mob of town boys quietly subsides, puts its hands in its pockets, and ceases to shout 'Town, town!' l"he triumphant freshmen march up and down for perhaps half an hour, shouting ' Gown, gown ! ' and looking furious, but not half sorry that the mob vanishes like mist at their approach. Then come the jn'octors, who hunt down, and break up the gown in some half-hour or hour. The ' town ' again marches about in the ascendant, and mobs the scattered freshmen, wherever they can be caught in very small numbers." " But with all your chaff about freshmen. Captain, you were in it yourself to-night ; come now." " Of course, I had to look after you two boys." " But you didn't know we were in it when y^a came up." " I was sure to find some of you. Besides, I'll admit one don't like to go in while there's any chance oi a real row as E ISO TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. you call it, and so gets proctorized in one's old age for one'is patriotism." " Were you ever in a real row 1 " said Tom. " Yes, once, about a year ago. The fighting numbers were about equal, and the town all grown men, labourers and mechanics. It was desperate hard work, none of your shoj'* ing and promenading. Tliat Hardy, one of our Bible clerlis, fought like a Paladin ; I k'low I shifted a fellow in corduroys on to him, whom I had found an uncommon tough customer, and never felt better pleased in my life than when I saw the light glance on his hobnails as he went over into the gutter two minutes afterwards. It lasted, perhaps, ten minutes, and both sides were very glad to draw off." "But, of course, you licked them? " " We said we did." " Well, I believe that a gentleman will always lick in a fan fight." " Of course you do, it's the orthodox belief." " But don't you ? " " Yes ; if he is as big and strong, and knows how to fight as well as the other. The odds are that he cares a little more for giving in, and that will pull him through." " That isn't saying much, though," " 'No, but it's quite as much as is true. I'll tell you what it is, I think just this, that we are generally better in the fighting way than sho])keepers, clerks, flunkies, and all fellows who don't work hard with theii" bodies all day. But the moment you come to the real hard-fisted fellow, used to nine or ten hours' work a day, he's a cruel hard customer. Take seventy or eighty of them at haphazard, the first you meet, and turn them into St. Ambrose any morning — by night T take it they would be lords of this venerable establishment if we had to fight for the possession ; except, perhaps, foi that Hardy — he's one of a thousand, and was born for a fighting man ; perhaps he might pull us through." " Why don't you try him in the l)oat 1 " " Miller manages all that. I spoke to him about it after that row, but he said that Hardy had refused to subscribe to the club, said he couldn't allbrd it, or something of the sort. I don't see why that need matter, myself, but I suppose, as we have rules, we ought to stick to them." " It's a great pity though. I know Hardy well, and you can't think what a fine fellow he is." " I'm sure of that. I tried to know him, and we don't get OTi badly as speaking acquaintance. But he seems a queer, solitary bird." THE captain's NOTIONS. 131 Twelve o'clock struck ; so Tom wished the Captain good night and departed, meditating much on what he had heard and seen. The vision of territic single combats, in which tlie descendant of a hundred earls polishes off the liuge repre- sentative of the masses in the most finished style, A\athout a scratch on his own aristocratic features, had faded from his mind. He went to bed that night, fairly sickened with his ex- perience of a town and gown row, and with a nasty taste in his mouth. But he felt much pleased at having drawn out the Captain so completely. For "the stroke" was in general a man of marvellous few words, having many better uses than talking to put his breath to. Next morning he attended at the proctor's rooms at the appointed time, not without some feeling of shame at having to do so ; which, however, wore off when he found some dozen men of other colleges waiting about on the same errand as himself. In his turn he was ushered in, and, as he stood by the door, had time to look the great man over as he sat making a note of the case he had just disposed of. The inspection was reassuring. The proctor was a gentlemanly, straight- forward-looking man of about thirty, not at all donnish, and his address answered to his appearance. " Mr. Brown, of St. Ambrose's, I think," he said. " Yes, sir." " I sent you to your collage yesterday evening : did you go straight home 1 " " No, SU-." " How was that, Mv. Brown ? " Tom made no answer, and the proctor looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then repeated, " How was that 1 " " Well, sir," said Tom, " I don't mean to say I was going straight to college, but 1 should have been in long before yuu sent, only I fell in with the mob again, and then there was a cry that you were coming. And so — " He paused. "Well," said the proctor, mth a grim sort of curl about the corners of his mouth. " Why, I ran away, and turned into the first place which was open, and stopped till the streets were quiet." " A public house, I suppose." " Yes, sir ; ' The Choughs.' " The proctor considexed a minute, and again scrutinized Tom's look and manner, which certainly were straightforward, and without any tinge of cringing or insolence. " How long have you been up i " s2 132 TOM BROWN AT OXrOKD. " This is my second term, sir." " You have never been sent to me before, I think 1 " " Never, sir." " Well, I can't overlook this, as you yourself confess to a direct act of disobedience. You must write me out 200 lines of Virgil. And now, ^fr. Brown, let me advise you to keep out of tliese disreputable street quai'rcls in future. Good morning." Tom hurried away, wondering what it would feel like to be writing out Virgil again as a punishment at his time of life, but glad above measure that the proctor had asked him no questions about his companion. That hero was, of course, mightily tickled at the result, and seized the occasion to lecture Tom on his future conduct, holding himself up as a living example of the benefits which were sure to accrue to a man who never did anything he was told to do. The sound- ness of his reasoning, however, was somewhat shaken by the dean, who, on that same afternoon, managed to catch him in quad ; and, carrying him off, discoursed with him concerning his various and systematic breaches of disci])line, pointed out to him tliat he had already made such good use of his time that if he were to be discommonsed for three more days he would lose his term ; and then took off his cross, gave him a book of Virgil to write out, and gated him for a fortnight alter halh Drysdale sent out his scout to order his punish- ment as he might have ordered a waistcoat, presented old Copas with a half-sovereign, and then dismissed punishment and gating from his mind, lie cultivated with great success the science of mental gymnastics, or throwing everything the least unpleasant off his mind at once. And no doubt it is a science worthy of all cultivation, if one desires to lead a comfortable hfe. It gets harder, however, as the yeais roll over us, to attain to any satisfactory proficiency in it ; so tliat it should be mastered as early in life as may be. The town and gown row was the talk of the college for the next week, Tom, of course, talked much about it, like his neighbours, and confided to one and another the Captain's heresies. They were all incredulous ; for no one had ever hijard him talk as much in a term as Tom reported him to have done on this one evening. So it Avas resolved that he should be taken to task on the subject on the first opportunity ; and, as nobody was afraid of him, there was no difficulty in finding a man to bell the cat. Accordingly, at the next wine of the boating set, the Captain had scarcely entered when he was assailed by the host with— " Jervis, BroA\'n says you don't believe a gentleman can lick a cad, unless he is the biggest and strongest of the two." THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS. 133 Tlio Captain, ^vlio hated coming out with his beliefs, shrugged his shouhiers, sipped his wine, and tried to turn the subject. But, seeing that they Avere all bent on drawing him out, he was not the man to run from his guns ; and so said quietly, , " No more I do." Notwithstanding the reverence in which he was held, this saying could not be allowed to pass, and a dozen voices wcro instantly raised, and a dozen autlientic stories told to confute him. Ho listened patiently, and then, seeing he was in for it, said, " Never mind fighting. Try something else ; cricket, for instance. The players generally beat the gentlemen, don't thagne (iun- cluimpagne, but we were not critical) — the chojjs, the steaks, the bitter beer — but we run into anti-climax — remember, we were boys then, and bear with us if you cannot sympathize. And you, old companions, Bpavirai, benchers (of the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but never-forgotten, lairds, squires, soldiers, merchants, lawyers, grave J.P.'s, graver clergymen, gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least does our brother- hood boast), I turn for a moment, from my task, to reach to you tlie right hand of fellowship from these pages, and empty the solemn pewter — trophy of hard-won victory — to your health and happiness. Surely none the Avorse Christians and citizens are ye for youi- involuntary failiug of muscularity ! CHAPTER XIV. A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. It was on a Saturday that the St. Ambrose boat made the first bump, described in our last chapter. On the next Saturday, the day -week after tlie first success, at nine o'clock in the evening, our hero was at the door of Hardy's rooms. He just stopped for one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and entered. The little estrangement which there had been between them for some weeks, had passed away since the races had begun. Hardy had thrown himself into the spirit of them so thoroughly, that he had not only regained all his hold on Tom, but had warmed up the whole crew in his favour, and had mollified the martinet IMUler himself. It was he who had managed the starting-rope in every race, and Ids voice from the towing-path had come to be looked upon as a safe guide for clapping on or rowing steady. Even ^filler, autocrat as he was, had come to listen for it, in confirmation of his own judgment, before calling on the crew for the final effort. So Tom had recovered his old footing in the servitor's rooms ; and when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing of an iatimate friend. Hardy s lea commons A CHANGE IN TUE CKEW. 151 wore on one end ol the table as usual, and lie was sitting at the other poring over a book. Tom marched straight up tc lam, and leant over his shoulder. "What, hero you are at the perpetual grind," he said. " Come, shut up, and give me some tea ; I want to talk to you." Hardy looked up with a grmi smile. " Are you up to a cup of tea 1 " he said ; " look here, 1 was just reminded of you fellows Shah I construe for you?" He pointed with his finger to the ojjen page of the book he was reading. It was the Knights of Aristophanes, and Turn, leaning over his shoulder, read, — Kara Kadit,(jv fiaXaKU)^ Iva fxrj Tpi^r>ital place on the river." "Second be hanged!" said Tom. "We mean to be first." "Well, I hope we may!" said Hardy. "T can tell you nobody felt it more tlian I — not even old Diogenes — when you didn't make your bump to-night." "Now you talk like a man, and a Saint Ambrosian," said Tom. " But what do you thiiiJv ? Shall we ever catch them?" and, so saying, he retu'cd to a chair opi^ositc the tea-things. " Ho," said Hardy ; " I don't think we ever shall. I'm very sorry to say it, but tliey are an uncommonly strong lot, and we have a weak place or two in our crow. I don't think we can do more than we did to-night — at least with tho present crew." " But if we could get a little more strength we might ? " " Yes, I think so. Jervis's stroke is worth two of tlieira. A very little more powder would do it." " Then we must liave a httle more powder." " Ay, but how are we to get it ? Who can you put in?" "You!" said Tom, sitting up. "There, no>\', that's just what I am come about. Drysilalo is to go out. W^ill you pull next race 1 Tliey all want you to row." 152 TOM BKOTTN AT OXFOllD. " Do they 1 " said Uartly, quietly (l)ut Tom could see that his eye sparkled at the notion, though he was too praud to shov/ how much he was pleased) ; " then they had better come and ask me themselves." " "Well, you cantankerous old party, they're coming, I can toll you ! " said Tom, in great delight. " The Captain just sent me on to break ground, and ■will be here directly liimself. I say now. Hardy," he went on, " don't you say no. I've set my heart upon it. I'm sure we shall bump them if you pull." " I don't know that," said Hard 3', getting up, and beginning to make tea, to conceal the excitement ho was in at the idea of rowing ; " you see Vn\ not in training." " Gammon," said Tom, "you're always in training, and you know it." " Well," said Hardy, " I can't be in worse than Drysdale. Jle has been of no use above the Gut this last tliree nights." " That's just what Miller says," said Tom, "and here comes the Captain." Tliere was a knock at the door while he spoke, and Jervis and IMiller entered, Tom was in a dreadful fidget for the next twenty minutes, and may best be compared to an enthusiastic envoy negotiating a treaty, and suddenly finduig his action impeded by the arrival of his principals. Miller was very civil, but not l)ressing ; he seemed to have come more with a view of talking over the present state of things, and consulting upon them, than of enlisting a recruit. Hardy met him more than half- way, and speculated on all sorts of possible issues, without a liint of volunteering himself. But presently Jervis, who did not understand finessing, broke in, and asked Hardy, point blank, to pull in the next I'ace ; and when he pleaded want of training, overruled him at once by saying that there was no better training than sculling. So in half an hour all was settled. Hardy was to pull five in the next race, Diogenes was to take Blake's place, at !N'o. 7, and Blake to take Drysdale's oar at No. 2. The whole crew were to go for a long training walk the next day, Sunday, in the afternoon ; to go doAvn to Abingdon on Monday, just to get into swing in their new places, and then on Tuesday to abide the fate of war. They had half an hour's pleasant talk over Hardy's tea, and then separated. " I always told you he was our man," said the Captain to Miller, as they walked together to the gates ; " we want strength, and he is as strong as a horse. You must have soon him sculling yourself. There isn't his match on the river to my mind." A CHANGE IN THE CREW. Iu3 "Yos, I think lie'll do," replied Miller; "at any rate lie can't be worse than Drysdale." As for Tom and Hardy, it may safely he said that no two men in Oxford went to bed in better spirits that Saturday night than tliey two. And now to explain how it came about that Hardy waa wanted. Fortune had smiled upon the St. Ambrosians in the two races which succeeded tlie one in which they limi bamped Exeter. They had risen two more places w^ith )ut any very great trouble. Of course, the constituencies on the banlc magnified their powers and doings. There never was such a crew, they were quite safe to be head of the river, nothing could live against their pace. So the yoiuig oars in the boat swallowed all they lieard, thought themselves the finest fellows going, took less and less pains to keep up their condition, and when they got out of ear-shot of Jervis and Diogenes, were ready to bet two to one that they would bump Oriel the next night, and keep easily head of the river for the rest of the races. Saturday night came, and brought wdth it a most useful though unpalatable lesson to the St. Ambrosians. The Oriel boat was manned chiefly by old oavs, seasoned in many a race, and not liable to jianic when hard pressed. They had a fair though not a first-rate strolce, and a good coxswain ; exj)erts remarked that they were rather too heavy for their boat, and tliat she dipped a little when they put on anytliing like a severe spurt ; but on the whole they were by no means the sort of crew you could just run into hand over hand. So Miller and Diogenes preached, and so the Ambrosians found out to their cost. They had the pace of the other boat, and gained as usual a boat's length before the Gut ; but, first those two fatal corners were passed, and then other well-remembered spots where former bumps had been made, and still INIiller made no sign ; on the contrary, he looked gloomy and savage. The St. Ambrosian shouts from the shore too changed from the usual exultant peals into something like a quaver of consternation, while the air was rent with the name and laudations of " little Oriel." Long before the Cherwell Drysdale was completely baked (he had played truant the day before and dined at the Weirs, where ho had imbibed much dubious hock), but he from obi habit managed to keep time. Tom and the other young oars got flurried, and quickened ; the boat dragged, there was no life left in her, and, though they managed just to hold th'Mr liist advantage, could not put her a foot nearer the stuiu l')i TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. of the Oriel boat, wliicli glided past tlie wiiming-post a cl.-^ar boat's length ahead of her pursuers, and with a crew inur.h less distressed. Such races must tell on strokes ; and even Jervis, whc had pulled magnificently throughout, was very much done at the close, and leant over his oar with a swimming in his heatl, and an approach to faintness, and was scarcely able to see for a minute or so. Miller's i:idignation knew uo bounds, but he bottled it up till he had mtuueuvred the crew into their dressing-room by themselves, Jei'vis having stoj)ped below. Then he let out, and did not s])are them. " Tliey would kill their captain, whose little finger was worth the whole of them ; they were disgracing the college ; three or four of them had neither heart, head, nor i)luck." They all felt that this was unjust, for after all had they not brought the boat up to the second place 1 Poor Diogenes sat in a corner and groaned ; he forgot to prefix " old fellow " to the few obser- vations he made. Blake had great dilficulty in adjusting his necktie before the glass ; he merely remarked in a jiause of the objurgation, " In faith, coxswain, these be very bitter words." Tom and most of the others were too much out of heart to resist ; but at last Drysdale fired up — " You've no right to be so savage that 1 can see," he said, suddenly stopping the low whistle in which he was indulging, as he sat on the corner of the table; "you seem to think No. 2 the weakest out of several weak places in the boat." " Yes, 1 do," said Miller. "Then this honourable member," said Drysdale, getting off the table, " seeing that his humble ellorts are unappreciated, thinks it best for the public service to place his resignatiou in the hands of your coxswainship." " Which my coxswainship is graciously jileased to accc]it," replied jMiller. " Hurrah for a roomy punt and a soft cushion next racing night — it's almost worth while to have been rowing all this time, to realize the sensations I shall feel when I see you fellows passing the Cherwell on Tuesday." " Suave est, it's what I'm partial to, 7nafi magna, in the last reach, a terra, from the towing path, alterius magnura spectare laborem, to witness the tortures of you wretched beggars in the boat. I'm obliged to translate for Drysdale, who never learned Latin," said Blake, finishing his tie before the glass. There was an awkward silence. Miller ^\'as chafing inwardly and running over in his mind what was to be done ; and no- body else seemed quite to luiow what ought to happen next, when the door opened and Jervis came in. A CIIAKGE IN THE CKEW. 155 " Congratulate me, my Captain," said Drysdale : " T'lu wlII out of it at last." Jervis " pished and pshaw'd " a little at liearing w-hat had happened, but his presence acted like oil on the waters. 'J'ho moment that the resignation was named, Tom's thoughts had turned to Hardy. Now was the time — he had such conlidenee in the man, that the idea of getting liim in for next race entirely changed the as])ect of affairs to him, and made him feel as "bumptious" again as he had done in the morning. So with this idea in his head, he hung about till the Captain had made his toilet, and joined himself to liim and Miller as thej' walked up. " Well, what are we to do now 1 " said the Captain. "That's just what you have to settle," said JNliller; "you have been up all the term, and know the men's }iulling betlei than I." " I suppose we must press somebody from the torpid — let me see, tliere's Burton." " He rolls like a porpoise," interrupted JNIiller, positively ; " impossible." " Stewart might do, then." " Never kept time for thi'ee strokes in his life," said Miller. " Well, there are no better men," said the Captain. " Then we may lay our account to stop])ing where wo are, if we don't even lose a place," said Miller. " Dust imto (lust, what must l>o, must ; If you can't get ci-umb, yuu'd Lust tat cnist," said the Captain. "It's all very well talking coolly noAv," said Miller, "but you'll kill yourself trying to bump, and there are three mure nights." " Hardy would row if you asked him, I'm sure," said Tom. The Captain looked at Miller, who shook his head. " I don't think it," he said ; I take him to be a shy bird that won't coine to everybody's whistle. "We might have had him two years ago, 1 believe — I wish we had." " 1 always told you so," said Jervis ; " at any rate let's try hun. He can but say no, and I don't think he will, for you see he has been at the starting-place every night, and as keen as a freshman all the time." " I'lu sure he won't," said Tom ; " I know he would give anything to pull." " You had better go to his rooms and sound him," said the Captain ; " Miller and I will follow in half an hour." ^\'e have already heard how Tom's mission prospered. 156 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. I'lic next day, at a few minutes before two o'clock, the St. Ambrose crew, including Hardy, with Miller (who wns a desperate and indefatigahle pedestrian) for leader, crossed Magdalen Ih'idge. At five they returned to college, having done a little over fifteen miles, fair heel and toe walking in the interval. The afternoon had been very hot, and MiUer chuckled to the Captain, " I don't think there will be much tiash left in any one of them after that. That fellow Hardy is as fine as a race-horse, and, did you see, he never turned a hair all the way." The crew dis])ersed to their rooms, delighted with the per- formance now that it was over, and feelhig that they were much the better for it, though they all declared it had been harder work than any race they had yet pulled. It would have done a trainer's heart good to have seen them, some twenty minutes afterwards, dropping into hall (where they were allowed to dine on Sundays on the joint), fresh from cold baths, and looking ruddy and clear, and hard enough for anythijig. Again on Monday, not a chance was lost. The St. iVmbrose boat started soon after one o'clock for Abingdon. They swung steadily down the whole way, and back again to Sandford without a single spurt ; Miller generally standing in the stern, and preaching above all things steadiness and time. From Sandford up, they were accompanied by half a dozen men or so, who ran up the bank watching them. The struggle for the first place on the river was creating great exciteiuent in the rowing world, aud these were some of the most keen con- noisseurs, who, having heard that St. Ambrose had changed a man, were on the look-out to satisfy themselves as to how it would work. Tlie general opinion was veering round in favour of Oriel ; changes so late in the races, and at such a critical moment, were looked upon as very damaging. Foremost amongst the runners on the bank was a wiry dark man, with sanguine complexion, who went with a peculiar long, low stride, keeping liis keen eye well on the boat. Just above Kennington Island, Jervis, noticing this particular spectator for the first time, called on the crew, and, quickening his stroke, took them up the reach at racing j)ace. As they lay in Iffley Lock the dark man appeared above them, and exchanged a few words, and a good deal of dumb show, with the Caj^tain and Miller, and then disappeared. From Ifiley up they went steadily again. On the whole Miller seemed to be in very good spirits in the dressing-room ; he thought the boat trimmed better, and went better than she had ever done before, and complimented PJake jpartiou- CHANGE IN THE CRKW. 157 larly for the ease with which he had changed sides. They all went up in high spirits, calling on their way at " The Choughs" for one glass of old ale round, which Miller waa graciously pleased to allow. Tom never remembered till after they were out again that Hardy had never been there before, and felt embarrassed for a moment, but it soon passed off. A moderate dinner and early to bed hnished the day, and JNIillcr was justified in his parting remark to the Captain, " Well, if we don't win, we can comfort ourselves that we hav'n't dropped a stitch this last two days, at any rate." Then the eventful day arose which Tom, and many another man, felt was to make or mar St. Ambrose. It was a glorious early-summer day, without a cloud, scarcelj'^ a breath of air stii-ring. " We shall have a fair start at any rate," was the general feeling. We have already seen Avhat a throat-drying, nervous bushaess, the morning of a race-day is, and must not go over the same ground more than we can help ; so we will imagine the St. Ambrose boat down at the starting-place, lying close to the towing-})ath, just before the first gun. There is a much greater crowd than usual opposite the two lirst boats. By this time most of the other boats have found their places, for there is not much chance of anything very exciting down below ; so, besides the men of Oriel and St. Ambrose (who muster to-night of all sorts, the fastest of the fast and the slowest of the slow having hcen by this time shamed into something lilve enthusiasm), many of other colleges, whose boats have no chance of bumping or being bumped, flock to the point of attraction. " Do you make out what the change is 1 " says a hacker of Oriel to his friend in the like predicament. " Yes, they've got a new Ko. 5, don't you see, and, l^y George, I don't like his looks," answered his friend ; "awfully long and strong in the arm, and well-ribbed up. A deviliah awkward customer. I shall go and try to get a hedge." " Pooh," says the other, " did you ever know one man win a race 1 " " Ay, that I have," says his friend, and walks off towards the Oriel crowd to take five to four on Oriel in half-sovereigns, if he can get it. ISoyr their dark friend of yesterday comes up at a trot, and pulls up close to the Captain, with whom he is evidently dear friends. He is worth looking at, being coxswain of the 0. U. 1>. the best steerer, runner, and swimmer, in Oxford ; amphibious himself and sprung from an amphibious race. His own boat is in no danger, so he has left her to take care of herself. He is on the look-out for recruits for tlio University croW; 158 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. ami no recruiting sergeant has a sharper eye for the sort of Btutf he requires. " What's his namel" he says in a low tone to Jervis, giving a jerk with his head towards Hardy. " Where did you get himl" " Hardy," answers the Captain, in the same tone ; " it's his fiist night m the boat." " I know that," replies the coxswain ; " T never saw him row before yesterday. He's the fellow Avho sculls in that brown skitf, isn't he 1 " " Yes, and I thinlc he'll do ; keep your eye on him." The coxswain nods as if he were somewhat of the same mind, and examines Hardy with the eye of a connoisseur, pretty nmch as the judge at an agricultural show looks at the prize bull. Hardy is tightening the strap of his sti'etchor, and all-unconscious of the comjiliments which are being paid him. Th-e great authority seems satisfied with his inspection, giins, rubs his hands, and trots off to the Oriel boat to make comparisons. Just as the first gun is heard, Grey sidles nervously to the front of the crowd as if he were doing something very audacious, and draws PLirdy's attention, exclianging synii)a- thizing nods with him, but sapng nothing, ibr he knows not what to say, and then disap])C!iring again in the crowd. " Hollo, Prysdale, is that you ? " says Blake, as they push off from the shore. " I thought you were goijig to take it easy in a punt." " So I thought," said Drysdale, "but I couldn't keep away, ami here I am. I sliall run up ; and mind, if I see you within ten feet, and cocksure to win, I'll give a view holloa. I'll be bound you shall hear it." " j\lay it come speedily," said Blake, and then settled him- self in his seat. " Eyes in the boat — mind now, steady all, watch the stroke and don't quicken." These are Miller's last words ; every faculty of himself and the crew being now devoted- to getting a good start. This ia no difhcidt matter, as the water is like glass, and the boat lies lightly on it, obeying the slightest dip of the oars of bow and two, who just feel the water twice or thrice in the last minute. Then, after a few moments of brciithless hush on the banJc, the last gun is fired, and tliey are oiF. The same scene of mad excitement ensues, only tenfold more intense, as almost the whole interest of the races is to- night concentrated on the two head boats and their fate. At every gate there is a jam, and the weaker vessels are shoved A CIIANOE IN THK CKKW 1 59 III to the ditches, upset, and loft unnoticed. The most active men, inchiding the 0. U. B. coxswain, shun the gates alto- gether, and take the big ditches in their stride, making for the long bridges, that they may get quietly over these and he safe for the best ])art of tlie race. They know that the critical point of the struggle will be near the finish. Both boats made a beautiful start, and again as before in the first dash the St. Ambrose j)ace tells, and they gain their boat's length before first winds fail ; then they settle down for a long steady effort. Both crews are roAving comparatively steady reserving themselves for the tug of war up above. Thus they pass the Gut, and those two treacherous corners, the scene of countless bumps, into the wider water beyond, up under the M'illows. Miller's face is decidedly hopeful ; he shoAvs no sign, indeed, but you can see that he is not the same man as ho Avas at tliis jilnce in the last race. He feels that to-day the boat is fidl of life, and that he can call on his crew with hopes of an answer. His well-trained eye also detects that, while both crews are at fidl stretch, his OAvn, instead of losing, as it did on the last night, is now gaining inch by inch on Oriel. The gain is scarcely perceptible to him even ; from the l^ank it is quite imperceptible ; but there it is ; he is surer and surer of it, as one after another the willows are left behind. And now comes the pinch. The Oriel captain is beginning to be conscious of the fact which has been dawning on ^Miller, but will not acknowledge it to himself, and as his coxswain turns the boat's head gently across the stream, anil makes for the Berkshire side and the goal, now full in view, he snu'les grindy as he quickens his strolce ; he will shake off these light-heeled gentry yet, as ho did before. Miller sees the move in a moment, and signals his captain, and the next stroke St. Ambrose has quiskened also ; and now there is no mistake about it, St. Ambrose is creeping up slowly but surely. The boat's length lessens to forty feet, thirty feet ; surely and steadily lessens. But the race is not lost yet ; thirty feet is a short space enough to look at on the water, but a good bit to pick up foot by foot in the last two or three hundred yarils of a desperate struggle. They are over, under the Berkshire side now, and there stands up the winning-post, close ahead, all but won. The distance lessens, ,nnl lessens still, but the Oriel crew stick steadily and gallantly to their woik, and will fight every inch of distance to the last. The Oriel men on the bank, who are rusJiing along sometimes in the water, sometimes out, hoarse, furious, madly alternating between hope and despair, have no reason to be 1()0 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. ashamed of a man in the crew. Off the mouth of the Cherwell tliere is still twenty feet between them. Another minute, and it wUl be over one way or another. Every man in both crews is now doing his best, and no mistake ; tell mo which boat holds the most men who can do better than their best at a pinch, who will risk a broken blood-vessel, and I will tell you how it wiU end. " Hard pounding, gentlemen ; let's see who will pound longest," the Duke is reported to have said at Waterloo, and won. " Now, Tummy, lad, 'tia thou or I," Big Ben said as he came up to the last round of his hardest light, and won. Is there a man of that temper in either crew to-night 1 If so, now's his time. For bol h coxswains have called on their men for the last effort ; Miller is whirling the tassel of his right-hand tiller rope round his head, like a wiry little lunatic ; from the to-wing path, from Christchurch meadow, from the row of punts, from the clustered tops of the barges, comes a roar of encouragement and applause, and the band, unable to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash into the " Jolly Young Waterman," playing two bars to the second. A bump in the Out is nothing — a few partisans on the towing-path to cheer you, abcady out of breath ; but up here at the very finish, with all Oxford looking on, when the prize is the headship of the river — once in a generation only do men get such a chance. Who ever saw Jervis not up to his work 1 The St. Ambrose stroke is glorious. Tom had an atom of go still left in the very back of his head, and at this moment he heard Drysdale's view holloa above all the din ; it seemed to give him a lift, and other men besides in the boat, for in another six strokes the gap is lessened and St. Ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and now to five from the stern of Oriel. Weeks afterwards Hardy confided to Tom that when he heard that view hoUoa he seemed to feel the muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and did more work in the last twenty strokes than in any other forty in the earlier part of the race. Another fifty yards and Oriel is safe, but the look on the Captain's face is so ominous that their coxswain glances over his shoulder. The bow of St. Ambrose is witliiu two feet of their rudder. It is a moment for desperate expedients. Ho pulls his left tiller rope suddenly, thereby carrying the stern of his own boat out of the line of the St. Ambrose, and calls on his crew once more ; they respond gallantly yet, but the rudder is against them for a moment, and the boat drags. St. Ambrose overlaps. " A bump, a bump," shout the St. Ambrosians on shore. " Row on, row on," screams iVIiller. lie has not yet felt the electric shock, and knows he will mis3 A STORM BRF.WS AND BREAKS. 161 his bump if the young ones slacken for a moment. A young coxswain would have gone on making shots at the stern of tlie Oriel boat, and so have lost. A bump now and no mistake ; the bow of the St. Ambrose boat jams the oar of the Oriel stroke, and the two boats pass tlie winning-post with the way that was on them when the bump was made. So near a shave was it. Who can describe the scene on the bank 1 It was a hurly- burly of delirious joy, in the midst of which took place a terrific combat between Jack and the Oriel dog — a noble black bull terrier belonging to the college in general, and no one in particular — who always attended the races and felt the misfortune keenly. Luckily they were parted without worse things hap]iening ; for though the Oriel men were savage, and not disinclined for a jostle, the milk of human kindness was too strong for the moment in their adversaries. So Jack was choked off with some trouble, and the Oriel men extricated themselves from the crowd, carrying ofl' Crib, their dog, and looking straight before them into vacancy. " Well rowed, boys," says Jervis, turning round to his crew as they lay panting on their oars. " Well rowed, five," says Miller, who even in the hour of such a triumph is not inclined to be general m laudation. " Well rowed, five," is echoed from the bank j it is that cunning man, the recruiting-sergeant. " Fatally well rowed," he adds to a comrade, with whom he gets into one of the punts to cross to Christchurch meadow ; " we must have him in the University crew." " I don't think you'll get him to row, from Avhat I hear," answers the other. " I'hen he must be handcuffed and carried into the boat by force,'' says the 0. U. B. coxswain ; " Avhy is not the press- gang an institution in this university?" CHAPTEE XV. A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS. Certaini Drysdale's character came out well that night. He did not seem the least jealous of the success which had been achieved through his dismissal. On the contrary, there was no man in the coUege who showed more interest in the race, or joy at the result, than he. Perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself may have reckoned for something with bim. In any case, there he was at the door with Ja:;k, to pteet the crew as they landed after the race, with a large 1C2 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. pewter, foaming with shandygaff, in each hand, for theii recreation. Draco himself could not have forbidden them to drink at that moment ; so, amidst shaking of hands and cL'ippings on the back, the pewters travelled round from stroke to bow, and then the crew went off to their dressing-room, accompanied by Drysdale and others, " Bravo ! it was the finest race that has been seen on the river this six years ; everybody says so. You fellows have deserved well of your country. I've sent up to college to have supper in my rooms, and you must all come. Hang training ! there are only two more nights, and you're safe to keep your place. What do you say Captain ] eh, Miller 1 Kow be good-natured for once." " Miller, what do you say 1 " said the Captain. " Well, we don't get head of the river every night," said Miller. " I don't object if you'll all turn out and go to bed at eleven." " That's all right," said Drysdale ; " and now let's go to the old ' Choughs' and have a glass of ale while supper is getting ready. Eh, Brown]" and he hooked his arm into Tom's and led the way into the town. " I'm so sorry you were not in it for the finish," said Tom, who was quite touched by his friend's good-humour. " Are you ]" said Drysdale ; " it's more than I am, then, I can tell you. If you could have seen yourself under the wUlows, you wouldn't have thought yourseK much of an object of envy. Jack and I were quite satisfied with our share of work and glory on the bank. Weren't we, old fellow 1" at which salutation Jack reared himself on his hind legs and licked his master's hautL " Well, you're a real good fellow for taking it as you do. 1 don't think I could have come near tlie river if I had beeii you." '' I take everything as it comes," said Drysd;de. " The next race is on Derby day, and I couldn't have gone if I hadn't beer turned out of the boat ; that's a compen.sation, you see. Here we are. I wouder if Miss Patty has heard of the victory 1" They turned down the little passage entrance of " The Choughs" as he spoke, followed by most of the crew, and by a tail of younger St. Ambrosiaus, their admirers, and the bar was crowded the next moincnt. Patty was there, of course, and her services were in great requisition ; for though each of the crew only took a small glass of the old ale, they made as much fuss about it with the pretty barmaid as if they were drinking hogsheads. In fact, it had become clearly llio correct thing with the St, Ambrosiaus to make much of Patty ; A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS. 1G3 anrl, considering the circumstances, it was only a wonder that slie was not more spoilt than seemed to be the case. Indeed, as Hardy stood up in tlie corner opposite to the landlady's chair, a silent on-looker at the scene, he couldn't help admitting to himself that the girl held her own well, without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman. And it was a hard thing for him to be fair to her, for what he saw now in a few minutes confirmed the impression which his former visit had left on his mind — that his friend was safe in her toils ; how deeply, of course he could not judge, but that there was nioie between them than he could approve was now clear enough to him, and he stood silent, leaning against the wall in that fiirthest corner, in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much distressed in mind, and pondering over what it behoved him to do under the circumstances. With the exception of a civil sentence or '\V'0 to the old landlady, who sat opposite him knitting, and casting rather uneasy looks from time to time towards the front of the bar, he spoke to no one. In fact, nobody came near that end of the room, and their existence seemed to have been forgotten by the resL Tom had been a little uncomfortable for the first minute ; but after seeing Hardy take his glass of ale, and then missing him, he forgot all about him, and was too busy with his own affairs to trouble himself further. He had become a sort of drawer, or barman, at "The Choughs,'' and presided, under Patty, over the distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his chief to see that she was not put upon. Drysdale and Jack left after a short stay, to see that the supper was being properly prepared. Soon afterwards Patty went off out of the bar in answer to some bell which called her to another part of the liouse ; and the St. Ambrosians voted that it was time to go off to college to supper, and cleared out into the street. Tom went out with the last batch of them, but lingered a moment in the passage outside. He knew the house and its ways well enough by this time. The next moment Patty appeared from a side door, Vv'hich led to another part of the house. " So you're not going to stay and plaj'- a game with aunt," she said ; "what makes you in such a hurry 1" " I must go up to college ; there's a supper to celebrate our gottmg head of the river." Patty looked down and pouted a little. Tom took her hand, and said, sentimentally, " Don't be cross, now ; you know that I would sooner stay here, don't you?" M 2 164 TOM BBOWN AT OXFORD. She tossed her head, and pulled away her hand, and then changing the subject, said, ♦' Who's that ugly old fellow who was here again to-night T' " There was no one older than Miller, and he is rather an admirer of yours. I shall tell him you called him ugly." '* Oh, I don't mean Mr. Miller; you kno-,r that well enough," she answered. " I mean him in the old rough coat, who don't talk to any one." " Ugly old fellow, Patty ? Wliy you mean Hardy. He's a great friend of mine, and you must like him for my sake." "I'm sure I won't. 1 don't like him a bit; he looks so cross at me." " It's all yoiTr fan^^y. There now, good-night.'' "You sha'n't go, however, till you've given me that hand- kcrchiet You promised it mo if you got head of the river." " Oh ! you little story-teller. "VNHiy they are my college colours. 1 wouldn't part with them for worlds. I'll give you a lock of ray hair, and the prettiest handkercliief you can find in Oxford ; but not this." " But I will have it, and you did promise me it," she said, and put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of Tom's neck-handkerchief. He caught her wrists in his hands, and looked down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his going, he saw other things which stuTed in him strange feelings of triumph and tenderness. " Well, then, you shall pay for it, any how," he said. — Why need I tell what followed ? — There was a little struggle ; a "Go along, do, Mr. Brown;" and the next minute Tom, minus his handkerchief, was hurrying after his companions ; and Patty was watching him from the door, and setting her cap to rights. Then she turned and went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw Hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then passed out, wishing them " Good-night." "Why, aunt," she said, "I thought they wore all gone. Who was that sour-looking man?" " He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear," said the old lady, looking up. " I'm sure he's much better than those ones as makes so much racket in the bar. But where have you been, Patty 1 " " Oh, to the commercial room, aunt. Won't you have a game at cribbage 1 " and Patty took up the cards and set the board out, the old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her spectacles. She was beginning to wish that the A STOEM BREWS A2s^D BREAKS. 105 college gentlemen wouldn't come so much to tlie house, thougli they were very good customers. Tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after his comrades, and caught them up before they got up to college. They were all there but Hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a moment ; he had hoped that Hardy, now that he was in the boat, would have shaken off all his reserve towards the other men, and blamed bim because he had not done so at once. There could be no reason for it but his own oddness, he thought, for every one was full of his praises as they strolled on talking of the race. Miller praised his style, and time, and pluck. "Didn't you feel how the boat sprung when 1 called on you at the Cherwell 1 " he said to the Captain. "Drysdale was always dead beat at the Gut, and just like a log in the boat, pr6tty much like some of the rest of you." " He's in such good training, too," said Diogenes ; " I shall find out how he diets himself" " We've pretty well done with that, I should hope," said No. 6. " There are only two more nights, and nothing can touch us now." "Don't be too sure of that," said Miller. "Mind now, all of you, don't let us have any nonsense till the races are over and we are all safe." And so they talked on till they reached college, and then dispersed to their rooms to wash and dress, and met again in Drysdale's rooms, where supper was awaiting them. Again Hardy did not appear. Drysdale sent a scout to his rooms, who brought back word that he cc .ild not find him ; so Drysdale set to work to do the honours of his table, and enjoyed the pleasure of tempting the creAV with all sorts of forbidden hot liquors, wliich he and the rest of the non-pro- fessionals imbibed freely. But with Miller's eye on them, and the example of Diogenes and the Captain before them, the rest of the crew exercised an abstemiousness which would have been admirable, had it not been in a great measure compulsory. It was a great success, this supper at Drysdale's, although knocked iip at an hour's notice. The triumph of their boat had, for the time, the effect of warming up and drawing out the feeling of fellowship, which is the soul of college life. Though only a few men besides the crew sat down to supper, long before it was cleared away men of every set in the college came in, in the highest spirits, and the room was crowded. For Drysdale sent round to every man in the college with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and 106 T(1M BROWN AT OXFORD. tlioy floclvcd in and sat where they could, and men talked and laughed with neighbours, with whom, perhaps, they had never exclianged a word since the time when they were freshmen togetlier. Of course tliere were speeches, cheered to the echo, and songs.^ of which the choruses might have been heard in the High-street. At a little before eleven, nevertheless, despite the protestations of Drysda^e, and the passive resistance of several of tlieir number, INliller carried oif the crew, and many of the other guests went at the same time, leaving their host and a small circle to make a niglit of it. Tom went to his rooms in high spirits, humming the air of one of the songs he had just heard ; but he had scarcely thrown his gown on a chah when a thought struck him, and he ran down stairs again and across to Hardy's rooms. Hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but im- tasted, before him, and no books open — a very unusual thing with him at night. But Tom either did not or would not notice that there was anything unusual. He seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he coiild, without looking much at the other. He began by recounting all the complimentary things wliich had been said by ]\Iiller and others of Hardy's pulling. Then he went on to the supper party ; what a jolly evening they had had ; he did not remember anything so pleasant since he had been up, and he retailed the speeches and named the best songs. " You really ought to have been there. Why didn't you come 1 Drysdale sent over for you. I'm sure every one wished you had hoen there. Didn't you get his message 1 " " I didn't feel up to going," said Hardy. "There's nothing the matter, eh?" said Tom, as the thought crossed his mind tliat perhaps Hardy had hurt himself in the race, as he had not been regularly training. "No, nothing," answered the other. Tom tried to make j^lay again, but soon came to an end of his talk. It was impossible to make head against that cold silence. At last he stopped, looked at Hardy for a minute, who was staring abstractedly at the sword over his mantel- piece, and then said, — " There is something the matter, though. Don't sit glowering as if you had swallowed a furze bush. Wliy, you haven't been smoking, old boyi" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the other's shoulder. " I see that's it. Here, take one of my weeds, they're mild. Miller allows two of these a day." " 2s'(\ tharik'eo," said Hardy, routing liiiaBelf ; " Millei k STORM BREWS AND BREAKS. 1G7 hasn't interfered witli my smoking, and I will have a pipe, for I think I want it." " Well, I don't see that it does j^on any good," said Tom, after watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without saying a word. " Here, I've managed the one thing I had at heart. You are in the crew, and we are head of tlie river, and everybody is praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying that the bump was all your doing. And here I come to tell you, and not a word can I get out of you. Ain't you pleased ? Do you think we shall keep our place ?" He paused a moment. " Hang it all, I say," he added, losing all patience, ; " swear a little if you can't do anything else. Let's hear your voice ; it isn't such a tender one that you need keep it all shut up." " Well," said Hardy, making a great effort ; " the real fact is I have something, and something very serious to sav to you." " Then I'm not going to listen to it," broke in Tom ; " I'm not serious, and I won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious to-night. It's no use, so don't look glum. But isn't the ale at * The Choughs ' good ; and isn't it a dear little place V " It's that place I want to talk to you about," said Hardy, turning his chair suddenly so as to front his \isitc»r. " jS^ow, Brown, we haven't known one another long, but I tliink Z understand you, and I know I like you, and i hope you like me." " Well, well, well," broke in Tom, " of course I like you, old fellow, or else I shouldn't come poking after you, and wasting so much of your time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in the middle of the races. Wliat has liking to do with ' The Choughs,' or ' The Choughs ' with long faces 1 You ought to have had another glass of ale there." " I wish you liad never had a glass of ale there," said Hardy, bolting out his words as if they were red hot. " Brown, you have no right to go to that place." " Why ■? " said Tom, sitting up in his chair, and beginning to be nettled. "You know why," said Hardy, looking him full in the face, and puffing out huge volumes of smoke. In spite of the bluntuess of the attack, there was a yearning look which epread over the rugged brow, and shone out of the deep-set ej-es of the speaker, which almost conquered Tom. But first pride, and then the consciousness of what was coming next, which began to dawn on liim, rose in his heart. It was aU he 168 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. could do to meet that look full, but lie managed it, thr)ugh he flushed to the roots of his hair, as he simply repeated through his set teeth, " Why?" " I say again," said Hardy, " you know why." " I see what you mean," said Tom, slowly ; " as you say, we have not known one another long ; long enough, thougli, I should have thought, for you to have been more charitable. "Wliy am I not to go to 'The Choughs?' Because there happens to be a pretty bar maid there 1 All our crew go, and twenty other men besides." " Yes ; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do ? Does she look at any one of them as she does at you ? " "How do I know?" " That's not fair, or true, or like you, Brown," said Hardy, getting up, and beginning to walk up and down the room. " You do know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go there. You do know that she is beginning to care for you." " You seem to know a g^eat deal about it," said Tom ; " I don't believe you were ever there before two days ago." " JSTo, I never was," "Then I think you needn't be quite so quick at finding faidt. If there were anything I didn't wish you to see, do you think I should have taken you there 1 I tell you she is quite able to take care of herself" " So I believe," said Hardy ; " if she were a mere giddy, light girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't matter so much — for her at any rate. She can take care of herself well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it isn't so with you. You know it now, Brown ; tell the truth ; any one with half an eye can see it." " You seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two nights, anyhow," said Tom. " I don't mind your sneers, Brown," said Hardy, as he tramped up and doAvn with his arms locked behind him ; " I have taken on myself to speak to you about this ; I should be no true friend if I shirked it. I'm four years older than you, and have seen more of the world and of this place than you. You sha'n't go on with this folly, this sin, for want of warning." " So it seems," said Tom, doggedly. " Now I think I've nad warning enough ; suppose we drop the subject." Hardy stopped in his walk, and turned on Tom with a look of auger. " Not yet," he said, firmly ; " you know best how and why you have done it, but you know Ihut sumehow oi other you have made that girl like you " A STORM BEEWS AND BREAKS. 1G9 " Suppose I have, what then ; whose business is that but mine and hers?" " It's the business of every one who won't stand by and see the devil's game played under his nose if he can hinder it." "What right have you to talk about the devil's game to me?" said Tom. "I'll tell you what, if you and I are to keep friends, we had better drop tlris subject." " If we are to keep friends we must go to the bottom of it. There are only two endings to this sort of business, and you know it as well as I." " A right and a wrong one, eh ? and because you call me your friend you assume that my end will be the wrong one." " I do caU you my friend, and I say the end must be the wrong one here. There's no right end. Think of your family. You don't mean to say — you dare not teU me, that you will marry her 1 " " I dare not tell you ! " said Tom, starting up in his turn ; " I dare tell you or any man an^^thing I please. But I won't tell you or any man anytliing on compulsion." " I repeat," went on Hardy, " you dare not say you mean to marry her. You don't mean it — and, as you don't, to kisa her as you did to-night — " " So you were sneaking behind to watch me ! " burst out Tom, chafing with rage, and glad to find any handle for a quarrel. The two men stood fronting one another, the younger writhing with the sense of shame and outraged pride, and longing for a fierce answer — a blow — anything to give vent to the furies which were tearing him. But at the end of a few seconds the elder answered, calndy and slowly, — " I will not take those words from any man ; you had better leave my rooms." " If I do, I shall not come back till you have altered your opinions." " You need not come back till you have altered yours." The next moment Tom was in the passage ; the next, striding up and down the side of the inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight. Poor fellow ! it was no pleasant walking ground for him. Is it worth our while to follow him up and down in his tramp ? We have most of us walked the like marches at one time or another of our lives. The memory of them is by no means one which we can dwell on with pleasure. Times they were of blinding and driving storm, and howling winds, out of Mhich voices as of evil spirits spoke close in our ears — tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the mischievous wild 170 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. beast whidi lurks in the bottom of all our hearts, now, " Rouse up ! art thou a man and darest not do this thing 1 " now, " Rise, kill and eat — it is thine, wilt thou not take it ? Shall the flims}^ scruples of this teacher, or the sanctified cant of that, bar thy way, and baulk thee of thine own? Thou hast strength to brave them — to brave all things in earth, or heaven, or hell ; put out thy strength, and be a man ! " Then did not the wild beast -vvithin us shake itself, a.'id feel its power, sweeping away all the " Thou shalt not's " which the Law wrote up before us in letters of fire, with the " I will " of hardy, godless, self-assertion 1 And all tlie wliile — which alone made the storm really dreadful to us — was there not the still small voice — never to be altogether silenced by the roarings of the tempest of passion, by the evil voices, by our OAvn violent attempts to stifle it — the still small voice appealing to the man, the tiTie man, within us, which is made in the image of God — calling on him to assert his dominion over the wild beast — to obey, and conquer, and live ? Ay ! and though we may have followed the other voices, have we not, while following them, confessed in our hearts, that all true strength, and nobleness, and manliness, was to be found in the other path ? Do I say that most of us have had to tread this path, and fight this battle ? Surely I might have said all of us ; all, at least, who have passed the bright days of their boyhood. The clear and keen intellect no less than the dull and heavy ; the weak, the cold, the nervous, no less than the strong and passionate of body. The arms and the field have been divers ; can have been the same, I suppose, to no two men, but the battle must have been the same to all. One here and there may have had a foretaste of it as a boy ; but it is the young man's battle, and not the boy's, tliank God for it ! That most liateful and fearful of all realities, call it by what name we will — self, the natural man, the old Adam — must have risen up before each of us in early manhood, if not sooner, challenging the true man within us, to which the Spirit of God is sj)eaking, to a struggle for hfe or death. Gird j^ourself, then, for the fight, my young brother, and take up the pledge which was made for you when you were a helpless child. This world, and all others, time and etcrnitj'-, for you hang upon the issue. This enemy must be met and vanquished — not finally, for no man while on eai'th, I suppose, can say that he is slain ; but, when once Icnown and recognised, met and vanquished he must be, by God's help, in this and that encounter, before you can be truly called a man ; before you can really enjoy any one even of this world's good things. The strife was no light one for our hero on the ni'dit in his A STOr.xM BREWS AND BREAKS. 171 life at ■n'hich we have arrived. The quiet sky overhead, tlie quiet solemn ohl buildings, under the shadow of which he stood, brought him no peace. He fled from them into liia own rooms ; he lighted his candles and tried to read, and force the whole matter from his thoughts ; but it was useless : back it came again and again. The more imjiatient of its presence he became, the less could he shake it off. Some decision he must make ; what should it be 1 He could have no peace till it was taken. The veil had been dra^Ti aside thoroughl}'', and once for all Twice he was on the point of returning to Hardy's rooms to thank lum, confess, and con- sult ; but the tide relied back again. As the truth of the warning sank deeper and deeper into him, the irritation against him Avho had uttered it grew also. He could not and would not be fair yet. It is no easy thing for any one of us to put the whole burden of any folly or sin on our own backs all at once. " If he had done it in any other way," thought Tom, " I might have thanked him." Another elfort to shake off the whole question. Down into the quadrangle again ; lights in Drysdale's rooms. He goes up, and finds the remains of the supper, tankards full (j1 egg-flip and cardinal, and a party pla5dng at vingt-un. IIo drinks freely, careless of training or boat-racing, anxious only to drown thought. He sits do^vn to play. The boisterous talk of some, the eager keen looks of others, jar on him equally. One minute he is absent, the next boisterous, then irritable, then moody. A college card-party is no place to- night for him. He loses his money, is disgusted at last, and gets to his own rooms by midnight ; goes to bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with all the world. The inexorable question pursues him even into the strange helpless land of dreams, demanding a decision, when he has no longer power of will to choose either good or evd. But how fared it all this time with the physician 1 Alas ! little better than with liis patient. His was the deeper and more sensitive nature. Keenly conscious of his own position, he had always avoided any but the most formal intercourse with the men in his college whom he would have liked most to live Avith. This was the first friendship he had made amongst them, and he valued it accordingly ; and now it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless fragments, and cast down too by his own hand. Bitterly he blamed himself over and over again, as he recalled every word that had passed — not for having spoken — that he felt had been a sacred duty — but for the harslmess and suddenness with which he seemed to aimself to have done it. 172 TOM BEO\yN AT OXFORD. " One touch of gentleness or sjonpathy, and I might have won him. As it was, how could he have met me otherwise than he did — hard word for hard word, hasty answer for proud reproof? Can I go to liim and recall it all ? !No ! I can't trust myself ; I sball only make matters worse. Be- sides, lie may think that the servitor — Ah ! am I there again 1 The old sore, self, self, self ! I nurse my own pride ; J value it more than my friend ; and yet — no, no ! I cannot go, though 1 think I could die for him. The sin, if sin there must he, be on my head. Would to God I could bear the sting of it ! But there will be none — how can I fear ] he is too true, too manly. Rough and brutal as my words have been, they have shown him the gulf. He will, he must escape it. But will he ever come back to me 1 I care not, so he escape." How can my poor words follow the strong loving man in the wrestlings of his spirit, till far on in the quiet night he laid the whole before the Lord and slept ! Yes, my bru^^her, even so : the old, old story ; but start not at the phrase, though you may never have found its meaning. — He laid the whole before the Lord, in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the whole world. And you, too, if ever you are tried as he was — as every man must be in one way or another— must learn to do the like with every burthen on your soul, if you would not have it hanging round you heavily, and ever more heavily, and drugging you down lower and lower till youi" dying day. CHAPTER XVL THE STORM RAGES. Hardy was early in the chapel the next morning. It was his week for pricking in. Every man who entered — from the early men who stroUed in quietly whUe the bell was still ringing, to the hurrying, half-dressed loiterers who crushed in as the portbr was closing the doors, and disturbed the con- gregation in the middle of the confession — gave him a turn (as the expressive phrase is), and every turn only ended in disappointment. He put by his list at last, when the doors were fairly shut, with a sigh. He had half expected to see Tom come into morning chopel with a face from which he luight have gathered hope that his friend had taken the right path. But Tom did not come at all, and Hardy felt it was a bad sign. THE STORM RAGES. 17S They did not meet till the evening, at the river, when the boat went down for a steady pull, and then Hardy saw at once that all was going wrong. Neither spoke to or looked at the other. Hardy expected some one to remark it, but nobody did. After the pull they walked up, and Tom as usual led the way, as if nothing had happened, into " The Choughs." Hardy paused for a moment, and then went in too, and stayed till the rest of the crew left. Tom delibe- rately stayed after them all. Hardy turned for a moment as he was leaving the bar, and saw him settling himself down in his chair with an air of defiance, meant evidently for him which would have made most men angry. He was irritated for a moment, and then was filled with ruth for the poor wrong-headed youngster who was heaping up coals of fire for his own head. In his momentary anger Hardy said to himself, " Well, I have done what I can ; now he must go his own way ;" but such a thought was soon kicked in dis- grace from his noble and well-disciplined mind. He resolved, that, let it cost what it might in the shape of loss of time and trial of temper, he would leave no stone unturned, and spare no pains, to deliver his friend of yesterday from the slough into wliich he was plunging. How he might best work for this end occupied his thoughts as he walked towards college. Tom sat on at " Tlie Choughs," glorifj-ing himself in the thought that now, at any rate, he had shown Hardy that he wasn't to be dragooned into doing or not doing anything. He had had a bad time of it all day, and his good angel had fouglit hard for victory ; but self-will was too strong for the time. Wlien he stayed behind the rest, it was more out of bravado tlian from any defined purpose of pursuing what he tried to persuade himself was an innocent flirtation. When he left the house some hours afterwards he Avas deeper in the toils than ever, and dark clouds were gathering over liis heart. From that time he was an altered man, and altering as rajiidly for the worse in body as in mind. Hardy saw the change in botli, and groaned over it in secret. Miller's quick eye detected the bodily change. After the next race he di-ew Tom aside, and said, — " Why, Brown, what's the matter ? Wliat have you been about ? You're breaking down. Hold on, man j there's only one more night." " Never fear," said Tom, proudly, " I shall last it out." And in the last race he did his work again, though it cost him more than all the preceding ones put together, and when he got out of the boat he could scarcely walk or see. He 174 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. felt a fierce kind of joy in Ms own distress, and wished iLat there were more races to come. But Miller, as he walked up arm-in-arm with the Captain, took a different view of the subject. " Well, its all right, you see," said the Captain ; " but we're not a boat's length better than Oriel over tlie course after all. How was it we bumped them ? If anything, they drew a little on us to-night." " Ay, lialf a boat's length, I should say," ansAvered Miller. " I'm uncommonly glad it's over ; Erown is going all to pieces ; he wouldn't stand another race, and we haven't a man to put in his place." " It's odd, too," said the Captain ; " I put him down as a laster, and he has trained welL Perhaps he has overdone it a little. However, it don't matter now." So the races were over ; and that night a great sujiper Avas held in St. Ambrose Hall, to which were bidden, and came, the crews of all the boats from Exeter upwards. 1'lie Dean, with many misgivings and cautions, had allowed the hall to be used, on pressure from Lliller and Jervis. Miller was a bachelor and had taken a good degree, and Jervis bore a high cliaracter and was expected to do well in the schools. So the poor Dean gave in to them, extracting many promises in exchange for his permission : and flitted uneasily about all the evening in his cap and gown, instead of working on at his edition of the Fathers, which occupied every minute of his leisure, and was making an old man of him before his time. From eight to eleven the fine old pointed windoAvs of St. Ambrose Hall blazed with light, and the choi-uses of songs, and the cheers which followed the short intervals of silence which the speeclies made, rang out over the quadrangles, and made the poor Dean amble about in a state of nervous be- Avilderment. Inside there was hearty feasting, such as had not been seen there, for I auglit I know, since the day when the king came back to " enjoy his own again." The one old cup, relic of the Middle Ages, which had survived the civil wars, — St. Ambrose's had been a right loyal college, and the plate had gone without a murmur into Charles the First's war-che.st, — went round and round ; and rival crews pledged one another out of it, and tlie massive tankards of a later day, in all good faith and good felhnvship. INIailed knights, grave bishops, royal persons of either sex, and "other our bene- factors," looked down on the scene from their heav}' gilded frames, and, let us hope, not unkindly. All passed off well and quietly 3 the out-college men were gone, the lights TIIE STORM HAGSS. 175 were out, and the butler had locked the hall door hy a quarter past eleven, and the Dean returned in peace to his oym. rooms. Had Tom been told a week before that he would not have enjoyed that night, that it would not have been amongst the happiest and proudest of his life, he would have set his in- former down as a inadman. As it was, he never once rose to the spirit of the feast, and wished it all over a dozen times. He deserved not to enjoy it ; but not so Hardy, who was nevertheless almost as much out of tune as Tom ; though the University coxswaui had singled him out, najued him in his speech, sat by him and talked to him for a quarter of an hour, and asked him to go to the Henley and Thames regattas in the Oxford crew. The next evening, as usual, Tom found himself at " The Choughs " with half a dozen others. Patty was in the bar by herself, looking prettier than ever. One by one the rest of the men dropped off, the last saying, " Are you coming, BroAvn 1 " and being answered in the negative. He sat still, watchiiig Patty as she flitted about, washing up the ale glasses and putting them on their shelves, and getting out her work-basket ; and then she came and sat down in her aunt's chair opposite him, and began stitching away demurely at an apron she was making. Then he broke silence, — " Where's your aunt to-night, Patty ? " " Oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a visit to some friends." " You and I will keep house, then, together ; you shall teach me all the tricks of tne trade. I shall make a famous barman, don't you think 1 ' " You must learn to behave better, then. But I promised aimt to shut up at nine ; so you must go when it strikes. Now promise me you will go." " Go at nine ! what, in half an hour ] The first evenmg I have ever had a chance of spending alone with you ; do rou think it likely 1 " and he looked into her eyes. She tarned away with a slight shiver, and a deep blush. His nervous system had been so unusually excited in the last few days, that he seemed to kiiow everything that was passing in her mind. He took her hand. " Why, Patty, you're not afraid of me, surely ? " he said, gently. " No, not when you're like you are now. But you frightened me just this minute. I never saw you look so before. Has anything happened to you ? " " No, nothing. Now then, we're going to have a jolly 176 TOM BPOWN AT OXFORD, evening, and play Darby and Joan together," he said, turning away, and going to the bar window ; " shall I shut up, Patty 1 " " No, it isn't nine yet ; somebody may come in." " That's just why I mean to put the shutters up ; I don't want anybody." *' Yes, but I do, though. Now I declare, Mr. Brown, if you go on shutting up, I'll run into the kitchen and sit with bick." " ^^^ly win you call me ' Mr. Brown ' 1 " " Why, what should I call you ? " " Tom, of course." " Oh, I never ! one would think you was my brother," said Patty, looking up witli a pretty pcrtness which she had a most bewitching way of putting on. Tom's rejoinder, and the little squabble which tliey had afterwards about where her work-table should stand, and other such matters, may be passed over. At last he was brought to reason, and to anchor opposite his enchantress, the work-table between them ; and he sat leaning back in his chair, and watching her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. He was in no hurry to break the silence. The position was particu- larly fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being interrupted. At last he roused himself. " Any of our men been here to-day, Patty 1 " he said, sitting up. " There now, I've won," she laughed ; " I said to myself, I wouldn't speak first, and I haven't. What a time you were ! I thought you would never begin." " You're a little goose ! Now I begin then j who've been hero to-day 1 " " Of your college ? let me see ; " and she looked away across to the bar window, pricking her needle into the table. " Tliere was Mr. Drysdale and some others called for a glass of ale as they passed, going out driving. Then there was Mr. Smith and them from the boats about four : and that uglj one — I can't mind his name — " " What, Hardy ? " " Yes, that's it ; he was here about half-past six, and — " " What, Hardy here after hall 1 " interrupted Tom, utterly astonished. " Yes, after your dinner up at college. He's been here two or three times lately." " The deuce he has ! " "Yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too. I'm sure he TflU: STOKM RAGES. 177 is a very nice gentleman, after all. He sat and talked to- nigl-t for half an hour. I should think." " What did he talk about 1 " said Tom, with a snoor. " Oh, he asked me whether I had a motlier, and where I came from, and all about my bringing up, and made me feel quite pleasant. lie is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like most of you. I'm going to like him very much, as you told me." " I don't tell you so now." " But you did say he was your great friend." " Well, he isn't that now." " What, have you quarrelled 1 " « Yes." " Dear, dear ; how odd you gentlemen are ! " Why, it isn't a very odd thing for men to quarrel, is itr' ""No, not in the public room. They're always quarrflling there, over their diink and the bagatelle-board ; and Dick has to turn them out. But gentlemen ought to know better." " They don't, you see, Patty." " But what did you quarrel about ? " " Guess." " How can I guess ? What was it about 1 " " About you." " About me ! " she said, looking up from her work in wonder, " How coiild you quarrel about me 1 " " Well, I'll tell you ; he said I had no right to come here. You won't like him after that, will you Patty 1 " " I don't know, I'm sure," said Patty, going on with her work, and looking troubled. They sat still for some minutes. Evil thoughts crowded into Tom's head. He was in the humour for thinking evil thoughts, and, putting the worst construction on Hardy's visits, fancied he came there as his rival. He did not trust himself to speak till he had masterefl his precious discovery, and put it away in the back of his heart, and weighted it down there with a good covering of hatred and revenge, to be brought out as occasion should serve. He was plunging down rapidly enough now ; but he had new motives for making the most of his time, and never played his cards better or made more progress. When a man sits doivn to such a game, the devil will take good care he sha'n't want cunning or strength. It was ten o'clock instead of nine be- *bre he left, which he did with a feeling of triumph. Poor Patty remained behind, and shut up the bar, while Dick was 178 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. lockinp; ihe front door, her heart in a flutter, and her handa shaking. She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry ; she felt the change which had come over him, and was half fascinated and half repelled by it. Tom wallvcd quickly hack to college, in a mood which T do not care to describe. The only one of his thoughts which my readers need be troubled with, put itself into some such words as these in his head : — " So, it's Abingdon fair next Thursday, and she has half-promised to go with me. I know I can make it certain. Who'll be going besides 1 Drysdale, I'll be bound. I'll go and see him." On entering college he went straiglit to Drysdale's rooms, and drank deeply, and played high into the short hours of the night, but foimd no opportunity of speaking. Deeper and deeper yet for the next few days, downwards and ever faster downwards he plunged, the light getting fainter and ever fainter above his head. Little good can come of dwelling on those days. He left off pulling, shimned his old friends, and lived with the very worst men he knew in college, who were ready enough to let him share all their brutal orgies. Drysdale, who was often present, wondered at the change, which he saw plainly enough. He was sorry for it in his way, but it was no business of his. He began to tliink that Brown was a good enough fellow before, but would make a devilish disagreeable one if he was going to turn fast man. At " The Choughs " all went on as if the downward path knew how to make itself smooth, Now that the races were over, and so many other attractions going on in Oxford, very few men came in to interfere with him. He was scarcely ever away from Patty's side, in the evenings whUe her aunt was absent, and gained more and more power over her. He might have had some compassion, but that he was spurred on by hearing how Hardy haunted the place now, at times when he could not be there. He felt that there was an influence struggling with his in the girl's mind ; he laid it to Hardy's door, and imputed it still more and more to motives as base as his own. But Abingdon fair was coming on Thursday. ^Hien he left " The Choughs " on Tuesday night, he had ex- tracted a promise from Patty to accompany him there, and had arranged tlieir place of meeting. All that remained to be done was to see if Drysdale was going. Somehow he felt a disinclination to go alone with Patty. Drysdale was the only man of those he was now living with to whom he felt the leurA attraction. In a vague way he clung to him ; and though he never faced the thouglit of what he was about fairly, yet it passed through his mLiiil THE STORM EAGES. 379 that even in Drysdalo's company he would he safer than if alone. It was all pitiless, blind, wild work, without rudder or compass ; the wish that nothing very bad might come out of it all, however, came up in spite of him now and again, and he looked to Drysdale, and longed to become even as he. Drysdale was going. He was very reserved on the subject, but at last confessed that he was not going alone. Tom per- sisted. Drysdale was too lazy and careless to keep anything from a man who was bent on knowing it. In the end, it was arranged that he should drive Tom out the next aftornoon. He did so. They stopped at a small public-houre some two miles out of Oxford. The cart was put up, and after care- fully scanning the neighbourhood they walked quickly to the door of a pretty retired cottage. As they entered, Drysdale said, " By Jove, I thought I caught a glimpse of your friend Hardy at that turn." " Friend ! he's no friend of mine." " But didn't you see him 1 " "No." They reached college again between ten and eleven, and parted, each to his own rooms. To his surprise, Tom found a candle burning on his table. Round the candle was tied a piece of string, at the end of which hung a note. Whoever had put it there had clearly been anxious that he should in no case miss it when he came in. He took it up, and saw that it was in Hardy's hand. He paused, and trembled as he stood. Then with an effort he broke the seal and read — "I must speak once more. To-morrow it may be too late. If you go to Abingdon fair with her in the company of Drysdale and his mistress, or, I believe, in any com.pany, you will return a scoundrel, and she — ; in the name of the honour of your mother and sister, in the name of God, I warn you. May He help you through it. — Joun Hardy." Here we will drop the curtain for the next hour. At the end of that time, Tom staggered out of his room, down the staircase, across the quadrangle, up Drysdale's staircase. He paused at the door to gather some strength, ran his hands through his hair, and arranged his coat ; notwithstanding, when he entered, Drysdale started to his feet, upsetting Jack from his comfortable coil on the sofa. " Why, Brown, you're ill ; have some brandy," he said, to his cu])board for the bottle. N 2 180 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Tom leant his arm on the fireplace ; his head on it. Tho other hand hung do^vn by his side, and Jack licked it, and he loved the dog as he felt the caress. Then Drysdale came to his side with a glass of brandy, which he took and tossed oir as though it had been water. " Thank you," he said, and as Drysdale went back with the bottle, reached a large arm- chair and sat himself down in it. " Drysdale, I sha'n't go with you to Abingdon fair to- morrow." " Hullo ! what, has the lovely Patty thrown you over 1 " Baid Drysdale, turning from the cupboard, and resuming his lounge on the sofa. " No : " he sank back into the chair, on the arms of which liis elbows rested, and put his hands up before nis face, pres- sing them against his burning temples. Drj^sdale looked at him hard, but said nothing ; and there was a dead silence of a minute or so, broken only by Tom's heavy breathing, which he was labourmg in vain to control. " No," ho repeated at last, and the remaining words came out slowly as they were trying to steady themselves, " but, by God, Drysdale 1 can't take her with you, and that — " a dead pause. " The young lady you met to-night, eh 1 " Tom nodded, but said nothing. "Well, old fellow," said Drysdale, "now you've made up your mind, I tell you, I'm devilisli glad of it. I'm no saint, as you know, but 1 think it would have been a d d shame if you had taken her with us." " Thank you," said Tom, and pressed his fingers tighter on his forehead ; and he did feel thanMul for the words, though, coming from such a man, they went into him Hke coals of fire. Again there was a long pause, Tom sitting as before. Drysdale got up, and strolled up and down his room, with his hands in the pockets of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each turn a steady look at the other. Presently he stopped, and took his cigar out of his mouth. " I say. Brown," he said, after another minute's contemplation of the figure before him, which bore such an unmistakable impress of wretchedness, that it made him quite imcomfortable, " why don't you cut that concern ? " " How do you mean ? " said Tom. " Why that ' Choughs ' business — I'll be hargod if it won't kill you, or make a devil of you before long, if you go on with it." " it's not far from that now." TEE STORM RAGES. 181 " So 1 see — aiid I'll tell you what, you're not the sort of fellow lo go in for this kind of thing. You'd better leave it to cold-blooded brutes, like some Ave know — I needn't men- tion names." " I'm awfully ■wretched, Drysdale ; I've been a brute my- self to you and everybody of late." " Well, I own I don't like the new c-;ide of you. Xow make up your mind to cut the -whole concern, old i'eUow," ho said, coming up goodnaturedly, and putting his hand on Tom's shoulder ; " it's hard to do, I dare say, but you had better make a plunge and get it over. There's wickedness enough going about without your helping to shove another one iiito it" Tom groaned as he listened, but he felt that the man was trying to help him in his own w^ay, and according to his light, as Drysdale went on expounding his own curious code of morality. When it was ended, he shook Drysdaie's hand, and, wishing him good niglit, went back to his own rooms. The first step upwards towards the light had been made, for he felt thoroughly humbled before the man on whom he had expended in his own mind so much patronizing pity for the last half-year — whom he had been fanc^dng he was inliuencing for good. During the long hours of the night the scenes of the last few houi's, of the last few days, came back to him and burnt into his soul. The gidf yawned before him now plain enough, open at his feet — black, ghastly. He shuddered at it, won- dered if he should even yet fall in, felt wildly about for strength to stand firm, to retrace his steps ; but found it not. He found not yet the strength he was in search of, but in the grey morning he wrote a short note : — " I shall not be able to take you to Abingdon fair to-day. You will not see me perhaps for some days. I am not well. I am very sorry. Don't think tliat I am changed. Don't be unhappy, or I don't know what I may do." There was no address and no signature to the note. WTien the gates opened he hurried oat of the college, and, having left it and a shilling with Dick (whom lie found clearing the yard, and much astonished at his appearance, and who promised to deliver it to Patty vrith his own hands before eight o'clock), he got back again to his own rooms, went to bed, worn out in mind and body, and sleV't till mid- uuy. 182 TOM BK.OWN AT OXFOIID. CEAPTEE XVII. NEW GROUND. ^Iy readers have now been steadily at Oxford for six monllis without moving. Most people lind such a spell of the place without a change quite as much as they care to take ; perhaps too, it may do our hero good to let him alone for a little, that he may have time to look steadily into the pit which he lias been so near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path ; moreover, the exigencies of a story-teller must lead him away from home now and then. Like the rest of us, his family must have change of air, or he has to go off to see a friend properly married, or a connexion buried ; to wear white or black gloves with or for some one, carrying such sympathy as he can with him, that so he may come back from every journey, however short, with a wider horizon. Yes ; to come back home after every stage of life's journeying with a wider horizon — more in sympathy with men and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws which govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is above all, and around all, and beneath all — this must be the end and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold, and spending time and labour and journey- money on that which profiteth nothing. So now I must ask my readers to forget the old buildings and quadrangles cf the fairest of England's cities, the caps and the gowns, the reading and rowing, for a short sj^ace, and take a llight with me to other scenes and pastures new. The nights are pleasant in May, short and pleasant for travel. We will leave the ancient city asleep, and do oiar flight in the night to save time. Trust yourselves, then, to the story-teller's aerial machine. It is but a rough affair, I own, rough and humble, unfitted for high or great flights, vv'ith no gilded panels, or dainty cushions, or C-springs — not that we shall care about springs, by the way, until we alight on "terra firma again — still, there is much to be learned in a third-class carriage if we will only not look while in it for cushions, and fine panels, and forty miles an hour travelling, and will not be shocked at our fellow-passengers for being weak in their h's and smelling of fustian. Mount in it, then, you who will, after this warning; the fares are holiday fares, the tickets return tickets. Take with you nothing but the poet's luggage, " A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain, A breath to swell the voice of Prayer, " KPAX GROUND. 183 and may you have a pleasaut journey, for it is time that the stoker should bo looking to his going gear ! So now we rise slowly in the moonlight from St. Ambrose's quadrangle, and, when we are clear of the clock-tower, steer away southwards, over Oxford city and all its sleeping wisdom and folly, over street and past spire, over Christ Church and the canons' houses, and the fountain in Tom quad ; over St^ Aldate's and the river, along which the moonbeams lie in a pathway of twinkling silver, over the railway sheds — no, there was then no railway, but only the quiet fields and foot- paths of Hincksey hamlet. Well, no matter ; at any rate, the hills beyond, and Bagley "Wood, were there then as now : and over hills and wood we rise, catcliing the purr of the night-jar, the trill of the nightingale, and the first crow of the earhest cock-pheasant, as he stretches his jewelled wings, conscious of his strength and his beauty, heedless of the fellows of St. Jolm's, who slumber within sight of his perch, on whose hospitable board he shall one day he, prone on his back, with fair larded breast turned upwards for the carving knife, having crowed his last crow, lie knows it not ; what matters it to him ? If he knew it, could a Bagley AVood cock-pheasant desire a better ending ? We pass over the vale beyond ; hall and hamlet, church, and meadow, and copse, folded in mist and shadow below us, each hamlet holding in its bosom the materials of three- volumed novels by the dozen, if we could only pull off the roofs of the houses and look steadily into the interiors ; but our destination is farther yet. The faint white streak behind the distant Chilterns reminds us that we have no time for gossip by the way ; May nights are short, and the sun wdl be up by four. No matter; our journey will now be soon over, for the broad vale is crossed, and the chalk hills and downs beyond. Larks quiver up by us, " higher, ever higher," hastening up to get a first glimpse of the coming monarch, cai-eless of food, flooding tbe fresh air with song. Steady plodding rooks labour along below us, and lively starlings rush by on the look-out for the early worm ; lark and swallov^^, rook and starling, each on his appointed round. The sun arises, and they get them to it ; he is up now, and these breezy uplands over which we hang are swimmmg in the light of horizontal rays, though the shadows and mists still lie on the wooded dells which slope away southwards. Here let us bring to, over the village of Englebourn, and try to get acquainted with the outside of the place before the good folk are about, and we have to go dov,Ti among thsm and their sayings and donigs. 1S4 TOM BE OWN A.T OXFOED. The village lies on the soulhem slopes ol' ihe Berksliire hills, on the opposite side to that under which our hero viaa horn. Another soil altogether is here, we remark in the first place. This is no chalk, this high knoU which rises above — one may almost say hangs over — the village, crov7ned with Scotch firs, its sides tufted witli govse and heather. It is the Hawk's Lynch, the favourite resort of Englebourn folk, who come up for the view, for the air, because their fathers and mothers came up before them, because they carae up them- selves as chUdi-en — from aa instinct which moves them all in leisure hours and Sunday evenings, when the sun shines and the birds sing, whether they care for view or air or not. Something guides all their feet hilherward ; the ciiildren, to play hide-und-seck and look for nests in the gorsc-bushes ; young men and maidens, to saunter and look and talk, as they will till the world's end — or as long, at any rate, as the Hawk's Lynch and Englebourn last — and to cut their initials, inclosed in a true lover's knot, on the short rabbit's turf ; steady m?xried couples, to plod along together consulting on hard times and growing fsimilies ; even old toHerlug men, who love to sit at the feet of the firs, with chins leaning on their sticks, prattling of days long past, to any one who will listen, or looking silently with dim eyes into the summer air, feeling perhaps in their spirits after a wider and more peace- ful view which wdl soon open for them. A common knoU, open to all, up in the silent air, well away from every-day Englebourn life, with the Hampshire range and the distant Beacon Hill lying soft on the horizon, and nothing higher between you and the southern sea, what a blessing tha Hawk's L}TJch is to the village folk, one and all ! May Heaven and a thankless soil long preserve it and them fi'om an inclosure under the Act ! There is much temptation lying about, though, for the inclosers of the world. The rough common land stretches over the whole of the knoll, and down to its base, and away along the hills behind, of which the Hawk's Lynch is an outlying spur. Rough common laud, broken only by pine wooils of a few acres each in extent, an occasional woodman's or squatter's cottage and little patch of attempted garden. But immediately below, and on each liank of the spur, and half-way up the slopes, come small farm inclosure?, breaking here and there the belt of woodlands, which generally lies between the rough wild uoland, and the cultivated country below. As you stand on the knoll you can see the common land just below you at its foot narrow into a mere road, with a border ol waste on each side, which runs into Eniriebouiii FEW GROUND. 185 street. At the end of tlie straggling village stands the chnrch ■with its square tower, a lofty grey stone building, with bits of fine decorated architecture about it, but much of churchwarden Gothic superveniag. The churchyard is large, and the graves, as you can see plainly even from this distance, are all crowded on the southern side. The rector's sheep are feeding in the northern ptirt, nearest to us, and a small gate at one corner opens into his garden. The Ecctory looks large and comfort- able, and its grounds well cared for and extensive, with a rookery of elms at the lawn's end. It is the chief house of the place, for there is no resident squire. The principal street contains a few shops, some dozen, p)erha[(S, in all ; and several farm houses He a little back from it, with garden in front, and yards and barns and orchards behind ; and there are two public-houses. The other dwellings are mere cottages, and very bad ones for the most part, with lloors below the level of the street. Almost every house in the village is thatched, which adds to the beauty though not to the comfort of the place. The rest of the population who do not live in the street are dotted about the neighbouring lanes, chiefly towards the west, on our right as we look down from the Hawk's Lynch. On this side the country is more open, and here most of the farmers live, as we may see by the number of homesteads. And there is a small brook on that side too, which with careful damming is made to turn a mill, there where you see the clump of poplars. On our left as we look down, the country to the east of the village is thickly wooded ; but we can see that there is a village green on that side, and a few scattered cottages, the farthest of which stands looking out like a little white eye, from the end of a dense copee, Eeyond it there is no sign of habitation for some two miles ; then you can see the tall chimneys of a great house, and a well-timbered park round it. The Grange is not in Engle- bourn parish — happily for that parish, one is sorry to remark. It must be a very bad scpiire who does not do more good than harm by living in a country village. But there are very bad squires, and the owner of the Grange is one of them. He is, however, for the most part, an absentee, so that M'e are little concerned with him, and in fact, have only to notice this one of his bad habits, that he keeps that long belt of woodlands, which runs into Englebourn parish, and comes almost up to the village, full of hares and pheasants, lie has only succeeded to the property some three or four years, and yet the head of game on the estate, and above all in the woods, has trebled or quadrupled. Pheasants by hundreds £je reared under hens, from eggs bought in Lond^-n, and riin 186 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. about tlie kee]icrs' houses as tame as barn-door fowls all the summer. When the first party comes down lor the first haltue early in October, it is often as much as the beaters can do to persuade these pampered fowls that they are wild game, whose duty it is to get up, and fly away, and be shot at. However, they soon learn more of the world — such of them, at least, as are not slain — and are unmistakable wild birds in a few days. Then they take to roosting farther from their old haunts, more in the outskirts of the woods, and the time comes for others besides the squu-e's guests to take their education in hand, and teach pheasants at least that they are no native British birds. These are a wild set, living scattered ab jut the wild country ; turf-cutters, broom-makers, squatters, with indefinite occupations and nameless habits, a race hated of keepers and constables. These have increased and flou- rislied of late years ; and, notwithstandiug the imprisonments and transportations M-hich deprive them periodically of the most enterprising members of their community, one and all give thanks for the day when the owner of the Grange took to pheasant breeding. If the demoralization stopped with them, little harm might come of it, as they would steal fowls in the homesteads if there were no pheasants in the woods — which latter are less dangerous to get, and worth more when gotten. But, unhappily, this metliod of earning a livelihood has strong attractions, and is catching ; and the cases of farm labourers who get into trouble about game are more frequent season by season in the neighbouring parishes, and Eiigle- bourn is no better than the rest. And the men are not likely to be nmch discouraged from these practices, or taught better b}'^ the farmers ; for, if there is one thing more than another that drives that sturdy set of men, the Euglebourn yeomen, into a frenzy, it is talk of the game in the Grange covers. Not that they dislike spurt ; they like it too well, and, moie- over, have been used to their fair share of it. For the late squire left the game entirely in their hands. " You know best how much game your laud will carry without serious damage to the crops," he used to say. " I like to show my friends a fair day's sport when they are with me, and to have enough game to su]iply the liouse and make a few presents. Beyond that it is no affair of mine. You can coui'se whenever you like ; and let me know when you want a day's shooting, and you shall have it." Under this system the yeomen became keen sportsmen ; they and all their labourers took an interest in preserving, and the whole district would have risen on a poacher. The keeper's place became a sinecure, and the squire had as much game as he wanted without JiTRW GROUND. 187 expense, and was, moreover, the most popular man in the county. Even after the new man came, and all was changed, the mere revocation of their sporting Ubertics, and the inc-roase of game, unpopular as these things were, would not alouo have made tlie farmers so bitter, and have raised that sense of outraged justice in them. But with these changes came in a custom new in the country — the custom of selling the game. At first the report was not believed ; but soou it became notorious that no head of game from the Grange estates was ever given away, that not only did the tenants never get a brace of bii'ds or a hare, or the labourers a rabbit, but not one of tlie gentlemen who helped to kill the game ever found any of the bag in his dog-cart after the day's sliooting. iNTa}', so shameless had the system become, and so highly was the art of turning the game to account cultivated at the Grange, that the keepers sold powder and shot to any of the guests who had emptied their own belts or llasks at something over the market retail price. The light cart drove to the market- town twice a week in the season, loaded heavily with game, Ijut more heavily witli the hatred and scorn of the farmers ; and, if deep and bitter curses could break patent axles or necks, the new squire and his game-cart would not long have vexed the country-side. As it was, not a man but his own tenants would salute him in the market-place ; and these repaid themselves for the unwilling courtesy by bitter reliections on a Sijuire who was mean enough to pay his butcher's and poulterer's bill out of their pockets. Alas, that the manly instinct of sport which is so strong in all of us Englishmen — which sends Oswell's single-handed against the mightiest beasts that walk the earth, and takes the poor cockney journeyman out a ten miles' walk almost before daylight on the rare summer holiday mornings, to angle with rude tackle in reservoir or canal — should be di-agged through such mire as this in many an English shire in our day. If English landlords want to go on shooting game much longer, they must give up selling it. Eor if selling game l^ecomes the rule, and not the exception (as it seems likely to do before long), good-bye to sport in England. Every man who loves his country more than his pleasures or his pocket — and, thank God, that includes the great majoiity of us yet, however much we may delight in gun and rod, 1 it any demagogue in the land say what he pleases — will cry, " Down Avith it," and br^d a liand to put it down for ever. But, to return to our perch on the Hawk's Lynch above Englebourn village. The rector is the fourth of his race who hci'is tlie family Living — a kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old 188 TOM BROWN AT OXPORD, mar, a Doctor of Divinity, as becomes his position, though he only went into orders because there was the hving ready for him. In his day he had been a good magistrate and neiglibour, living with and much in the same way as, the squires round about. But his contemporaries had dropped oli" one by one ; his own health had long been failing ; his wife was dead ; and the young generation did not seek him. His work and the parish had no real hold on him ; so he had nothing to fall back on, and had become a coniirmed invaUd, seldom leaving the house and garden, even to go to church, and thinking more of his dinner and his health than oi all other things in earth or heaven. The only child who remained at homo with him was a daughter, a girl of nineteen or thereabouts, whose acquaintance we shall make presently, and who was doing all that a good heart and sound head prompted in nursing an old h^^^ochon- driac, and filling his place in the parish. But though the old man was weak and selfish, he was kind in his ■waj^, and ready to give freely or to do anything which his daughter suggested for the good of his people, provided the trouble were taken oft his shoulders. In the year before our tale opens;, he had allowed some thirty acres of his glebe to be parcelled out in allotments amongst the poor ; and his daughter spent almost what she pleased in clothing-clubs, and sick-clubs, and the school, without a word from him. "Whenever he did remon- strate, she managed to get what she wanted out of the house- money, or her ovm allowance. We must make acquaintance with such other of the inha- bitants as it concerns us to know in the coui'se of the story ; for it is broad daylight, and the villagers will be astir dii'ectly. Folk who go to bed before nine, after a hard day's work, get into the habit of turning out soon after the sun calls them. So now, descending from the Hawk's Lynch, we will alight at the east end of Englebourn, opposite the little white cottage which looks out at the end of the great wood, near the village green. 8oon after five on that bright Sunday morning, Harry Winburn unbolted the door of his mother's cottage, and step])ed oi;t in his shii't-sleeves on to the little Avalk in fi'ont, paved with pebbles. Perhaps some of my readers will recog- nise the name of an old acquaintance, and wonder how he got here; so let us explain at once. Soon after our hero went to school, Harry's father had died of a fever. He had been a journeyman blacksmith, and in the receipt, consequently, of rather better wages than generally fall to the lot of the peasantry, but not enoiigh to leave much of a margin over cuTJ-ent expenditiu'e. JMoreover, the Winburns h-id always NF.W GROUND 189 been open-handed with whatever money they had ; so tliat all he left for his widow and child, of worldly goods, was their " few sticks " of furniture, £5 in the savings' bank, and the money from his burial-club, which was not more than enough to give him a creditable funeral — that object of honourable ambition to all the independent poor. He left, hoAvever, another in- heritance to them, which is in price above rubies, neither shall silver be named in comparison thereof, — the inheritance of an honest name, of which his widow was proud, and which was not likely to suffer in her hands. After the funeral, she removed to Engleboum, her own native village, and kept her old father's house till his death. He was one of the woodmen to the Grange, and lived in the cottage at the corner of the wood in which his work lay. When he, too, died, hard times came on Widow Winbui-n. The steward allowed her to keep on the cottage. The rent was a sore burthen to her, but she would sooner have starved than leave it. Parish relief was out of the question for her father's child and her husband's widow ; so she turned her hand to every odd job wliich offered, and went to work in tlxe fields when nothing else could be had. WTienever there was sickness in the place, she was an untiring nurse ; and, at one time, for some nine months, she took the office of postman, and walked daily some nine miles through a severe winter. The fatigue and exposure had broken down her health, and made her an old woman before her time. At last, in a lucky hour, the Doctor came to hear of her praiseworthy struggles, and gave her the Eectory washing, which had made her life a comparatively easy one again. During all this time her poor neighbours had stood by her as the poor do stand by one another, helping her in number- less small ways, so that she had been able to realize the great object of her life, and keep Harry at school till he was nearly fourteen. By this time he had learned all that the village pedagogue could teacli, and iiad in fact become an object of mingled pride and jealousy to that worthy man, who had his misgivings lest Harry's fame as a scholar should eclipse his own before many years were over. Mrs. Winburn's character was so good, that no sooner was her son ready for a place than a place was ready for him ; ho stepped at once into the dignity of carter's boy, and his earnings, when added to his mother's, made them comfortable enough. Of course she was wrapped up in him, and believed that there was no such boy in the parish. And indeed she was nearer the truth than most mothers, for he soon grew into a famons specimen of a countryman j taU and lithe, full of 190 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. nervous strength, and not yet howed down or stiffened by the constant toil of a labourer's daily nfe. In these matters, how- ever, he had rivals in the village ; but in intellectual accom- plishments he was unrivalled. He was full of learning according to the village standard, could write and cipher well, was fond of reading such book's as came in his way, and spoke his native English almost without an accent. He is one-and-twenty at the time when our story takes him up, a thoroughly skilled labourer, the best hedger and ditcher in the parish ; and, when his blood is up, he can shear twenty sheep in a day, without razing the skin, or mow for sixteen hours at a stretch, Avith rests of half an hour for meals twice in the day. Harry shaded his eyes with his hand for a minute, as he stood outside the cottage drinking in the fresh pure air, laden with the scent of the honeysuckle which he had trained over the porch, and listening to the chorus of linnets and fmches from the copse at the back of the house ; and then set about the household duties, which he always made it a point of honour to attend to himself on Sundays. First he unshuttered the little lattice- window of the room on the ground- floor ; a simple operation enough, for the shutter was a mere Avooden flap, which was closed over the window at night, and bolted with a wooden bolt on the outside, and thrown back against the wall in the daytime. Any one who would could have opened it at any moment of the night ; but the poor sleep sound without bolts. Then he took the one old bucket of the esta- blishment, and strode away to the well on the village green, and fdled it with clear cold water, doing the same kind office for the vessels of two or three rosy little damsels and boys, of ages varying fiom ten to fourteen, who were already astir, and to whom the winding-up of the parish chain and bucket would have been a work of difficulty. Returning to the cottage, he proceeded to fill his mother's kettle, sweep the hearth, strike a Ught, and make up the fire with a faggot from the little stack in the corner of the garden. Then lie hauled the three- legged round table before the fire, and dusted it carefully over, and laid out the black japan tea-tray with two delf cups and saucers of gorgeous pattern, and diminutive plates to match, and placed the sugar and slop basins, the big loaf and small piece of salt butter, in their accustomed places, and the little black teapot on the hob to get properly warm. There was little more to be done indoors, for the furniture was scanty enough ; but everything in turn received its fair share of attention, and the little room, with its sunken tiled floor and yellow-washed walls, looked cheerfid and homely. Then ENGLEBOUEN VILLAGE. 191 Harry turned his attention to the shed of his own contriving; which stood beside the faggot-stack, and from which expostu- latory and plaintive grunts liad been issuing ever since liis first appearance at the door, telhng of a faithful and useful friend who was sharp set on Sunday mornings, and desired his poor breakfast, and to be dismissed for the day to piclc up tlie rest of liis livelihood with his brethren porkers of the village on the green and in the lanes. Harry served out to the porker the poor mess which the wash of the cottage and the odds and ends of the little garden afforded ; which that virtuous animal forthwith began to discuss with both fore-feet in the trough — by way, probably, of adding to the flavour — while Ms master scratched him gently between the ears and on the back with a short stick till the repast was concluded. Then he opened the door of the stye, and the grateful animal rushed out into the lane, and away to the green with a joyful squeal and flirt of his hind-quarters in the air ; and llarry, after picking a bunch of wall-flowers, and pansics, and hyacinths, a line of which flowers skirted the narrow garden walk, and putting them in a long-necked glass which he took from the mantel-piece, proceeded to his morning ablutions, ample materials for which remained at the bottom of the family bucket, which he had put down on a little bench by the side of the porch. These finished, he retired indoors to shave and dress himself. CHAPTER XVIII. ENQLEBOURN VILLAGE. Dame Winburx was not long after her son, and they sat down together to breakfast in their best Sunday clothes — she, in plain large white cap, which covered all but a line of grey hair, a black stuff go"\vn reaching to neck and wrists, and small silk neckerchief put on like a shawl ; a thin, almost gaunt old woman, whom the years had not used tenderly, and wLo showed marks of theu" usage — but a resolute, high-courager AT OXFORD. a large leather case in his hand, out of which he took two five-pound notes, and began pressing them on his son, while Tom tried to look as if he did not know what was going on. For some time Hardy steadily refused, and the contention became animated, and it was useless to pretend any longer not to hear. " Why, Jack, you're not too j^roud I hope, to take a present from your own father," the Captain said at last. " But, my dear father, I don't want the money. You make me a very good allowance already." " I^ow, Jack, just listen to me and be reasonable. You know a great many of your friends have been very hospitable to me : I could not return their hospitality myself, but I wish you to do so for me." " WeU, father, I can do that without this money." " 'Now, Jack," said the Captain, pushing forward the notes again, " I insist on your taking them. You wUl pain me very much if you don't take them." So the son took the notes at last, looking as most men of his age would if they had just lost them, while the father's face was radiant as he replaced his pocket-book in the breast- pocket inside his coat. His eye caught Tom's in the midst of the operation, and the latter could not help looking a little confused, as if he had been unintentionally obtruding on their privacy. But the Captain at once laid his hand on his knee and said — " A young fellow is never the "worse for having a ten-pound note to veer and haid on ; eh, ]\Ir. Brown 1 " " 1^0, indeed, sir. A gieat deal better I think," said Tom, and was quite comfortable again. The Captain had no new coat that summer, l.iut ho always looked like a gentleman. Soon the coach stopped to take up a parcel at a cross-road, and the young men got down. They stood watching it until it disappeared round a corner of the road, and then turned back towards Oxford, and struck into Bagley Wood, Hardy listening Avith evident pleasure to his friend's enthusiastic praise of his father. But he was not in a talking humour, and they were soon walking along together in silence. This was the first time they had been alone together since the morning after their reconciliation ; so presently Tom seized the occasion to recur to the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts. " She has never answered my letter," he began, abruptly. " I am very glad of it," said Hardy. " But why 1 " " Because jo'\ know, you want it all broken off completely.' DEPARTURES EXPECTED A.ND UNEXPECTED. 241 •• Yes, but still she might have just acknowledged it. You don't know how hard it is to me to keep away from the place." " My dear fellow, I know it must be hard work, but you are doing the right thing." " Yes, I hope so," said Tom, with a sigh. " I haven't been within a hundred yards of ' The Choughs ' this five days. The old lady must think it so odd." Hardy made no reply. "What could he say but that no doubt she did 1 " Would you mind doing me a great favour ? " said Tom, after a minute. " Anything I can do.— What is it 1 " " Why, just to step round on our way back, — I will stay as far off as you like, — and see how things are going on ; — how she is." " Very well. Don't you like this view of Oxford 1 I always think it is the best of them all." " Xo. You don't see anything of half the colleges," said Tom, who Avas very loth to leave the other subject for the picturesque. "But you get all the spires and towers so well, and the river in the foreground. Look at that shadow of a cloud skimming over Christchurch Meadow. It's a splendid old place after all." " It may be from a distance, to an outsider," said Tom ; " but I don't know — it's an awfully chilly, deadening kind of place to live in. There's something in the life of the place that sits on me like a weight, and makes me feel dreary." " How long have you felt that 1 You're coming out in a new line." " I wish I were. I want a new line, I don't care a straw for cricket ; I hardly like pulling ; and as for those wine parties day after day, and suppers night after night, they turn me sick to tliink of" " You have the remedy in your own hands, at any rate," said Hardy, smiling. "How do you mean 1 " " Why, you needn't go to them." " Oh, one can't help going to them. What else is there to do?" Tom waited for an answer, but his companion only nodded to show that he was listening, as he strolled on dowTi the path, looking at the view. " I can say what I feel to you, Hardy. I always have been 24:)i TOM BROWN AT OXFORD, able, and it's such a comfort to me now. It was you wno put these sort of thoughts into my head too, so you ought to sym- pathize with me." " I do, my deal fellow. But you'll be aU right again in a few days." " Don't you believe it. It isn't only what you seem to think, Hardy. You don't know me so well as I do you, after all. No, I'm not just love-sick, and hipped because I can't go and see her. That has something to do with it, I dare say, but it's the sort of shu.t-up selfish life we lead here that I can't stand. A man isn't meant to live only with fellows like himself, with good allowances paid quarterly, and no care but how to amuse themselves. One is old enough for some- thing better than that, I'm sure." "No doubt," said Hardy, with provoking taciturnity. " And the ruoment one tries to break tlirough it, one only gets into trouble." " Yes, there's a good deal of danger of that, certainly," said Hardy. " Don't you often long to be in contact with some of the realities of life, with men and women who haven't their bread and butter already cut for them 1 How can a place be a university where no one can come up who hasn't two hun- dred a year or so to live on 1 " " You ought to have been at Oxford four hundred years ago, when there were more thousands here than we have hundreds." " I don't see that. It must have been ten times as bad then." " Not at all. But it must have been a very different state of things from ours; they must have been almost all poor scholars, who worked for their living, or lived on nest to nothing." " How do you really suppose they lived, though 1 " " Oh, I don't know. But how should you like it now, if we had fifty poor scholars at St. Ambrose, besides us servitors — say ten tailors, ten shoemakers, and so on, who came up from love of learning, and attended all the lectures with us, and worked for the present undergraduates wliile they were hunting, and cricketing, and boating 1 " " Well, I think it would be a very good thing — at any rate, we should save in tailors' bills." " Even if we didn't get our coats so well built," said Hardy, laughing. " Well, Brown, you have a most catholic taste, and ' a capacity for taking in new truths,' all the elements of a good Eadical in you," " I tell you I hate Radicals," said Tom, indignantly. THE ENGLEBOmiN CONSTABLE. 248 "Well, here we are in the town. I'll go round by ihe Choughs ' and catch you up before you get to High Street." Tom, left to himself^ walked slowly on for a little way, and then quickly back again in an impatient, restless manner, and was within a few yards of the corner where they had parted when Hardy appeared again. He saw at a glance that some- thing had happened. " What is it — she is not ill 1 " he said, quickly. "No ; quite well, her aunt says." " You didn't see her then 1 " " No. The fact is she has gone home." CHAPTER XX IT I. THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE. On the afternoon of a splendid day in the early part of June, some four or five days after the Sunday on which the morning service at Englebourn was interri;pted by the fire at Farmer Groves', David Johnson, tailor and constable of Clie parish, was sitting at his work in a small erection, half shed, half summer-house, which leaned against the back of his cottage. Not that David had not a regular workshop with a window looking into the village street, and a regular counter close under it, on which passers-by might see him stitching, and from which he could gossip with them easily, as was his wont. But although the constable kept the king's peace and made garments of all kinds for his livelihood — from the curate's frock down to the ploughboy's fustians — he was ad- dicted for his pleasure and solace to the keeping of bees. The constable's bees inhabited a row of hives in the narrow strip of garden which ran away at the back of the cottage. This strip of garden was bordered along the whole of one side by the rector's premises. Now honest David loved gossip well, and considered it a part of his duty as con- stable to b3 well up in all events and rumours which hap- pened or arose within his liberties. But he loved his bees better than gossip, and, as he was now in hourly expectation that they would be swarming, was working, as has been said, in his summer-house, that he might be at hand at the critical moment. The rough table on which he was seated commanded a view of the hives ; his big scissors and som.e shreds of velveteen lay near him on the table, also the street- door key and an old shovel, of which the uses wdl apxeai presently. B.2 244 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED. On his knees lay the black velveteen coat, the Sunday garment of Harry Winburn, lo which he was fitting new sleeves. In his exertions at the top of the chimney iv putting out the fire Harry had grievously damaged the gar- ment in question. The farmer had presented him with five shillings on the occasion, which sum was quite inadequate to the purchase of a new coat, and Harry, being too proud to call the farmer's attention to the special damage which ho had suiTered in his service, had contented himself with bringing his old coat to be new sleeved. Harry was a favourite with the constable on account of his intelligence and independence, and because of his relations with the farmers of Euglebourn on the allotment question. Although by his office the representative of law and order in the parish, David was a man of the people, and sympathized with the peasantry more than with the farmers. He had passed some jesxs of Ms apprenticeship at Reading, Avhere he had picked up notions on political and social questions much ahead of the Englebourn worthies. When he returned to his native village, being a wise man, he had kept his new lights in the background, and consequently had succeeded in the object of his ambition, and had been appointed constable. His reason for seeking the post was a desire to prove that the old joke as to the manliness of tailors had no application to his case, and this he had established to the satisfaction of aU the neighbourhood by the resolute manner in which, when- ever called on, he performed his duties. And, now that his character was made and his position secure, he was not so careful of betraying his leanings, and had lost some custom amongst the farmers in consequence of them. The job on which he was employed naturally turned his thoughts to Harry. He stitched away, now weighing in his mind whether he should not go himself to Farmer Groves, and represent to him that he ought to give Harry a new coat ; now rejoicing over the fact that the rector had decided to let Harry have anotlier acre of the allotment land ; now specu- lating on the attachment of his favourite to the gardener's daughter, and whether he could do anything to forward his suit. In the pnrsuit of which thoughts he had forgotten all about his bees, when suddenly a great humming arose, fol- lowed by a rush through the air like the passing of an express train, which recalled him to himself. He jumped from the table, casting aside the coat, and, seizing the key and shovel^ hurried out into tne garden, beating the two together with ali his might. The process in question, known in country phrase as " tang THE ENGLEBOUEN CONSTABLE. 24l ing," is founded upon the belief that the hees will not settle unless under the influence of this peculiar music ; and the constable, holding faithfully to the popular belief, rushed down his garden, " tanging " as though his life depended upon it, in the hopes that the soothing sound would induce the swarm to settle at once on his own anple trees. Is " tanging " a superstition or not ? People learned in bees ought to know, but I never happened to meet one who had settled the question. It is curious how such beliefs or superstitions fix themselves in the popular mind of a country side, and are held by wise and simple alike. David the con- stable was a most sensible and open-minded man of liis time and class, but Kemble or Akerman, or other learned Anglo- Saxon scholar would have vainly explained to him that *' tang," is but the old word for " to hold," and tnat the object of " tanging" is, not to lure the bees with sweet music of key and shovel, but to give notice to the neighbours that they have swarmed, and that the owner of the maternal hive means to hold on to his right to the emigrants. David would have listened to the lecture with pity, and have retained unshaken belief in his music. In the present case, however, the tangmg was of little avail, for the swarm, after wheeling once or twice in the air, disappeared from the eyes of the constable over the rector's wall. He went on " tanging " violently for a minute or two, and then paused to consider what was to be done. Should he get over the wall into the rector's garden at once, or should he go round and ask leave to carry his search into the j^ar- sonage grounds ? As a man and bee-fancier he was en the point of following straight at once, over Avail and fence ; but the constable was also strong within him. He was not on the best of terms witii old Simon, the rector's gardener, and his late opposition to Miss Winter in the matter of the sing- ing also came into his mmd. So he resolved that the parish constable would lose caste by disregarding his neighbour's boundaries, and was considering what to do next, when he heard a footstep and short cough on the other side of the wall which he recognised. "Be you there, Maester Simon 1 " he called out. "Whore upon the walker on the other side pulled up, and after a second appeal answered shortly — " E'es." " Hev'ee seed aught o' my bees 1 Thaoy've a bin' ani riz, and gone off somweres athert the wall." '* E'es, I seen 'em." " Wer' be 'em then 'I " 246 TOM BROWH AT OXFORD. *' Aal-amang wi' ourn in the limes." " Aal-amang wi' yourn," exclaimed the constable. " Drattle 'em. Thaay be mwore trouble than they be wuth," " I knowed as thaay wur yourn zoon as ever I sot eyes on 'em," old Simon went on. " How did'ee know 'em then 1 " asked the constable. " 'Cause thine be aal zettin' crass-legged," said Simon, with a chuckle. " Thee medst cum and pick 'em all out if thee'st a mind to 't." Simon was mollified by his own joke, and broke into a short, dry cachination, half laugh, half cough ; while the constable, who was pleased and astonished to find his neigh- bour in such a good humour, hastened to get an empty hive and a pair of hedger's gloves — fortified with which he left his cottage and made the best of his way up street towards the Rectory gate, hard by which stood Simon's cottage. The old gardener was of an impatient nature, and the effect of the joke had almost time to evaporate, and Simon was fast relapsing into his usual state of mind towards his neighbour before the latter made his appearance. " Wher' hast been so long 1 " he exclaimed, when the con- stable joined him. " I seed the young missus and t'other young lady a standin' talkin' afore the door," said David ; " so I stopped back, so as not to disturve 'em." " Be 'em gone in 1 Who was 'em talkin' to ? " "To thy missus, and thy daaiter too, I b'lieve 'twas. Thaay be both at whoani, bean't 'em 1 " " Like enough. But what was 'em zayin' 1 " "I couldn't heer nothin' partic'lar, but I judged as 'twas summat about Sunday and the fire." " 'Tis na use for thaay to go on fillin' our pleace wi' bottles. I dwon't mean to take no mwore doctor's stuff." Simon, it may be said, by the way, had obstinately refused to take any medicine since his fall, and had maintained a constant war on the subject, both with his own women and with Miss Winter, whom he had impressed more than ever with a belief in his wrongheadedness. " Ah ! and how be'ee, tho', Maester Simon 1 " said David ; " I didn't mind to ax afore. You dwon't feel no wus for your fall, I hopes ? " " I feels a bit stiffish like, and as if summat wur cuttin' m' at times, when I lifts up my arms." "'Tis a mercy 'tis no wus," said David; "we bean't so young nor lissom as we was, Maester Simon." To which remark Simon replied by a grunt, lie disliked THE ENGLEBOUEN CONSTABLE. 247 allusions to his age — a rare dislike amongst his class in that part of the country. Most of the people are fond of making themselves out older tlian they are, and love to dwell on their experiences, and believe, as firmly as the rest of us, that everything has altered for tlie worse in the parish and district since their youth. But Simon, though short of words and temper, and an uncomfortable acquaintance in conseqiience, was inclined to be helpful enough in other ways. The constable, Avith his assistance, had very soon hived his swarm of cross-legged bees. Then the constable insisted on Simon's coming with him and taking a glass of ale, which, after a little coquetting, Simon consented to do. So, after carrying his re-capture safely home, and erecting the hive on a three-legged stand of his own workmanship, he hastened to rejoin Simon, and the two soon found themselves in the bar of the " Red Lion." The constable wished to make the most of this opportunity, and so began at once to pump Simon as to his intentions with regard to his daughter. But Simon was not easy to lead in any way whatever, and seemed in a more than usually no-biisiness-of-yours line about his daughter. Whether he had any one in his eye for her or not, David could not make out ; but one thing he did make out, and it grieved him much. Old Simon was in a touchy and unfriendly state of mind against Harry, who, he said, was falling into bad ways, and begmning to think much too much of his self. Why was he to be wanting more allotment gromid than any one else 1 Simon had himself given Harry some advice on the point, but not to much purpose, it would seem, as he summed up his notions on the subject by the remark that, " 'Twas waste of soap to lather an ass." The constable now and then made a stand for his young friend, but very judiciously ; and, after feeling his way for some time, he came to the conclusion — as, indeed, the truth was — that Simon was jealous of Harry's talent for growing flowers, and had been di'iven into his present frame of mind at hearing ]\Iiss Winter and her cousin talking about the flowers at Dame Winburn's under his very nose for the last four or five days. They had spoken thus to interest the old man, meaning to praise Harry to him. The fact was, that the old gardener was one of those men Avho never can stand hearing other people praised, and think that all such praise must be meant in depreciation of themselves. When they had finished their ale, the afternoon was getting on, and the constable rose to go back to his work ; while old 248 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. Simon declared his intention of going down to the hay-field, to see how the mowing was getting on. He was sure that the hay would never be made properly, now that he couldn't be about as much as usual. In another hour the coat was finished, and the constable, being uneasy in his mind, resolved to carry the garment home himself at once, and to have a talk with Dame Winburn. So he wrapped the coat in a handkerchief, put it under his arm, and set off down the village. He found the dame busy with her washing ; and after depositing his parcel sat down on the settle to have a talk with her. They soon got on the subject wliich was always upper- most in her mind, her son's prospects, and she poured out to the constable her troubles. First there was this sweet- hearting after old Simon's daughter, — not that Dame Win- burn was going to say anything against her, though she might have her thoughts as well as other folk, and for her part she liked to see girls that were fit for something besides dressing themselves up like their betters, — but what worrited her was to see how Harry took it to heart. He wasn't Tike himself, and she couldn't see how it was all to end. It made him fractious too, and he was getting into trouble about his work. He had left his regular place, and was gone mowing with a gang, most of them men out of the parish that she knew nothing about, and likely not to be the best of company. And it was all very well in harvest time, when they could go and earn good wages at mowing and reaping anywhere about, and no man could earn better than her Harry, but when it came to winter again she didn't see but what he might find the want of a regular place, and then the farmers mightn't take him onj and his own land that he had got, and seemed to think so much of, mightn't turn out all he thought it would. And so in fact the old lady was troubled in her mind, and only made the constable more uneasy. He had a vague sort of impression that he was in some way answerable for Harry, who was a good deal with him, and was fond of coming about his place. And although his cottage happened to be next to old Simon's, which might account for the fact to some extent, yet the constable was conscious of having tallced to his young friend on many matters in a way which might have unsettled him, and encouraged his natural tendency to stand up for his own rights and independence, and he knew weU enough that this temper was not the one which was likely to keep a labouring man out of trouble in the parish. He did not allow his own misgivings, however, to add to the widow's troubles, but, on the contrary, cheered her by tllE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE. 249 praising up Harry as much as even she could desire, and prophesying tliat all M'ould come right, and that those that lived would see her son as respected as any man in the parish ; he shouldn't be surprised, indeed, if he were churchwarden before he died. And then, astonished at his own boldness, and feeling that he was not capable of any higLer flight of imagination, the constable rose to take his leave. He asked where Harry was working, and, finding that he was at mowing in the Danes' Close, set off to look after him. The kind- hearted constable could not shake off the feeling that some- thing was going to happen to Harry which would get him into trouble, and he wanted to assure himself that as yet nothing had gone wrong. Whenever one has this sort of vague feeling about a friend, there is a natural and irresistible impulse to go and look after him, and to be with him. The Danes' Close was a part of the glebe, a large field of some ten acres or so in extent, close to the village. Two footpaths ran across it, so that it was almost common pro- perty, and the village children considered it as much their playground as the green itseK. They trampled the grass a good deal more than seemed endurable in the eyes of Simon, who managed the rector's farming operations as well as tfie garden ; but the children had their own way, notwithstanding the threats he sometimes launched at them. Miss Winter would have sooner lost all the hay than have narrowed their amusements. It was the most difficult piece of mo'wing in the parish, in consequence of the tramplings and of the large crops it bore. The Danes, or some other unknown persons, had made the land fat, perhaps with their carcases, and the benefit had lasted to the time of our story. At any rate, the field bore splendid crops, and the mowers always got an extra shilling an acre for cutting it, by Miss Winter's special order, which was paid by Simon in the most ungracious manner, and with many grumblings that it was enough to ruin all the mowers in the countryside. As the constable got over the stile into the hay-field, a great part of his misgivings passed out of his head. He was a simple kindly man, whose heart lay open to all influences of scene and weather, and the Danes' Close, full of life and joy and merry sounds, as seen under the slanting rays of the evening sun, was just the place to rub all the wrinkles out of liim. The constable, however, is not singular in this matter. What man amongst us all, if he will think the matter over calmly and fairly, can honestly say that there is any one spot on the earth's surface in which he has enjoyed so much real. 250 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. wholesome, happy life as in a hay -field ? He may have won renown on horseback or on foot at the sports and pastimes in which Englishmen glory ; he may have shaken off all rivals, time after time, across the vales of Aylesbury, or of Berks, or any other of our famous hunting counties ; he may have stalked the oldest and shyest buck in Scotch forests, and killed the biggest salmon of the year in the Tweed, and trout in the Thames ; he may have made topping averages in first- rate matches of cricket ; or have made long and perilous marches, dear to memory, over boggy moor, or mountain, or glacier ; he may have successfully attended many breakfast- parties within drive of Mayfair, on velvet lawns, surrounded by all the fairy-land of pomp, and beauty, and luxury, which London can pour out ; he may have shone at private theatricals and at-homes ; his voice may have sounded over hushed audi- ences at St. Stephen's, or in the law courts ; or he may have had good times in any other scenes of pleasure or triumph open to Englishmen ; but I much doubt whether, on putting his recollections fairly and quietly together, he would not say at last that the fresh-mown hay-field is the place where he has spent the most hours which he would like to live over again, the fewest which he would wish to forget. As children, we stumble about the new-mown hay, revelling in the many colours of the prostrate grass and Mild flowers, and in the power of tumbling where we please without hurt- ing ourselves : as small boys, we pelt one another and the village school-girls and our nursemaids and young lady cousins with the hay, till, hot and weavy, we retire to tea or syllabub beneath the shade of some great oak or elm standing up like a monarch out of the fair pasture ; or, following the mowers, we rush with eagerness on the treasures disclosed by the scythe-stroke, — the nest of the unhappy late-laying titlark, or careless field-mouse : as big boys, we toil ambitiously with the sjjare forks and rakes, or climb into the wagons and receive with o^Den arms the delicious load as it is pitched up from below, and rises higher and higher as we pass along the long lines of haycocks : a year or two later we are strolling there with our first sweethearts, our souls and tongues loaded with sweet thoughts and soft speeches ; we take a turn with the scythe as the bronzed mowers lie in the shade for their short rest, and willingly pay our footmg for the feat. Again, we come back with book in pocket, and our own childi'en tumbling about as we did before them; now romping with them, and smothering them with the sweet-smelling load — now musing and reading and dozing away the deUcious summer evenings. And so shall we not come back to the end, enjoying as grand- THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE. 251 fathers the lovemakiBg and the rompmgs of younger genera tions yet 1 Were any of us ever really disappointed or melancholy in a hay-field ? Did we ever lie fairly back on a haycock and look up into the blue sky, and listen to the merry sounds, the whetting of scythes and the laughing prattle of women and children, and think evil thoughts of the world or our brethren 1 Not we ! or if we have so done, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves, and deserve never to be out of town again during hay-harvest. There is something in the sights and sounds of a hay-field which seems to touch the same chord in one as Lowell's lines in the "Lay of Sir Launfal," which end — " For a cap and bells our lives Ave pay ; We ■tt'ear out our lives with toUing and tasking ; It is only Heaven that is given away ; It is only God may be had for the asking. There is no price set on the lavish summer, And June may be had by the poorest comer." But the philosophy of the hay-field remains to be written. Let us hope that whoever takes the subject in hand Avill not dissipate all its sweetness in the process of the inquiry wherein the charm lies. The constable had not the slightest notion of speculating on his own sensations, but was very glad, nevertheless, to find his spirits rising as he stepped into the Danes' Close. All the hay was down, except a small piece in the further corner, which the mowers were upon. There were groups of children in many parts of the field, and women to look after them, mostly sitting on the fresh swarth, working and gossiping. Avhile the little ones played about. He had not gone twenty yards before he was stopped by the violent crying of a child ; and, turning towards the voice, he saw a little girl of six ox seven, who had strayed from her mother, scrambhng out o> the ditch, and wringing her hands in an agony of pain and terror. The poor little thing had fallen into a bed of nettles, and was very much frightened, and not a little hurt. The constable caught her up in his arms, soothing her as well as he could, and hurrying along till he found some dock-leaves, sat down with her on his knee, and rubbed her hands with the leaves, repeatmg the old saw — " Out nettle, In dock : Dock shall ha' A new smock ; Nettle shan't Ha' uaiTUu'." 252 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKB Wliat with the rubbing, and the constable's kind manner, and listening to the doggrel rhyme, and feeling that nettle would get her deserts, the little thing soon ceased crying. But several groups had been drawn towards the place, and amongst the rest came Miss Winter and her cousin, who had been within hearing of the disaster. The constable began to feel v^ery nervous and uncomfortable, when he looked up from his charitable occupation, and suddenly found the rector's daughter close to him. But his nervousness was uncalled for. Che sight of what he was about, and of the tender Avay in which he was handling the child, drove all remembrance of his heresies and contumaciousness in the matter of psalmody out of her head. She greeted him with frankness and cor- diality, and presently — when he had given up his charge to the mother, who was inclined at first to be hard with the poor little sobbing truant — came up, and said she wished to speak a few Avords to him. David was highly delighted at Miss Wmter's manner ; but he walked along by her side not quite comfortable in his mind, for fear lest she should start the old subject of dispute, and then his duty as a public man would have to be done at all risk of offending her. He was much comforted when she began by asking him whether he had seen much of Widow Winburn's son lately. David admitted that he generally saw him every day. Did he know that he had left his place, and had quarrelled with Mr. Tester ? Yes, David knew that Harry had had words with Farmer Tester ; but Farmer Tester was a sort that it was very hard not to have words with. . " Still, it is very bad, you know, for so young a man to be quarrelling with the farmers," said Miss Winter. " 'Twas the varmer as quarrelled wi' he, you see, miss," David answered, " which makes all the odds. He cum to Harry all in a fluster, and said as how he must drow \ip the land as he'd a'got, or he's place — one or t'other on 'em. And so you see, miss, as Harry wur kmd o' druv to it. 'Twarn't likely as he wur to drow up the land now as he wur just rep- pin' the benefit ov it, and all for Varmer Tester's place, wich be no sich gurt things, miss, arter all." " Very Hkely not ; but I fear it may hinder his getting employment. The other farmers will not take htm on now if they can help it." " No ; tbaay falls out wi' one another bad enough, and calls all manner o' names. But thaay can't abide a poor man to speak ]m ximvl, nor take his own part, not one on 'em," THE ENGLEBOUITN' CONSTABLE. 253 said David, looking at Miss Winter, as if doiibtful how she might take his strictures ; but sJie went on without any show of dissent, — " I sliall try to get him work for my father , hut I am sorry to find that Simon does not seem to like the idea of takuig him on. It is not easy always to make out Simon's mean- ing. When I spoke to him, he said something about a bleating sheep losing a bite ; but I should think this young man is not much of a talker in general 1 " she paused. " That's true, miss," said David, energetically ; " there ain't a quieter spoken or steadier man at his work in the parish." " I'm yery glad to hear you say so," said Miss Winter, " and I hope we may soon do something for him. But what I want you to do just now is to speak a word to him about the company he seems to be getting into." The constable looked somewhat aghast at this speech of Miss Winter's, but did not answer, not Imowing to what she was alluding. She saw that he did not understand, and went on — " He is mowing to-day with a gang from the heath and the next parish ; I am sure they are very bad men for him to be with. I was so vexed when I found Simon had given them the job ; but he said they would get it all down in a day, and be done with it, and that was aU he cared for." " And 'tis a fine day's work, miss, for five men," said David, looking over the field ; " and 'tis good work too, you mind the swarth else," and he picked up a handful of the fallen grass to show her how near the ground it Avas cut. " Oh, yes, I have no doubt they are very good mowers, but they are not good men, I'm sure. There, do you see now who it is that is bringing them beer 1 I hope you will see Widow Winburn's son, and speak to him, and try to keep him out of bad company. We should be all so sorry if he were to get into trouble." David promised to do his best, and Miss Winter wished him good evening, and rejoined her cousin. " Well, Katie, will he do your behest t " " Yes, indeed ; and I think he is the best person to do it. Widow Wrnburn thmks her son minds him more than any one." " Do you know, I don't tliink it will ever go right. I'm sure she doesn't care the least for him." " Oh, you have only just seen her once for two or three minutes." 254 TOM BROAVN AT OXFORD. "And then that wretched old Simon is so perverse, about it," said the cousin. " You will never manage him." "He is very provoking, certainly ; but I get my own way generally, in spite of him. And it is such a perfect plan, isn't it ? " " Oil. charming ! if you can only bring it about." " Now we must be really going home, papa will be getting restless." So the young ladies left the hay-field deep in castle- building for Harry Winburn and the gardener's daughter. Miss Winter being no more able to resist a tale of true love than her cousin, or the rest of her sex. They would have been more or less than women if they had not taken an interest in so absorbing a passion as poor Harry's. By the time they reached the Rectory gate they had installed him in the gardener's cottage with his bride and mother (for there would be plenty of room for the widow, and it would be so convenient to have the laundry close at hand), and had })en- sioned old Simon, and sent him and his old wife to wrangle away the rest of their time in the widow's cottage. Castle- building is a delightful and harmless exercise. Meantime David the constable had gone towards the mowers, who were taking a short rest before finishing off the last half-acre which remained standing. The person whose appearance had so horrified ISIiss "Winter was drawing beer for them from a small barrel. This was an elderly raw-boned woman with a skin burnt as brown as that of any of the mowers. She wore a man's hat and spencer, and had a strong harsh voice, and altogether was not a prepossessing person. She went by the name of Daddy Cowell in the parish, and had been for years a proscribed person. She lived up on the heath, often worked in the fields, took in lodgers, and smoked a short clay pipe. These eccentricities, when added to her half-male clothing, Avere quite enough to account for the sort of outlawry in which she lived. Miss Winter, and other good people of Englebourn, believed her capable of any crime, and the children were taught to stop talking and playing, and run away when she came near them ; but the constable, who had had one or two search-warrants to execute in her house, and had otherAvise had frequent occasions of getting acquainted with her in the course of his duties, had by no means so evil an opinion of her. He had never seen much harm in her, he had often been heard to say, and she never made pretence to much good. Nevertheless, David was by no means pleased to see her acting as purveyor to the gang which Harry had joined. He knew how such contact would damage him in the eyes of all the parochial respect THE SCHOOLS.- 255 abilities, and was anxious to do his best to get him clear of it. With these views he went up to the men, who were resting under a large elm tree, and complimented them on their day^s work. They were themselves well satisfied with it, and with one another. When men have had sixteen hours' or so hard mowing in company, and none of them can say that the others have not done their fair share, they are apt to respect one another more at the end of it. It was Harry's first day with this gang, who were famous for going about the neighbour- hood, and doing great feats in hay and wheat harvest. They were satisfied with him and he with them, none the less so probably in his present frame of mind, because they also were loose on the world, servants of no regular master. It was a bad time to make his approaches, the constable saw ; so, after sitting by Harry, until the gang rose to finish off their work in the cool of the evening, and asking him to come round by his cottage on his way home, which Harry promised to do, ho walked back to the village. CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCHOOLS. There is no more characteristic spot in Oxford than the quadrangle of the schools. Doubtless in the times when the University held and exercised the pri\nleges of infang-tliief and outfang-thief, and other such old-world rights, there must have been a place somewhere within the liberties devoted to examinations even more exciting than the great-go. But since alma mater has ceased to take cognizance of " treasons, insurrections, felonies, and mayhem," it is here, in that fateful and inexorable quadi'angle, and the buildings which surround it, that she exercises her most potent spells over the spirits of her children. I suppose that a man being tried for his life must be more uncomfortable than an undergraduate being examined fijr his degree, and that to be hung — perhaps even to be pUloried — must be worse than to be plucked. But after all, the feelings in both cases must be essentially the saiae, only more intense in the former ; and an institution wliich can examine a man (in literis humanioribus, in hu- manities so called) once a year for two or three days at a time, has nothing to complain of, though it has no longer the power of hanging him at once out of hand. The schools' quadrangle is for the most part a lonely place. Men pass through the melancholy iion-gates by which that 256 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. .■:[uadraiigle is entered on three sides — from Broad-street, froiL the Eatcliife, and from New College-lane — when necessity leads them that way, with alert step and silently. No nurse- maids or children play ahout it. Nohody lives in it. Only when the examinations are going on you may see a few hooded figures who walk as though conscious of the powers of academic life and death which they wield, and a good deal of shuddering undergraduate life flitting about the place — luckless youths, in white ties and bands, who are undergoing the peine forte et dure with different degrees of composure ; and their friends who are there to look after them. You may go in and watch the torture yourself if you are so minded, for the viva, voce schools are open to the public. But one such experiment Avill be enough for you, unless you are very hard- hearted. The sight of the long table, behind which sit Minos, Ehadamanthus and Co. full- robed, stern of face, soft of speech, seizing their victim in turn, now letting him run a little way as a cat does a mouse, then drawing liim back, with claw of wily question, probing him on this side and that, turning him inside out— the row of victims opposite, pale or flushed, of anxious or careless mien, according to temperament, but one and all on the rack as they bend over the allotted paper, or read from the well-thumbed book — the scarcely-less-to-be- pitied row behind of future victims, "sitting for the schools " as it is called, ruthlessly brought hither by statutes, to watch the sufferings they must hereafter undergo — should fill the friend of suffering humanity with thoughts too deep for tears. Through the long day till four o'clock, or later, the torture lasts. Then the last victim is dismissed ; the men who are " sitting for the schools" fly all ways to their colleges, silently, in search of relief to their over-wrought feelings — probably also of beer, the undergraduate's universal specific. The beadles close those ruthless doors for a mysterious half-hour on the examiners. Outside in the quadrangle collect by twos and threes the friends of the victims, waiting for the re-opening of the door, and the distribution of the " testamurs." The testamurs, lady readers will be pleased to understand, are certificates under the hands of the examiners that your sons, brothers, husbands, perhaps, have siiccessfully undergone the torture. But, if husbands, oh, go not yourselves, and send not your sons to wait for the testamur of the head of your house ; for Oxford has seldom seen a sight over which she would more willingly draw the veil with averted face than that of the youth rushing wildly, dissolved in tears, from the schools' quadrangle, and shouting " Mamma ! papa's plucked J papa's plucked ! " THE SCHOOLS. 25? The examination is nearly over which is to decide the academical fate of some of our characters ; the paper-work of the candidates for honours has been going on for tlie last week. Every morning our three St. Ambrose acquaintances have mustered with the rest for the anxious day's work, after such breakfasts as they have been able to eat under the circumstances. They take their work in very different ways. Grey rushes nervously back to his rooms whenever he is out nf the schools for ten minutes, to look up dates and dodges. He worries himself sadly over every blunder which he dis- covers himself to have made, and sits up nearly all night cramming, always hoping for a better to-morrow. Blake keeps up his affected carelessness to the last, quizzing the examiners, laughing over the shots he has been making ia the last paper. His shots, it must be said, turn out well for the most part ; in the taste paper particularly, as they com- pare notes, he seems to have almost struck the bull's-eye in his answers to one or two questions which Hardy and Grey have passed over altogether. When he is wide of the mark he passes it off with some jesting remark " that a fool can ask in five minutes more questions than a wise man can answer in a week," or wish "that the examiners would play fair, and change sides of the table for an hour with the candidates, for a finish." But he, too, though he does it on the sly, is cramming with his coach at every available spare moment. Hardy had finished his reading a full thirty-six hours before the first day of paper-work, and had braced himself for the actual struggle by two good nights' rest and a long day on the river with Tom. He had worked hard from the first, and so had really mastered his books. And now, feeling that he has fairly and honestly done his best, and that if he fails it will be either from bad luck or natm-al incapacity, and not from his own fault, he manages to keep a cooler head than any of his companions in trouble. The week's paper-work passes of uneventfully : then comes the viva voce work for the candidates for honours. They go ■n, in alphabetical order, four a day, for one more daj^'s work, the hardest of all, and then there is nothing more to do but wait patiently for the class list. Oii these days there is a good attendance in the enclosed space to which the public are admitted. The front seats are often occupied by the private tutors of the candidates, who are there, like New- market trainers, to see the performance of their stables, marking how each colt bears pressing, and comports himself when the pinch comes. They watch the examiners, too, carefully, to see what line they take, whether science, or 8 258 TOM BEO\VN 4.T OXFOED. history, or scholarship is likely to tell most, that they may handle the rest of their starters accordingly. Behind them, for tlie most part, on the hiiidermost benches of the flight ol raised steps, anxious younger brothers and friends sit, for a feAv minutes at a time, flitting in and out in much unrest, and making the olijects of their solicitude more nervous than ever by their sympathy. It is now the afternoon of the second day of the viva voce examinations in honours. Blake is one of the men in. His tutor. Hardy, Grey, Tom, and other St. Ambrose men, have all been in the schools more or less during his examination, and now Hardy and Tom are waiting outside the doors for the issuing of the testamurs. The group is small enoiigh. It is so much of course that a class-man should get his testamur that there is no excite- ment about it ; generally the man himself stops to receive it. The only anxious faces in the group are Tom's and Hardy's. They have not exchanged a word for the last few minutes in their short walk before the door. Now the examiners come out and walk away towards their colleges, and the next minute the door again opens and the clerk of the schools appears with the slips of paper in his hand. " Now you'll see if I am not right," said Hardy, as they gathered to the door with the rest. " I teD you there isn't the least chance for him." The clerk read out the names inscribed on the testamurs which he held, and handed them to the owners. " Haven't you one for Mr. Blake of St. Ambrose 1 " said Tom, desperately, as the clerk was closing the door. " No, sir ; none but those I have just given out," answered the clerk, shaking his head. The door closed, and they turned away in silence for the first minute. " I told you hoAv it would be," said Hardy, as they passed out of the south gate into the Ratclifl'e Quadrangle, " But he seemed to be doing so well when I was in." " Yoii were not there at the time. I thought at first they would have sent him out of the schools at once." " In his divinity, wasn't it ? " " Yes ; he was asked to repeat one of the Articles, and didn't know three words of it. From that moment I saw it was all over. The examiner and he both lost their tempers, and it went from bad to worse, till the examiner remai'ked that he could have answered one of the questions he was asking when he Avas ten years old, and Blake replied. So could he. They gave him a paper in divinity afterAvards, but you could see there was no chance for him." " Viva voce." In the ^'Schools." P. 258. i TTTE SCHOOLS. 259 " t'uor fellow ! what will he do, do you thinlc ? How ^viIl he take it 1 " " I can't tell. But I'm afraid it will be a very sei-ious matter for him. He was the ablest man in our year too. What a pity ! " They got into St. Ambrose just as the bell for afternoon chapel was going down, and went in. Blake was tliere, and one look showed him what had happened. In fact he had expected nothing else all day since his breakdo^^Ti in the Articles. Tom coxddn't help watching him daring chapel ; and afterwards, on that evening, acknowledged to a friend that whatever else you might think of Blake, there was no doubt about his gameness. After chapel he loitered outside the door in the quadrangle, talking just as usual, and before hall he loitered on the steps in well-feigned carelessness. Everybody else was thinking of his breakdo\^^l ; some with real sorrow and sympathy ; others as of any other nine-days' wonder — pretty much as if the favourite for the Derby had broken down ; othere with ill- concealed triumph, for Blake had many enemies amongst the men. Ho himself was conscious enough of what they were thinking, but maintained his easy, gay manner through it all, though the etlbrt it cost him was tremendous. The only allusion he made to wliat bad happened which Tom heard was when he asked him to wine. " Are you engaged to-night, Brown ? " he said. Tom answered in the negative. " Come to me, then," he went on. " You won't get another chance in St. Ambrose. I have a few bottles of old wine left ; we may as well floor them : they won't bear moving to a hall mth their master." And then he turned to some other men and asked them, every one in fact whom he came across, especially the dominant fast set with whom he had chiefly lived. These young gentle- men (of whom we had a glimpse at the outset, but whose company we have carefully avoided ever since, seeing that their sayings and doings were of a kind of which the less said the better) had been steadily going on in their way, getting more and more idle, recldess, and insolent. Their doings had been already so scandalous on several occasions as to call for solemn meetings of the college authorities ; but, no \ngorous measures having followed, such deliberations had only made matters worse, and given the men a notion that they could do what they pleased with impunity. This night the climax had come ; it was as though the flood of misrule had at last broken banks and overflowed the whole college. For two hours the wine party in Blake's large ground-floi3r 82 2C0 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. rooms was kept up with a wild reckless mirth, in keeping with the host's temper. Elake was on his mettle. He had asked every man with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, as if he wished to lace out his disaster at once to the whole world. Many of the men came feeling uncomfortable, and would sooner have stayed away and treated the phick as a real misfortune. Eut after all Blake was the best judge of how he liked it to be treated, and, if he had a fancy for giving a great wine on the occasion, the civilest thing to do was to go to it. And so they went, and wondered as much as he could desire at the brilliant coolness of their host, specidating and doubting nevertheless in their own secret hearts whether it wasn't acting after all. Acting it was, no doubt, and not worth the doing ; no acting is. But one must make allowances. No two men take a thing just alike, and very few can sit down quietly when they have lost a fall in life's Avrostle, and say, " "Well, here I am, beaten no doubt this time. By mj^ own fault too. Now, take a good look at me, my good friends, as I know you all want to do, and say your say out, for I mean getting up again directly and having another turn at it." Blake drank freely himself, and urged his guests to drink, which was a superlluous courtesy for the most part. Many of the men left his rooms considerably excited. They had dispersed for an hour or so to billiards, or a stroll in the town, and at ten o'clock reassembled at supper parties, of which there were several in college this evening, especially a monster one at Chanter's rooms — a " chamj>agne supper," as he had carefully and ostentatiously announced on the cards of invitation. This flaunting the champagne in their faces had been resented by Drysdale and others, who drank his champagne in tumblers, and then abused it and clamoured for beer in the middle of the supper. Chanter, Avhose prodigality in some ways was only exceeded by his general meanness, had lost his temper at this demand, and insisted that, if they wanted beer, they might send for it themselves, for he wouldi_'t pay for it. This protest was treated with up- roarious contempt, and gallons of ale soon made their ap- pearance in college jugs and tankards. The tables were cleared, and songs (most of them of more than doubtful character), cigars, and all sorts of compounded drinks, from claret cup to egg flip, succeeded. The company, recruited constantly as men came into college, was getting more and more excited every minute. The scouts cleared away and carried off all relics of tl' e supper, and then left ; still the THE SCHOOLS. 261 revel weut on, till, by midnight, the men were ripe fur any mischief or folly which those among them who retained any brains at all could suggest. Tlib signal for breaking up was gi^ en by the host's falling from his scat. Some of the men rose with a shout to put him to bed, which they accom- plished with difficulty, after dropping him several times, and left him to snore off the effects of his debauch with one of his boots on. Others took to doing what mischief occurred to them in his rooms. One man, mounted on a chair with a cigar in his mouth which had gone out, was employed in pouring the contents of a champagne bottle with unsteady hand into the clock on the mantel-piece. Chanter was a particular man in this sort of furniture, and his clock was rather a speciaHty. It was a large bronze figure of Atlas, supporting the globe in the shape of a time-piece. Un- luckily, the maker, not anticipating the sort of test to which his work would be subjected, had ingeniously left the hole for winding up in the top of the clock, so that unusual facilities existed for dro\^^ling the w^orld-carrier, and he was already almost at his last tick. One or two men were morally aiding and abetting, and physically supporting the experimenter on clocks, who found it difficult to stand to his work by himself. Another knot of young gentlemen stuck to the tables, and so continued to shout out scraps of song, sometimes standing on their chairs, and sometimes tumbling off them. Another set were employed on the amiable work of pouring beer and sugar into three new pairs of polished leather dress boots, with coloured tops to them, which they discovered in the dressing-room. Certainly, as they remarked, Chanter could have no possible use for so many dress boots at once, and it was a pity the beer should be wasted ; but on the whole, peihaps, the materials Avere never meant for com- bination, and had better have been kept apart. Others had gone away to break into the kitchen, headed by one who had just come into college and vowed he would have some supper ; and others, to screw up an unpopular tutor, or to break into the rooms of some inoffensive freshman. The remainder mustered on the grass in the quadrangle, and began playing leap-frog and larking one another. Amongst these last Avas our hero, who had been at Blake's wine and one of the quieter supper parties ; and, though not so far gone as most of his companions, was by no means in a state in which ho would have cared to meet the Dean. He lent his hearty aid accordingly to swell the noise and tumult, which was becoming something out of the way even for St. Ambrose's. As the leap-frog was flagging, Drysdale 262 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. suddenly appeared carrying some silver plates which were used on solemn occasions in the common room, and allowed to be issued on special application for gentlemen- commoners' parties. A rush was made towards him. " Halloa, here's Drysdale with lots of swag," shouted one, " AVliat are you going to do with it ? " cried another. Drys- dale paused a moment with the peculiarly sapient look of a tipsy man who has suddenly lost the thread of his ideas, and then suddenly broke out -with — " Hang it ! I forget. But let's play at quoits with them." The proposal was received with applause, and the game began, but Drysdale soon left it. He had evidently some notion in his head which would not suffer him to turn to anything else tUl he had carried it out. He went off accord- ingly to Chanter's rooms, while the quoits went on in the fi'ont quadrangle. About this time, however, the Dean and bursar, and the tutors who lived in college, began to be conscious that some- thing unusual was going on. They were quite used to distant choruses, and great noises in the men's rooms, and to a fair amount of shouting and skylarking in the quadrangle, and were long-suffering men, not given to interfering ; but there must be an end to all endurance, and the state of things which had arrived could no longer be met by a turn in bed and a growl at the uproars and follies of undergraduates. Presently some of the rioters on the grass caught sight of a figure gliding along the side of the quadrangle towards the Dean's staircase. A shout arose that the enemy was up, but little heed was paid to it by the greater number. Then another figure passed from the Dean's staircase to the porter's lodge. Those of the men who had any sense left saw that it was time to quit, and, after warning the rest, went off towards their rooms. Tom on his way to his staircase caught sight of a figure seated in a remote corner of the inner quad- rangle, and made for it, impelled by natural curiosity. He found Drysdale seated on the ground with several silver tankards by his side, employed to the best of his powers in digging a hole with one of the college carving-knives. " Halloa, Drysdale ! Avhat are you up to 1 " he shouted, laying his hand on his shoulder. " Providing for poshterity," replied Drysdale, gravely, without looking up. *' What the deuce do you mean ? Don't be such an ass. The Dean will be out in a miimte. Get up and come along." " I tell you, old fellow," said Drysdale, somewhat inar- ticulately, and driving his knife into the ground again, " the THE SCHOOLS. 263 dons are going to spout the college plate. So I am burjdng these articles for ijoshterity — " » " Hang posterity," said Tom ; " come along directly, or you'll be caught and rusticated." " Go to bed, Brown — you're drunk, Brown," replied Drys- dale, continuing his work, and striking the carving-knife into the ground so close to his own thigh that it made Tom shudder. " Here they are then," he cried the next moment, seizing Drysdale by the arm, as a rush of men came through the passage into the back quadrangle, shouting and tumbling along, and making in small groups for the different stair- cases. The Dean and two of the tutors follow^ed, and the porter bearing a lantern. There was no time to be lost ; so Tom, after one more struggle to pull Drysdale up and hiu^ry him off, gave it up, and leaving him to his fate, ran across to his own staircase. For the next half-hour the Dean and his party patrolled the college, and succeeded at last in restoring order, though not -without some undignified and disagreeable passages. The lights on the staircases, wdiich generally burnt all night, were of course put out as they approached. On the first staircase which they stormed, the porter's lantern was knocked out of his hand by an unseen adversary, and the light put out on the bottom stairs. On the first landing the bursar trod on a small terrier belonging to a fast freshman, and the dog naturally thereupon bit the bursar's leg ; while his master and other enfants j)erdus, taking advantage of the diversion, rushed down the dark stairs, past the party of order, and into the quadrangle, where they scattered amidst a shout of laughter, ^^^lile the porter was gone for a light, the Dean and his party rashly ventured on a second ascent. Here an unexpected catastrophe awaited them. On the top landing lived one of the steadiest men in college, whose door had been tried shortly before. He had been roused out of his fij'st sleep, and, vowing vengeance on the next comers, stood behind his oak, holding his brown George, or huge earthen- ware receptacle, half full of dirty water, in which his bed- maker had been washing up his tea-things. Hearing stealthy steps and whisperings on the stairs below, he suddenly threw open his oak, discharging the whole contents of his bro^\^l George on the approaching authorities, with a shout of, " Take that for your skulking." The exasperated Dean and tutors rushing on, seized their astonished and innocent assailant, and after receiving ex- planations, and the ofler of ilean towels, hurried off agiiu 264 TOM BROWN AT OXIORD. after the real enemy. And now the porter appeared again with a light,^nd, continuing their rounds, they apprehended and disarmed Drysdale, collected the college plate, maiked down others of the rioters, visited Chanter's rooms, held a parley with the one of their number who was screwed up in his rooms, and discovered that the bars had been wrenched out of the kitchen window. After which they retired to sleep on their indignation, and quiet settled down again or the ancient and venerable college. The next morning at chapel many of the revellers met ; in fact, there was a fuller attendance than usual, for every one felt that something serious must be impending. After such a night the dons must make a stand, or give up altogether. The most reckless only of the fast set were absent. St. Cloud was there, dressed even more precisely than usual, and looking as if he were in tlie habit of going to bed at ten, and had never heard of milk punch. Tom turned out not much the worse himself, but in his heart feeling not a little ashamed of the whole business ; of the party, the men, but, above all, of himself. He thrust the shame back, however, as well as he could, and put a cool face on it. Probably most of the men were in much the same state of mind. Even in St. Ambrose's, reckless and vicious as the college had become, by far the greater part of the undergraduates would gladly have seen a change in the direction of order and decency, and were sick of the wretched licence of doing right in their own eyes, and wrong in every other person's. As the men trooped out of chapel, they formed in corners of the quadrangle, except the reading set, who went olf quietly to their rooms. There was a pause of a minute or two. Neither principal, dean, tutor, nor fellow followed as on ordinary occasions. " They're hatching something in the outer chapel," said one. " It'll be a coarse time for Chanter, I take it," said anothei " Was your name sent to the buttery for } is supper ? " "1^0, I took d — d good care of that," said St. Cloud, who was addressed. " Drysdale was caught, wasn't he 1 " " So I hear, and nearly frightened the Dean and the porter out of their wits by staggering after thorn with a carving- knife." " He'll be sacked, of course." " Much he'll care for that." " Here they come, then ; by Jove, how black they look ! " The authorities now came out of the antechapel door, and walked slowly across towards the PrincTf d's house in w, body. IHE SCHOOLS. 265 At this moment, as ill-luck would have it, Jack trotted into the front quadrangle, dragging after iiim the light steel chain with which he was usually fastened up in Drysdalt's scout's room at night. He came innocently towards one and another of the groups, and retired from each much astonished at the low growl with which his acquaintance was repudiated on all sides. " Porter, whose dog is that ? " said the Dean, catching sight of him. " ;Mr. Drysdale's dog, sir, I think, sir," answered the porter. "Probably the animal who bit me last night," said the bursar. His knowledge of dogs was small ; if Jack had fastened on him he would probably have been in bed from the effects. " Turn the dog out of college," said the Dean. " Please, sir, he's a very savage dog, sir," said the porter, whose respect for Jack was unbounded. " Turn him out immediately," replied the Dean. The wretched porter, arming himself with a broom, ap- proached Jack, and after some coaxing managed to catch hold of the end of his chain, and began to lead him towards the gates, carefiiUy holding out the broom towards Jack's nose with his other hand, to protect himself. Jack at first hauled away at his chain, and then began circling round the porter at the full extent of it, evidently meditating an attack. Not- withstanding the seriousness of the situation the ludicrous alarm of the porter set the men laughing. " Come along, or Jack will be pinning the wi'etched Copas," said Jervis ; and he and Tom stepped up to the terrified little man, and, releasing him, led Jack, who knew them both well, out of college. "Were you at that supper party?" said Jervis, as they deposited Jack with an ostler, who was lounging outside the gates, to be taken to Drysdale's stables. " No," said Tom. " I'm glad to hear it ; there will be a pretty clean sweep after last night's doings." " But I was in the quadrangle when they came out." " Not caught, eh ] " said Jervis. " No, luckily, I got to my o^vn rooms at once." " Were any of the crew caught 1 " " Not that I know of." " Well, we shall hear enough of it before lecture-time." Jervis was right. There was a meeting in the common room directly after breakfast. Drysdale, anticipating his 266 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. fate, took his name oS before they sent for him. Chantei and three or four others were rusticated for a year, and Blake was ordered to go down at once. He was a scholar, and what was to be done in his case would be settled at the meeting at the end of term. For twenty-four hours it was supposed that St. Cloud had escaped altogether ; but at the end of that time he was summoned before a meeting in the common room. The tutor whose door had been so effectually screwed up that he had been obliged to get out of his window by a ladder to attend morning chapel, proved wholly unable to ajipreciate the joke, and set himself to work to discover the perpetrators of it. The door was fastened with long gimlets, which had been screwed firmly in, and Avhen driven well home, their heads knocked off. The tutor collected the shafts of the gimlets from the carj^enter, who came to effect an entry for him ; and, after careful examination, discovered the trade mark. So, putting them in his pocket, he walked off into the town, and soon came back with the information he required, which resulted in the rustication of St. Cloud, an event which was borne by the college with the greatest equanimity. Shortly afterwards Tom attended in the schools' quad rangle again, to be present at the jDosting of the class list. This time there were plenty of anxious faces ; the quadrangle was full of them. He folt almost as nervous himself as if he were waiting for the thhd gun. He thrust himself forward, and was amongst the first "who caught sight of the document. One look was enough for him, and the next moment he was off at fuU speed to St. Ambrose, and, rushing headlong into Hardy's rooms, seized him by the hand, and shook it vehemently. " It's aU right, old fellow," he cried, as soon as he could catch his breath ; "it's all right. Four firsts; you're one of them : well done ! " " And Grey, where's he ; is he all right ? " " Bless me, I forgot to look," said Tom ; " I only read the firsts, and then came off as hard as I could." " Then he is not a first." "No; I'm sure of that." "I must go and see him ; ho deserved it far more than I." " No, by Jove, old boy," said Tom, seizing him again by the hand, " that he didn't ; nor any man that ever went into the schools." "Thank you, Brown," said Hardy, returning his warm grip. "You do one good. Now to see poor Grey, and to write to my dear old father before hall. Fancy him opening COMJrEMOKATTON. 267 the letter at brealcfast tlie day after to-morrow ! I only hope it won't hurt liim." " Never fear. I don't believe in people dying of joy, and anything short of sudden death he won't mind at the price." Hardy hurried off, and Tom went to his own rooms, and smoked a cigar to allay his excitement, and thought about his friend, and all they had felt together, and laughed and mourned over in the short months of their friendsliip. A pleasant dreamy half-hour he spent thus, till the hall bell roused him, and he made his toilette and went to his dinner. It was with very mixed feelings that Hardy walked by the servitors' table and took his seat with the bachelors, an equal at last amongst equals. No man who is worth his salt can leave a place where he has gone through hard and searching discipline, and been tried in the very depths of his heart, without regret, however much he may have winced under the discipline. It is no light thing to fold up and lay by for ever a portion of one's life, even when it can be laid by with honour and in thankfulness. But it was with no mixed feelings, but with a sense of entire triumph and joy, that Tom watched his friend taking his new place, and the dons one after another coming up and congratulating him, and treating him as the man who had done honour to them and his collesje. CHAPTEE XXV. COMMEMORATION. The end of the academic year was now at hand, and Oxford was beginning to put on her gayest clothing. The college gardeners were in a state of unusual activity, and the lawns and flower-beds, which form such exquisite settings to many of the venerable grey, gabled buildings, were as neat and as bright as hands could make them. Cooks, butlers, and their assistants were bestirring themselves in kitchen and buttery, under the direction of bursars jealous of the fame of their houses, in the preparation of the abundant and solid fare with which Oxford is wont to entertain all comers. Every- thing the best of its kind, no stint but no nonsense, seems to be the wise rule which the University hands down and lives up to in these matters. However we may differ as to her degeneracy in other departments, all who have ever visited her will admit that in this of hospitality she is still a great national teacher, acknowledging and preaching by examp'e 268 TOM BTIOWN AT OXFORD. the fact, that eating and drinking are important parts of man's life, which are to be allowed their due prominence, and not thrust into a corner, but are to be done soberly and thankfully, in the sight of God and man. The coaches were bringing in heavy loads of visitors ; carriages of all kinds were coming in from the neighbouring counties ; and lodgings in the High-street were going up to fabulous prices. In one of these High-street lodgings, on the evening of the Saturday before Commemoration, Miss Winter and her cousin are sitting. They have been in Oxford during the greater part of the day, having posted up from Englebourn ; but they have only just come in, for the younger lady is still in her bonnet, and ^liss Winter's lies on the table. The windows are wide open, and Miss Winter is sitting at one of them ; while her cousin is busied in examining the furniture and decorations of their temporary home, now commenting upon these, now pouring out praises of Oxford. " Isn't it too charming 1 I never dreamt that any town could be so beautiful. Don't you feel wild about it, Katie 1 " " It is the queen of towns, dear. But I Icnow it well, you see, so that I can't be quite so enthusiastic as you." " Oh, those dear gardens ! what was the name of those ones with the targets up, where they were shooting 1 Don't you remember 1 " " New College Gardens, on the old city wall, you mean 1 " " No, no. They were very nice and sentimental. I should like to go and sit and read poetry there. But I mean the big ones, the gorgeous, princely ones, with wicked old Bishop Laud's gallery looking into them." " Oh ! St. John's, of course." " Yes, St. John's. Why do you hate Laud so, Katie 1 " " I don't hate him, dear. He was a Berkshire man, you know. But I think he did a great deal of harm to the Church." " How did you think my new silk looked in the gardens 1 How lucky I brought it, wasn't it? I shouldn't have liked to have been in nothing but muslins. They don't suit here ; you want something richer amongst the old buildings, and on the beautiful velvety turf of the gardens. How do you think I looked 1 " " You looked like a queen, dear ; or a lady-in-waiting at least." "Yes, a lady-in-waiting on Henrietta Maria. Didn't you hear one of the gentlemen say that she was lodged in St. John's when Charles marched to reheve Gloucester? Ah ' can't you fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her COMMEMOEATION. 269 ladies following her. and Bishop Laud walking just a little behind her, and talking in a low voice about — let me see — something very important ? " " Oh, Mary, where has your history gone 1 He was Arch- bishop, and was safely locked up in the Tower." " Well, perhaps he was ; then he couldn't be with her, of course. How stupid of you to remember, Katie. Why can't you make up your mind to enjoy yourself when you come out for a holiday ? " " I shouldn't enjoy myself any the more for forgetting dates," said Katie, laughing. "Oh, you would though; only try. But let me see, it can't oe Laud. Then it shall be that cruel drinking old man, with the wooden leg made of gold, who was governor of Oxford when the king was away. He must be hobbling along aftei the queen in a buff coat and breast-plate, holding his hat with a long drooping white feather in his hand." " But you wouldn't like it at all, Mary ; it Avould be too serious for you. The poor queen would be too anxious for gossip, and you ladies-in-waiting would be obliged to walk after her without saying a word." " Yes, that would be stupid. But then she would have to go away with the old governor to write despatches ; and some of the young officers with long hair and beautiful lace sleeves, and large boots, whom the king had left behind, wounded, might come and walk perhaps, or sit in the sun in the quiet gardens." Mary looked over her shoulder with the merriest twinkle in her eye, to see how her steady cousin would take this last picture. "The college authorities would never allow that," she said quietly, still looking out of window; "if you wanted beaus, you must have had them in black gowns." " They would have been jealous of the soldiers, you think 1 Well, I don't mind ; the black gowns are very pleasant, only a little stiff. But how do you think my bonnet looked 1 " " Charmingly. But when are you going to have done looking in the glass 1 You don't care for the buildings, I believe, a bit. Come and look at St. Mary's ; there is such a lovely light on the steeple ! " " I'll come directly, but I must get these flowers right. I'm sure there are too many in this trimming." Mary was trying her new bonnet on over and over again before the mantel-glass, and pulling out and changing the places of the blush-rose buds with which it was trimmed. Just then a noise of wheels, accompanied by a merry tune on a cornopean, came in fiom the street. 270 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. " What's that, Katie ? " she cried, stopping her work for a moment. " A coach coming up from IMagdalen Bridge. I think it is a cricketing party coiaing home." " Oh, let me see," and she tripped across to the window, bonnet in hand, and stood beside her cousin. And, then, sure enough, a coach covered with cricketers returning from a match, drove past the window. The young ladies looked out at first with great curiosity ; but, suddenly finding them- selves the mark for a wliole coach-load of male eyes, shrank back a little before the cricketers had passed on towards the " Mitre." As the coach passed oat of sight, Mary gave a pretty toss of her head, and said, — " Well, they don't want for assurance, at any rate. I think they needn't have stared so." "It was our fault," said Katie ; "we shouldn't have been at the window. Besides, you know you are to be a lady-in- waiting on Henrietta Maria up here, and of course you must get used to being stared at." " Oh yes, but that was to be by young gentlemen wounded in the wars, in lace ruffles, as one sees them in pictures. That's a very different thing from young gentlemen in flan- nel trousers and straw hats, driving up the High Street on coaches. I declare one of them had the impudence to bow as if he knew you." "So he does. That was my cousin." " Your cousin ! Ah, I remember. Then he must be my cousin too." " No, not at all. He is no relation of yours." "Well, I sha'n't break my heart. Ijut is he a good partner 1 " " I should say, yes. But I hardly know. We used to be a great deal together as children, but papa has been such an invalid lately." " Ah, I wonder how ^mcle is getting on at the Vice-Chan- ceUor's. Look, it is past eight by St. Mary's. Wlien were \^ e to go ? " " We were asked for nine." ** Then we must go and dress. Will it be very slow and ?tiflF, Katie 1 I wish we were going to sometliing not quite i\) grand." " You'll find it very pleasant, I dare say." " There won't be any dancing, though, I know ; vnl\ there 1 " "No ; I should think certainly not." " Dear me ! I hope there will be some young men there OOMT^rRMOEATTON. 271 — T shall be so shy, I know, if there are nothing bnt wise people. How do you talk to a Eegius Professor, Xatie 1 It must be awfi;l." " He will probably be at least as uncomfortable as yon, dear," said Miss Winter, laughing, and rising from the window ; "let us go and dress." " Shall T wear my best gown ] — What shall I put in my hair?" At this moment the door opened, and the maid-servant introduced Mr. Brown. It was the St. Ambrose drag which had passed along shortly before, bearing the eleven home from a triumphant match. As they came over Magdalen Bridge, Drysdale, who had returned to Oxford as a private gentleman after his late catastrophe, which he had managed to keep a secret from his guardian, and was occupying his usual place on the box, called out — " Now, boys, keep your eyes open, there must be plenty of lionesses about ; " and thus warned, the whole load, including the cornopean player, were on the look-out for lady visitors, profanely called lionesses, all the way lap the street. They had been gratified by the sight of several walking in tho High Street or looking out of the windows, before they caught sight of Miss Winter and her cousin. The appear- ance of these young ladies created a sensation. " I say, look ! up there in that first floor." "By George, they're something like." " The sitter for choice." " No, no, the standing-up one ; she looks so saucy." " Hullo, Brown ! do you know them 1 " " One of them is my cousin," said Tom, who had just been guilty of the salutation which, as we saw, excited the indignation of the younger lady. " What luck ! — You'U ask me to meet them — when shall it be 1 To-morrow at breakfast, I vote." " I say, you'll introduce me before the ball on Monday 1 promise now," said another. " I don't know that I shall see anything of theni," said Tom ; " I shall just leave a pasteboard, but I'm not in the humour to be dancing about lionizing." A storm of indignation arose at this speech : the notion that any of the fraternity who had any hold on lionesses, particularly if they were pretty, should not use it to the utmost for the benefit of the rest, and the glory and honour of the coUege, was revolting to the undergraduate mind. So the whole body escorted Tom to the door of the lodgings, 272 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. impressing upon him the necessity of engaging both his lionesses for every hour of every day in St. Ambrose's, and left him not till they had heard liim ask for the young ladies, and seen him fairly on bis way upstairs. They need not have taken so much trouble, for in his secret soul he was no little pleased at the appearance of creditable ladies, more or less belonging to him, and would have found his way to see them quickly and surely enough without any urging. More- over, he had been really fond of his coursin, years before, when they had been boy and girl together. So they greeted one another very cordially, and looked one another over as they shook hands, to see what changes time had made. He makes his changes rapidly enough at that age, and mostly for the better, as the two cousins thought. It was nearly three years since they had met, and then he was a fifth-form boy and she a girl in the school-room. They were both conscious of a strange pleasure in meeting again, mixed with a feehng of shyness and wonder whether they should be able to step back into their old relations. Mary looked on demurely, really watching them, but osten- sibly engaged on the rosebud trimming. Presently Miss Winter turned to her and said, " I don't think you two ever met before ; I must introduce you, I suppose ; — my cousin Tom, my cousin Mary." " Then we must be cousins too," said Tom, holding out his hand. " No, Katie says not," she answered. " I don't mean to believe her, then," said Tom ; "but what are you going to do now, to-night 1 Why didn't you write and tell me you were coming 1 " " We have been so shut up lately, owing to papa's bad health, that I really had almost forgotten you were at Oxford." " By the bye," said Tom, " where is uncle ] " " Oh, he is dining at the Vice-Chancellor's, who is an old college friend of his. We have only been up here three or four hours, and it has done him so much good. I am so glad we spirited him up to coming." " You ha\en't made any engagements yet, 1 hope 1 " " Indeed we have ; I can't tell how many. We came in time for luncheon in Balliol. Mary and I made it our dinner, and we have been seeing sights ever since, and have been asked to go to I don't know how many luncheons and breakfasts." " What, with a lot of dons, I suppose ? " said Tom, spite- fully ; " you won't enjoy Oxford, then ; they'll bore you \*) death." COMMEMOEATION. 273 " There now, Katie ; that is just what I was afraid of," joined in Mary; "yoir rememhei we didn't hea,r a word about balls all the afternoon." " You haven't got your tickets for the balls, then 1 " said Tom, brightening up. " No, how shall we get them ? " " Oh, I can manage that, I've no doubt." " Stop ; how are we to go 1 Papa will never take us." " You needn't think about that ; anybody will chaperone you. Nobody cares about that sort of thing at Cominemo- ration." " Indeed I think you had better wait till I have talked to papa." " Then all the tickets will be gone," said Tom. " You must go. "Wliy shouldn't I chaperone you ? I know several men whose sisters are going with them." " No, that will scarcely do, I'm afraid. But really, Mary, we must go and dress." " Where are you going, then 1 " said Tom. "To an evening party at the Vice-Chancellor's; we are asked for nine o'clock, and the half-hour has struck." " Hang the dons ; how unlucky that I didn't know before ! Have you any flowers, by the way ? " "Not one." "Then I will try to get you some by the time you are ready. May 1 1 " " Oh yes, pray do," said Llary. " That's capital, Katie, isn't it ] Now I shall have something to put in my hair ; I couldn't think what I was to wear." Tom took a look at the hair in question, and then left them and hastened out to scour the town for flowers, as if his life depended on success. In the morning, he would probably have resented as insulting, or laughed at as wUdly improbable, the suggestion that he would be so employed before night. A double chair was drawn up opposite the door when he came back, and the ladies were coming down into the sitting- room. " Oh look, Katie ! What lovely flowers ! How very kind of you." Tom surrendered as much of his burden as that young lady's little round white hands could clasp, to her, and deposited the vest on the table. "Naw, Katie, which shall I wear — this beautiful white rose all by itself, or a Avreath of these pansies ? Here, 1 have a wire : I can make them up in a minute." She turned T . 274 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. to the glass, and held the rich cream-white rose against her hair, and then turning on Tom, added, " What do you think V " I thought fern would suit your hair better than anything else," said Tom ; " and so I got these leaves," and he picked out two slender fern-leaves. " How very kind of you ! Let me see, how do you mean ? Ah! I see ; it will be charming;" and so saying, she held the leaves one in each hand to the sides of her head, and then floated about the room for needle and thread, and with a few nimble stitches fastened together the simple green ciown, which her cousin put on for her, making the points meet above her forehead. Maiy was wild with delight at the eflect, and full of thanks to Tom as he helped them hastily to tie up bouquets, and then, amidst much laughing, they squeezed into the wheel chair together (as the fashions of that day allowed two young ladies to do), and went off to their party, leaving a last injunction on him to go up and put the rest of the flowers in water, and to call dii-ectly after breakfast the next day. He obeyed his orders, and pensively arranged the rest of the flowers in the china ornaments on the mantel-piece, and in a soup plate which he got and placed in the middle of the table, and then spent some minutes examining a pair of gloves and other small articles of women's gear which lay scattered about the room. The gloves particularly attracted him, and he flattened them out and laid them on his own large brown hand, and smiled at the contrast, and took other unjustifiable liberties with tliem ; after which he returned to college and endured much banter as to the time his call had lasted, and jDromised to engage his cousins, as he called them, to grace some festivities in St. Ambrose's at their first spare moment. The next day, being Show Sunday, was spent by tho young ladies in a ferment of spiritual and other dissipation. They attended morning service at eight at the cathedral ; breakfasted at a Merton felloVs, from whence they adjourned to University sermon. Here Mary, after two or three utterly uieflectual attempts to understand what the preacher was meaning, soon ■ lapsed into an examination of the bonnets present, and thu doctors and proctors on the floor, and the undergraduates in the gallery. On the whole, she was, per- haps, better employed than her cousin, who knew enough oi' religious party strife to follow the preacher, and was made very uncomfortable by his discourse, which consisted of an attM.k upon the recent publications of the most eminent and COMMEMORATION. 2'76 best men in the University. Poor j\iiss Winter came away mtli a vague impression of the wickedness of all persons who dare to travel out of beaten tracks, and that the most unsafe state of mind in the world is that which inquires and aspires, and cannot be satisfied with the rogidation draught of spiritual doctors in high places. Being naturally of a reverent turn of mmd, she tried to think that the discourse had done her good. At the same time she was somewhat troubled by the thought that somehow the best men in all times of which she had read seemed to her to be just those whom the preacher was in fact denouncing, although in words he had praised them as the great lights of the Church. The words which she had heard in one of the lessons kept running in her head, " Trvily ye bear witness that ye do allow the deeds of your fathers, for they indeed killed them, but ye build their sepulchres." But she had little leisure to think on the subject, and, as her father praised the sermon as a noble protest against the fearful tendencies of the day to Popery and Pantheism, smothered the questiooings of her own heart as well as she could, and went off to luncheon in a common room ; after which her fatlier retu-ed to their lodgings, and she and her cousin were escorted to afternoon service at JMagdalen, in achieving wbich last feat they had to encounter a crush only to be equalled by that at the pit entrance to the opera on a Jenny Lind night. But what will not a delicately nurtured British lady go through when her mind is bent either on pleasure or duty ] Poor Tom's feelings throughout the day may be more easily conceived than described. He had called according to order, and waited at their lodgings after breakfast. Of course they did not arrive. He had caught a distant glimpse of them in St. Mary's, but had not been able to approach. Ho had called again in the afternoon unsuccessfully, so far as sof/ing them was concerned ; but he had found his uncle at home, l3ang upon the sofa. At first he was much dismayed by this rencontre, but, recovering his presence of mind he proceeded, I regret to say, to take the length of the old gentleman's foot, by entering into a minute and sjTupathizing incjuiry into the state of his health. Tom had no faith what- ever in his uncle's ill-health, and believed — as many persons of robust constitution are too apt to do when brought face to face with nervous patients — that he might shake off tlie whole of his maladies at any time by a resolute efl'ort, so that his sympathy was all a sham, though, perhaps, one may pardon it, considering the end in view, which was that of persuading the old gentleman to entrust the young ladies to T 2 276 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. his nephew's care for that eveuiug in the Long Walk ; and generally to look upon his nephew, Thomas Brown, as his natural prop and supporter in the University, whose one object in life just now would he to take trouble off his hands, and who was of that rare and precocious steadiness of character that he might be as safely trusted as a Spanish duenna. To a very considerable extent the victim fell into the toils. He had many old friends at the colleges, and was very fond of good dinners, and long sittings afterwards. This very evening he was going to dine at St. John's, and had been much troubled at the idea of having to leave the unrivalled old port of that learned house to escort his daughter and niece to the Long Walk. Still he was too easy and good-natured not to -odsh that they might get there, and did not Uke the notion of their going with perfect strangers. Here was a com- promise. His nephew was young, but still he was a near relation, and in fact it gave tlie poor old man a plausible excuse for not exerting himself as he felt he ought to do, which was all he ever required for shifting his responsibilities and duties upon other shoulders. So Tom waited quietly till the young ladies came home, which they did just before hall-time. JMr. Winter was getting impatient. As soon as they arrived he started for St. John's, after advising them to remain at homo for the rest of the evening, as they looked quite tired and knocked up ; but if they were resolved to go to the Long Walk, his nephew would escort them. " How can L^ncle Robert say we look so thed ? " said Mary, consulting the glass on the subject ; " I feel quite fresh. Of course, Katie, you mean to go to the Long Walk 1" " I hope you Avill go," said Tom ; " I think you owe me some amends. I came here according to order this morning, and you were not in, and I have been trying to catch yoa ever since." " We couldn't help it," said Miss Winter ; " indeed wo have not had a minute to ourselves all day. I was very sorry to think that we should have brought you here for nothing this morning." " But about the Long Walk, Katie?" " Well, don't you think we have done enough for to-day" I should like to have tea and sit quiotlj' at home, as papa suggested." " Do you feel very tired, dear ?" said Mary, seating herself by her cousin on the sofa, and taking her hand. " No, dear : T only want a little quiet and a cup of tea'" COMMEMOEATION. 277 " Then let us stay here qiaietly till it is time to start. Wfien ought we to get to the Long Walk '?" "About half- past seven," said Tom j "you shouldn't be much later than that." " There you see, Katie, we shall have two hours' perfect rest. You shall lie upon the sofa, and I will read to you, and then we shall go on all fresh again." Miss Winter smiled and said, " Very well." She saw that her cousin was bent on going, and she could deny her nothing. " May I send you in anything from college 1" said Tom; " you ought to have something more than tea, I'm sure." " Oh no, thank you. We dined in the middle of the day." " Then I may call for you about seven o'clock," said Tom, who had come unwillingly to the conclusion that he had better leave them for the present. " Yes, and mind you come in good time ; we mean to see the whole sight, remember. We are country cousins." " You must let me call you cousin then, just for the look of the thing." " Certainly, just for the look of the thing, we will be cousins till further notice." " Well, you and Tom seem to get on together, Mary," said Miss Winter, as they heard the front door close. " I'm learning a lesson from you, though I doubt whether I shall ever be able to put it in practice. What a blessing it must be not to be shy !" "Are you shy, then?" said Mary, looking at her cousin with a playful loving smile. " Yes, dreadfully. It is positive pain to me to walk into a room where there are people I do not know." " But I feel that too. I'm sure, now, you were much less embarrassed than I last night at the Vice Chancellor's. I quite envied you, you seemed so much at your ease." " Did II I would have given anything to be back here quietly. But it is not the same thing with you. You have no real shyness, or you would never have got on so fast with my cousin." " Oh ! I don't feel at all shy with him," said Mary, laughing. " How lucky it is that he found us out so soon. I like him so much. There is a sort of way about him as if he couldn't help himself. I am sure one could turn hiia round one's finger. Don't you think so ] " " I'm not so sure of that. But he always was soft-hearted, poor boy. But he isn't a boy any longer. You must take care, Mary. Shall we ring for tea?" 278 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. CHAPTEE XXVI. THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS. " Do well unto thyself and men wull speak good of tliee," is a maxim as old as King David's time, and just as true now as it was then. Hardy had found it so since the publication of the class list. Within a few days of that event, it was known that his was a very good first. His college tutor had made his own inquiries, and repeated on several occasions in a con- fidential way the statement that, " with the exception of a want of polish in his Latin and Greek verses, which we seldom get except in the most finished public-school men — Etonians in particular — there has been no better examination in the schools for several years." The worthy tutor went on to take glory to the college, and in a lower degree to himself. He called attention, in more than one common room, to the fact that Hardy had never had any private tuition, but had attained his intellectual development solely in the curriculum provided by St. Ambrose's College for the training of the youth intrusted to her. " He himself, indeed," he would add, " had always taken much interest in Hardy, and had, perhaps, done more for him than would be possible in every case, but only with direct reference to, and in supplement of the college course." The Principal had taken marked and somewhat pompous notice of him, and had graciously intimated his wish, or, perhaps I should say, his will (for he would have been much astonished to be told that a wish of his could count for less than a royal mandate to any man who had been one of his servitors), that Hardy should stand for a fellowship which had lately fallen vacant. A few weeks before, this excessive affability and condescension of the great man would have wounded Hardy ; but, somehow, the sudden rush of sunshine and prosperity, though it had not thrown him olf his balance, or changed his estimate of men and things, had pulled a sort of comfortable sheath over his sensitiveness, and gave him a second skin, as it were, from which the Principal's shafts bounded off innocuous, instead of piercing and rankling. At first, the idea of standing for a fellowship at St. Ambrose's was not pleasant to him. He felt inclined to open up entirely Dew ground for himself, and stand at some other college, where he had neither acquaintance nor association. But on second thoughts, he resolved to stick to his old college, moved thereto partly by the lamentations of Tom, when he heard of his friend's meditated emigration, but chiefly by the unwilling- TEE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHUECH MEADOWS, 279 ness to quit a hard post for an easier one, whicli besets natures like his to their own discomfort, but, may one hope, to the signal benefit of the world at large. Such men may see clearly enough all the advantages of a move of this kind — may quite appreciate the ease which it woidd bring them — may be im- patient Avith themselves for not making it at once — but, when it comes to the actual leaving the old post, even though it may be a march out with all the honours of war, drums beating and colours flying, as it would have been in Hardy's case, somehow or another, nine times out of ten, they throw up the chance at the last moment, if not earlier ; pick up their old arms — growling perhaps at the price they are paying to keep their own self-respect — and shoulder back into the press to face their old work, muttering, " We are asses ; we don't know what's good for us ; but we must see this job through somehow, come what may." So Hardy stayed on at St. Ambrose, waiting for the fellow- ship examination, and certainly, I am free to confess, not a little enjoying the change in his position and affeirs. He had given up his low dark back rooms to the new servitor, his successor, to whom he had presented all the rickety furniture, except his two Windsor chau-s and Oxford reading-table. The intrinsic value of the gift was not gieat, certainly, but was of importance to the poor raw boy who was taking his place ; and it was made with the delicacy of one who knew the situation. Hardy's good offices did not stop here. Having tried the bed himself for upwards of three long years, he knew all the hard places, and was resolved while he stayed up that they should never chafe another occupant as they had him. So he set himself to provide stuffing, and took the lad about with him, and cast a skirt of his newly-acquii'ed mantle of respectability over him, and put him in the way of making himself as comfortable as circum- stances would allow ; never disguising from him all the while that the bed was not to be a bed of roses. In which pursuit, though not yet a fellow, perhaps he was qualifymg himself better for a fellowsliip than he could have done by any amount of cramming for polish in his versihcation. Not that the electors of St. Ambrose would be liliely to hear of or appreciate this kind of training. Polished versification would no doubt have told more in that quarter. But we who are behind the scenes may disagree with them, and hold that he who is thus acting out and learning to understand the meaning of the word " fellowship," is the man for our votes. So Hardy had left his rooms and gone out of college, into lodgings near at li.aud. The sword, epaulettes, and picture of 280 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. his father's old ship — his tutelary divinities, as Tom called them — occupied their accustomed place in his new rooms, except that there was a looking-glass over the mantel-piece here, by the side of which the sword hung, instead of in the centre, as it had done while he had no such luxury. His "Windsor chairs occupied each side of the pleasant window of his sitting-room, and already the taste for luxuries of which he had so often accused himself to Tom began to peep out iu the shape of one or two fine engravings. Altogether Fortune was smiling on Hardy, and he was making the most of her, like a wise man, having brought her round by proving that he could get on without her, and was not going out of his way to gain her smiles. Several men came at once, even before he had taken his B.A. degree, to read with him, and others applied to know whether he would take a reading party in the long vacation. In short, all things went well with Hardy, and the Oxford world recognised the fact, and tradesmen and college servants became obsequious, and began to bow before him, and recognise him as one of their lords and masters. It was to Hardy's lodgings that Tom repaired straightway, when he left his cousin by blood, and cousin by courtesy, at the end of the last chapter. For, running over in liis mind all his acquaintance, he at once fixed upon Hardy as the man to accompany him in escorting the ladies to the Long Walk. Besides being his own most intimate friend, Hardy was the man whom he would prefer to all others to introduce to ladies now. " A month ago it might have been different," Tom thought ; " he was such an old guy in his dress. But he has smartened up, and wears as good a coat as I do, and looks well enough for anybody, though he never will be much of a dresser. Then he will be in a bachelor's gown too, which will look respectable." " Here you are ; that's all right ; I'm so glad you're in," he said as he entered the room. " Now I want you to come to the Long Walk with me to-night." " Very well — will you call for me V " Yes, and mind you come in your best get-up, old fellow : we shall have two of the prettiest girls who are up, witli us." " You won't want me then ; they will have plenty of escort." "Not a bit of it. They are deserted by their natural guardian, my old uncle, who has gone out to dinner. Oh, it's all right; they are my cousins, more like sisters, and my uncle knows we are going. In fact it r^as he who settled that T should take them." " Yes, but you see I don't know them." " That doesn't matter. I can't take them both myself — ! THE LONG WALK IN CHKISTCHURCH MEADOWS. 28] must have somebody with me, and I'm so glad to get the chance of introducing you to some of my people. You'll know ihem all, I hope, before long." " Of course I should like it very much, if you are sure it's all right." Tom was as perfectly sure as usual, and so the matter was arranged. Hardy was very much pleased and gratified at this proof of his friend's confidence; and I am not going to say that he did not shave again, and pay most unwonted attention to his toilet before the hour fixed for Tom's return. The fame of Brown's lionesses had sj'read through St. Ambrose's already, and Hardy had heard of them as well as other men. There was something so unusual to him in being selected on such an occasion, when the smartest men in the college were wishing and plotting for that which came to him unasked, that he may be pardoned for feeling something a little like vanity, while he adjusted the coat which Tom had recently thought of with such complacency, and looked in the glass to see that his gown hung gracefully. The effect on the whole was so good, that Tom was above measure astonished when he came back, and could not help indulging in some gentle chaff as they walked towards the High-street arm in arm. The young ladies were quits rested, and sitting flressed and ready for their walk, when Tom and Hardy were announced, and entered the room. Miss Winter rose up, surprised and a little embarrassed at the introduction of a total stranger in her father's absence. But she put a good face on the matter, as became a well-bred young woman, though she secretly resolved to lecture Tom in private, as he introduced " My great friend, Mr. Hardy, of our college. My cousins." Mary dropped a pretty little demure courtesy, lilting her eyes for one moment for a glance at Tom, which said as plain as look could speak, " Well, I must say you are making the most of your new- found relationship." He v/as a little put out for a moment, but then recovered himself, and said apologetically, " Mr. Hardy is a bachelor, Katie — I mean a Bachelor of Arts, and he knows all the people by sight up here. We couldn't have gone to the Walk without some one to show us the lions." " Indeed, I'm afraid you give me too much credit," said ilurdy, " I know most of our dons by sight, certainly, but scaicely any of the visitors." The awkwardness of Tom's attempted explanation set every- thing wrong again. Then came one of those awkward pauses which will occur 80 very provokiagly at the most inopportune times. !Misd 282 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Winter was seized with, one of the uncontrollable fits of shy- ness, her bondage to which she had so lately been grieving over to Mary ; and in self-defence, and without meaning lq the least to do so, drew herself up, and looked as proud as you please. Hardy, whose sensitiveness was almost as keen as a woman's, felt in a moment the awkwardness of tlie situation, and became as shy as Miss Winter herself. If the floor would have suddenly opened, and let him through into the dark shop, he would have been thankful ; but, as it would not, there he stood, meditating a sudden retreat from the room, and a tremendous onslaught on Tom, as soon as he could catch him alone, for getting him into such a scrape. Tom was provoked with them all for not at once feeling at ease with one another, and stood twirling his cap by the tassel, and looking fiercely at it, resolved not to break the silence. He had been at aU the trouble of bringing about this charming situation, and now nobody seemed to like it, or to know what to say or do. They might get themselves out of it as they could, for anytliing he cared ; he was not going to bother himself any more. Mary looked in the glass, to see that her bonnet was quite right, and then from one to another of her companions, in a little wonder at their unaccountable behaviour, and a little pique that two young men should be standing there like unpleasant images, and not availing themselves of the privilege of trying, at least, to make themselves agreeable to her. Luckily, however, for the party, the humorous side of the tableau struck her with great force, so that when Tom lifted his misanthropic eyes for a moment, and caught hers, they were so fuU of fun that he had nothing to do but to allow liimself, not without a struggle, to break first into a smile, and then into a laugh. This brought all eyes to bear on him, and the ice, being once broken, dissolved as quickly as it had gathered. " I really can't see what there is to laugh at, Tom," said Miss Winter, smiling herself, nevertheless, and blushing a little, as she worked or pretended to work at buttoning one of her gloves. " Can't you, Katie 1 Well, then, isn't it very ridiculous, and enough to make one laugh, that we four should be standing here in a sort of Quakers' meeting, when we ought to be half- way to the Long Walk by this time 1" " Oh, do let us start," said Mary ; " I know we shfvll be missing all the best of the sight." '^Come along, then," said Tom, leading the way down THE LONG WALK IN CHEISTCHUKCH MEADOWS. 283 fitairs, and Hardy and the ladies followed, and they descended into the High Street, walking all abreast, the two ladies together, with a gentleman on either flank. This formation answered well enough in High Street, the broad pavement of that celebrated thoroughfare being favourable to an advance in line. But when they had wheeled into Oriel Lane the narrow pavement at once threw the line into confusion, and after one or two fruitless attempts to take up the dressing they settled down into the more natural formation of close column of cuuples, the leading couple consisting of Mary and Tom, and the remaining couple of Miss Winter and Hardy. It was a lovely midsummer evening, and Oxford was looking her best under the genial cloudless sky, so that, what with the usual congratulations on the weather, and explanatory remarks on the buildings as they passed along. Hardy managed to keep up a conversation with his companion with- out much difhoulty. Miss Winter was pleased with his quiet deferential manner, and soon lost her feeling of shyness ; and, before Hardy had come to the end of such remarks as it occurred to him to make, she was taking her fair share in the talk. In describing their day's doings she spoke Avith enthusiasm of the beauty of Llagdalen Chapel, and betrayed a little knowledge of tiaceries and mouldings, which gave an opening to her companion to travel out of the weather and the names of colleges. Church architecture was just one of the subjects which was sure at that time to take more or less hold on every man at Oxford whose mind was open to the influences of the place. Hardy had read the usual text- books, and kept his eyes open as he walked about the town and neighbourhood. To Miss Winter he seemed so learned on the subject, that she began to doabt his tendencies, and was glad to be reassured by some remarks which fell from him as to the University sermon which she had heard. She was glad to find that her cousin's most intimate friend was not likely to lead liim into the errors of Tractarianism. Meantime the leading couple were getting on satisfactorily in their own way. " Isn't it good of Uncle Eobert 1 he says that he shall fee- quite comfortable as long as you and Katie are with me. In fact, I feel quite responsible already, like an old dragon in a story-book watching a treasure." " Yes, but what does Katie say to being made a treasure of? She has to think a good deal for herself; and I am afraid you are not quite certain of being our sole knight and guardian because Uncle Eobert wants to get rid of us. Poov old uncle !" 284 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " But you Avouldn't object, then ? " " Oh, dear, no — at least, not unless you take to looking as cross as you did just now in our lodgings. Of course, I'm all for dragons who are mad about dancing, and never think of leaving a ball-room till the band packs up and the old man shufiles in to put out the lights." " Then 1 shall be a model dragon," said Tom. Twenty- four hours earlier he had declared that nothing should induce liim to go to the balls ; but his Aiews on the subject had been greatly modified, and he had been worrymg all his acquaintance, not unsuccessfully, foi' the necessary tickets, ever since his talk with his cousins on the preceding evening. The scene became more and more gay and lively as they passed out of Christchurch towards the Long "Walk. The town turned out to take its share in the show ; and citizens of all ranks, the poorer ones accompanied by children of all ages, trooped along cheek by jowl with members of the University, of all degrees, and their visitors, somewhat mdeed to the disgust of certain of these latter, many of whom declared that the whole thing was spoilt by the miscellaneous- ness of the crowd, and that "those sort of people" ought not to be allowed to come to the Long AYalk on Show Sunday. However, '• those sort of people " abounded nevertheless, and seemed to enjoy very much, in sober fashion, the solemn march up and down beneath the grand avenue of elms in the midst of their betters. The University was there in strength, from the Vice- Chancellor downwards. Somehow or another, though it might seem an unreasonable thing at first sight for grave and reverend persons to do, yet most of the gravest of them found some reason for taking a turn in the Long Walk. As for the undergraduates, they turned out almost to a man, and none of them more certainly than the young gentlemen, elaborately dressed, who had sneered at the whole ceremony as snobbish an hour or two before. As for our hero, he sailed into the meadows thoroughly satisfied for the moment with himself and his convoy. He had every reason to be so, for though there were many gayer and more fashionably dressed ladies present than his cousin, and cousin by courtesy, there were none there whose faces, figures, and dresses carried more unmistal\ably the marks of that thorough quiet high breeding, that refinement which is no mere surface polish, and that fearless unconsciousness which looks out from pure hearts, which are still, thank God, to be found in so many homes of the English gentry. The Long Walk was filling rapidly, and at every half-dozen THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHUECH MEADOWS. 285 paces Tom was greeted by some of his friends or acquaiDtance, and excliauged a word or two with them. But he allowed them one after another to pass by without effecting any introduction. " You seem to have a great many acquaintances," said his companion, upon whom none of these salutations were lost. " Yes, of course ; one gets to know a gieat many men up here." " It must be very pleasant. But does it not interfere a great deal with your reading?" " 'No ; because one meets them at lectures, and in hall and 3hap'jl. Besides," he added in a sudden fit of honesty, " it is my first year. One doesn't read much in one's first year. It is a much harder thing than people think to take to reading, except just before an examination." " But your great friend who is walking with Katie — what did you say his name is ?" " Hardy." " Well, he is a great scholar, didn't you say 1" "Yes, he has just taken a first class. He is the be^t man of his year." " How proud you must be of him ! I suppose, now, he is a great reader 1 " " Yes, he is great at everything. He is nearly the best oar in our boat, i'y the way, you will come to the procession of boats to-morrow nigiit 1 Y/e are the head boat on the river." " Oh, I hope so. Is it a pretty sight ? Let us ask Katie ibout it." " It is the finest sight in the world," said Tom, who had never seen it ; " twenty-four eight oars, with their flags flying, and all the crews in uniform. You see the barges over there, moored along the side of the river ? You will sit on one of them as we pass." " Yes, I think I do," said Mary, looking across the meado"\v in the direction in which he pointed ; " you mean those great gilded things. But I don't see the river." " Shall we walk round there 1 It won't take us ten minutes." " But we must not leave the Walk and all the people. It is so amusing here." "Then you will wear our colours at the procession to- morrow?" " Yes, if Katie doesn't mind. At least if they are pretty What are your colours V 286 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. " Blue and white. I will get you some ribbons to-molTO\^ morning." " Very well, and I will make tliem up into rosettes." "Why, do you know them ?" asked Tom, as she bowed to two gentlemen in masters' caps and gowns, whom they met in the crowd. " Yes ; at least we met them last night." " But do you know who they are ?" " Oh yes ; they were introduced to us, and I talked a great deal to them. And Katie scolded me for it when we got home. No ; I won't say scolded me, but looked very grave over it." " They are two of the leaders of the Tractarians." " Yes. That was the fun of it. Katie was so pleased and interested with them at first ; much more than I was. But when she found out v/ho they were she fairly ran away, and I stayed and talked on. I don't think they said anything very dangerous. Perhaps one of them wrote No. 90. Uo you know ]" " I dare say. But I don't know much about it. However, they must have a bad time of it, I should think, up here with the old dons." " But don't you think one likes people who are persecuted 1 I declare I would listen to them for an hour, though I didn't understand a word, just to show them that I wasn't afraid of them, and sympathized with them. How can people be so ill-natured ? I'm sure they only write what they believe and think will do good." " That's just what most of us feel," said Tom ; " we hate to see them put down because they don't agree with the swells up here. You'll see how they will be cheered in the Theatre." " Then they are not unpopular and persecuted after all 1 " " Oh yes, by the dons. And that's why we all like them. From fellow-feeling you see, because the dons bully them and us equally." " But I thought they were dons too 1 " " Well, so they are, but not regular dons, you know, hke the proctors, and deans, and that sort." His companion did not understand this delicate distinction, but was too much interested in watching the crowd to inquire further. Presently they met two of the heads of houses walking with several strangers. Every one was noticing them as they pa-ssed, and of course Tom was questioned as to who they were. Not being prepared with an answer he appealed to Hardy, who was just behind them talking to Miss Winter, THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHUECH MEADOWS. 287 Thty wore some of the celebrities on whom honorary degrees were to be conferred, Hardy said ; a famous American author, a foreign ambassador, a well-known Indian soldier, and others. Then came gome more M.A.'s, one of whom this time bowed to ]\Tiss Winter. " Who was that, Katie 1 " " One of the gentlemen we met last night. I did not catch his name, but he was very agreeable." " Oh, I remember. You were talking to him for a long time after you ran away from me, I was very curious to know what you were saying, you seemed so interested." " Well, you seem to have made the most of your time last night," said Tom ; " I should have thought^ Katie, you would hardly have approved of him either." " But who is he 1 " " Why, the most dangerous man in Oxford. What do they call him — a Germanizer and a rationalist, isn't it, Hardy 1 " " Yes, I believe so," said Hardy. " Oh, think of that ! There, Katie ; you had much better have stayed by me after all. A Germanizer, didn't you say 1 What a hard word. It must be much worse than Tractarian. Isn't it, now 1 " " Mary dear, pray take care ; everybody will hear you," said Miss Winter. " I wish I thought that everybody would listen to me,'" replied Miss Mary. " But I leally will be very qiiiet, Katie, — only I must know which is the worst, my Tractarians or your Germanizer 1 " " Oh, the Germanizer, of course," said Tom. " But why 1 " said Hardy, who could do no less than break a lance for his companion. Moreover he happened to have strong convictions on these subjects. " Why 1 Because one knows the worst of where the Trac- tarians are going. They may go to Rome and there's an end cf it. But the Germanizers are going into the abysses, or no one knows where." " There, Katie, you hear, I hope," interrupted Miss Mary coming to her companion's rescue before Hardy could bring his artillery to bear, " but what a terrible place Oxford must be. I declare it seems quite full of people whom it is unsafe to talk with." " I wish it were, if they were all like Miss Winter's friend,'' said Hardy. And then the crowd tliickened and they dropped behind again. Tom was getting to think more of his com- panion and less of himself every minute, when he was suddenly confronted in the walk by Benjamin, the Jew money- 288 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. lender, smoking a cigar, and dressed in a gandy figi;red satin waistcoat and waterfall of the same material, and resplendent with jewellery. He Iiad business to attend to in Oxford at this time of the year. N"othing escaped the eyes of Tom's companion. " Who was that ? " she said ; " what a dreadful-looking man ! Surely he bowed as if he knew yon ? " " I dare say. He is impudent enough for anything," said Tom. " But who is he ? " " Oh, a rascally fellow who sells bad cigars and worse wine." Tom's equanimity was much shaken by the apparition of the Jew. The remembrance of the biU scene at the public house in the Corn-market, and the unsatisfactory prospect in that matter, with Blake plucked and Drysdale no longer a member of the University, and utterly careless as to his liabilities, came across him, and made him silent and absent. He answered at hazard to his companion's remarks for the next minute or two, until, after some particularly inap- propriate reply, she turned her head and looked at him for a moment with steady wide open eyes, which brought him to himself, or rather drove him into himself, in no time. " I really beg your pardon," he said ; " I was very rude, J fear. It is so strange to me to be walking here with ladies. What were you saying ? " "Nothing of any consequence--! really forget. Bnt is it a very strange thmg for you to walk with ladies here ?" " Strange ! I should think it was ! I have never seen a lady that 1 knew up here, till you came." " Indeed ! but there must be plenty of ladies living in Oxford 1 " " 1 don't believe there are. At least, we never see them." " Then you ought to be on your best behaviour when we do come. I shall expect you now to listen to eveiything I say, and to answer my silliest questions." " Oh, you ought not to be so hard on us." "You mean that you find it hard to answer silly questions ? How Avise you must all grow, living up here together ! " " Perhaps. But the wisdom doesn't come down to the first-year men ; and so — " " Well, why do you stop 1 " " Because T was going to say something you might not like." "Then T insist on hearing it. I^ow, I shall not let you off. Yon were saying that wisdom does not come so low as first year men : and so — what 1 " THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTOHURCH MEADOWS. 289 " And so — and so, they are not wise." " Yes, of course ; but that was not what you were going to Bay ; and so — " " And so they are generally agreeable, for wise people are always dull ; and so — ladies ought to avoid the dons.'" " And not avoid first-year men ? " " Exactly so." " Because they are foolish, and therefore fit company for ladies. Kow, really — " " No, no ; because they are foolish, and, therefore, they ought to be made wise ; and ladies are wiser than dons." " And therefore, duller, for all wise people, you said, were dull." " Not all wise people ; only people who are wise by cram- ming, — as dons ; but ladies are wise by inspiration." " And first-year men, are they foolish by inspiration and agreeable by cramming, or agreeable by iuspiration and foolish by cramming 1" " They are agreeable by inspiration in the society of ladies." " Then they can never be agreeable, for you say they never see ladies." " Not with the bodily eye, but with the eye of fancy." "Then theii- agreeableness must be all fancy." " But it is better to be agreeable in fancy than dull in reality." " That depends upon whose fancy it is. To be agreeable in your own fancy is compatible with being as dull in reality as — " How you play with words ! I see you won't leave me a shred either of fancy or agreeableness to stand on." " Then I shall do you good service, I shall destroy your illusions ; you cannot stand on illusions." " But remember what my illusions were — fancy and agree- ableness." " But your agreeableness stood on fancy, and your fancy on nothing. You had better settle down at once on the solid basis of dulness, like the dons." " Then I am to found myself on fact, and try to be dull ? What a conclusion ! But perhaps dulness is no more a fact than fancy ; what is dulness 1 " " Oh, I do not undertake to define ; you are the best judge." " How severe you are ! Now, see how generous 1 ara. Dulness in society is the absence of ladies." " Alas, poor Oxford ! Who is that in the velvet sleeves ? Why do you touch your cap t " J} 2 'JO TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " That Is tbo Proctor. He is our Cerberus ; he has tc keep all undergraduates in good ord(3r." " What a task ! He ouglit to have three heads." " Ho has only one head, but it is a very long one. And he has a tail like any Easba, com[)osed of pro-proctors, marshals, and bull-dogs, and I don't know what ail. But to go back to what we were saying — " "No, don't let us go back. I'm tired of it; besides ynu were just beginning about dulness. llow can you expect me to listen now ? " " Oh, but do listen, just for two minutes. Will you bo serious 1 I do want to know what you really think when you hear the case." " \Vell, I will try — for two minutes, mind." U[)on gainijig which i)ermissiou Tom went off into an interesting discourse on the uniKituralness of men's lives at Oxford, which it is by no means necessary to inllict on readers. As he was waxing eloquent and sentimental, he chanced to louk from his companion's face for a moment in search of a simile, when his eyes alighted on that virtuous member of society, Dick, the factotum of " The Choughs," who was taking his turn in the Long Walk with his betters. Dick's face was twisted mto an uncomforLable grin : his eyes were fixed on Tom and his comiianiun ; and he made a sort of half motion towards touching his hat, but couldn't quite carry it through, and so passed by. " Ah ! ain't he a going of it again," he muttered to him- self ; "jest like 'em alL" Tnm didn't hear the words, but the look had been quite enough for him, and he broke off short in his si)eech, and turned his head away, and, after two or three Ilounderings which Mary seemed not to notice;, stopped short, and let Miss Winter and Hardy join them. " It's getting dark," he said, as they came up ; " the Walk i.^ thinning; ought we not to be going? liemejuber, I am in charge." " Yes, I think it is time." At this moment the great Christclmrch bell — Tom by name — began to toll. " Surely that can't be Tom ? " Jliss Winter said, who had lieard the one hundi'ed and one strokes on former occasions. " Indeed it is, though." " But how very light it is." " It is almo,st tlae longest day in the year, and tlierc hasi> t been a cloud all day." THE LONG WALK IN CIIRISTCHUltCH MEADOWS. 291 They started to walk home all together, and Tom gradually recovered himself, but left the labouring oar to Hardy, who did his work very well, and persuaded the ladies to go on and see the Eatolitfe by moonlight — the only time to see it, as he said, because of the shadows — and just to look in at the old quadrangle of St. Ambrose. It was almost ten o'clock when they stopped at the lodgings in High-street. While they were waiting for the door to 1>3 opened, Hardy said — " I really must apologize, IMiss Winter, to you, for my intrusion to-night. I hope your father will allow me to call on him." " Oh yes ! pray do ; he will be so glad to see any friend of my cousin's." " And if I can be of any use to him ; or to you, or yonx sister — " " My sister! Oh, you mean ^Fary? She is not my sister." " I beg your pardon. But I hope you vvQl let me know if there is anything I can do for you." " Indeed we will Kow, IMary, papa will be vv^orrjnng about us." And so the young ladiep said their adieus and disappeared. " Surely you told me they were sisters," said Hardy, as the two walked away towards college. " No, did 11 I don't remember." " But they are your cousins ? " " Yes ; at least Katie is. Don't you like her t " " Of course ; one can't help liking her. But she says you have not met for two years or more." " No more we have." " Then I suppose you have seen more of her companion lately ? " " Well, if you must know, I never saw her before yester- day." " You don't mean to say that you took me in thereto-night when you had never seen one of the young ladies before, and the other not for two years ! Well, upon my word, Brown — " " Now don't blow me up, old fellow, to-night — please don't. There, I give in. Don't hit a fellow when he's down, I'm so low." Tom spoke in such a deprecating tone, that Hardy' i wrath passed away. " Why, what's the matter ? " he said. " You seemed to be full of talk. I was envying your fluency, I know, oftea" " Talk ! yes, so I was. But didn't you see Dick in the ^Valk ? You have never heard anything more 1" " No • but no news is good news." u 2 292 TOM BKCWN AT OXFORD, " Hei;;ho ! I'm awfully down. I want to talk to yoti. Let me come up." " Come along then." And so tliey disappeared into Hardy's lodgings. The two young ladies, meanwhile, soothed old Mr. Winter, who had eaten and drank more than was good for him, ami was naturally put out thereby. They soon managed to per- suade him to rotire, and then followed themselves — first to ^Marj^'s I'oom, where that young lady hurst out at once, " What a charming place it is ! Oh ! didn't you enjoy your evening, Katie 1" "Yes; hut I felt a little awkward without a chaperone. You seemed to get on very well with my cousin. You Boarcely spoke to us in the Long AValk till just before we came away. What were you talking about 1 " Mary burst into a gay laugh. " AH sorts of nonsense," she, said. " I don't think I ever talked so much nonsense in my life. I hope he isn't shocked. I don't think he is. But I said anything that came into my head. I couldn't help it. You don't think it wrong ? " " Wrong, dear 1 No I'm sure you could say nothing wrong." " I'm not so sure of that. But, Katie dear, I know there is something on his mind." " Why do you think so 1 " " Oh, because he stopped short tAvice, and became quite absent, and seemed not to hear anything I said." " How odd ! I never knew liim do so. Did you see any reason for it ? " " No ; unless it was two men we passed in the crowd. One was a vulgar-looking wretch, who was smoking — a fat black tiling, with such a thick nose, covered with jewellery — " " Not his nose, dear 1 " " No, but his dress ; and the other was a homely, dried-up little man, like one of your Englebourn troubles. I'm sure there is some mystery about them, and I shall find it out, 11 ut how did you like his friend, Katie ? " " Very much indeed. I was rather uncomfortable at walking BO long with a stranger. But he was very pleasant, and is so fond of Tom. I am sure he is a very good friend for him." " He looks a good man ; but how ugly ! " " Do you think so 1 We shall have a hard day to-morrow. Good night, dear." " Good night, Katie. But I don't feel a bit sleepy." And so the cousins kissed one another, and Miss Winter went to her own room. LECTURING A. LIONESS. 293 GHAPTER XXVII. LECTURING A LIONESS. The evening of Show Sunday may serve as a fair sample of what this eventful Commemoration was to our hero. The constant intercourse with ladies — with such ladies as IMiss Winter and Mary — young, good-looking, well spoken, and creditable in all ways, was very delightful, and the more fascinating, from the sudden change which their presence wrought in the ordinary mode of life of the place. They would have been charming in any room, but were quite irresistible in his den, which no female presence, except that of liis blowsy old bed-maker, had lightened since he had been in possession. All the associations of the freshman's rooms were raised at once. i^Hien he came in at night now, he could look sentimentally at his arm-chair (christened " The Captain," after Captain Hardy), on which Katie had sat to make breakfast ; or at the brass peg on the door, on which Mary had hung her bonnet and shawl, after displacing his gown. His very teacups and saucers, which were ahead}- a miscellaneous set of several different jiatterns, had made a move almost into his affections ; at least, the two — one brown one blue — which the young ladies had used. A human interest belonged to them now, and they were no longer mere crockery. He thought of buying two very pretty china ones, the most expensive he could find in Oxford, and getting them to use these for the first time, but rejected the idea. The fine new ones, he felt, would never be the same to him. They had come in and used his own rubbish ; that was the great charm. If he had been going to give them cups, no material would have been beautiful enough ; but for his own use after them, the commoner the better. The material was nothing, the association everything. It is marvellous the amount of healthy sentiment of which a naturally soft-hearted undergraduate is capable by the end of the summer term. But sentiment is not all one-sided. The delights which spring from sudden intimacy with the fairest and best part of the creation, are as far above those of the ordinary, unmitigated, undergraduate life, as the British citizen of 1860 is above the rudimentary personage in prehistoric times from whom he has been gradu- ally improved up to his present state of enlightenment and perfection. But each state has also its own troubles as well as its pleasures ; and, though the former are a price which no decent fellow would boggle at for a moment, it is useless to pretend that paying them is pleasant. 21)4. TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. Xo"w, at Commemoration, as elsewhere, where mon do con- gregate, if your hvly- visitors are not pretty or agreeable enongli to make your friends and acquaintance eager to know them, and to cater for their enjoyment, and try in all ways to win tlioir favour and cut you out, you have the satisfaction at any rate of keeping them to yourself, though you lose the pleasures which arise from being sought after, and made much of for their sakes, and feeling raised above the ruck of your neighbours. On the other liand, if they are all tliis, you might as well try to keep the sunshine and air to your- self. Universal humaA nature rises up against you ; and besides, they will not stand it tliemselves. And, indeed, why should they] Women, to be very attractive to all sorts of different people, must have great readiness of sympathy, ISfany have it naturally, and many work hard in acquiring a good imitation of it. In the fii'st case it is against the nature of such persons to be monopolized for more than a very sliort time ; in the second, all their trouble would be thrown away if they allowed themselves to be monopolized. Once in their lives, indeed, they will be, and ought to be, and that monopoly lasts, or should last, for ever ; but instead of destroying in tliem that which was their great charm, it only deepens and widen.'' it, and the sympathy which was before fitful, and, ]ierhaps, wayward, floAvs on in a calm and healthy stream, lilessing and cheering all who come within reach of its ex- hilarating and life-giving waters. But man of all ages is a selfish animal, and unreasonable in his selfishness. It takes every one of us in turn many a shrewd fall in our wrestlings with the world to convince us that we are not to have everything our own way. We are conscious in our inmost souls that man is the rightful lord of creation ; and, starting from this eternal principle, and ignoring, each man-child of us in turn, the qualifying truth that it is to man in general, including women, and not to Thomas Brown in particular, that the earth has been given, we set about asserting our kingships each in his o-\vn way, and proclaiming ourselves kings from our own little ant-hills of thrones. And then come the strugglings and the down- fallings, and some of us learn our lesson, and some learn it not. But what lesson ? That we have been dreaming in the golden hours when the vision of a kingdom rose before us ? 'i'hat there is in short no kingdom at all, or that, if there b?, we are no heirs of it 1 No — I take it that, while we make nothing better tlian that out of our lesson, we shall have to go on spelling at it and stumbling over it, tlirough all the days of our life, till LECTUKING A LIONESS. 2\)0 w<' make our last stunilile, ami take our final header out of this riddle of a world, which we om^e dreamed we were to mile over, exclaiming " vauitas vanitutum " to the end. But man's spirit will never be satisfied without a kingdom, and was never intended to be satisfied so ; and a wiser than S'llomon tells us da}' by day that our kingdom is about us licre, and that we may rise up and pass in when we will at the shining gates which He holds open, for that it is His, and we are joint heirs of it with Ilim. On the whole, however, making allowances for all draw- b;!i'ks, those Commemoration days were the pleasantest days Tom had ever known at Oxford. lie was with his uncle and ctiu.sins early and late, devising all sorts of pleasant entertain- ments and excursions for them, introducing all the pleasantest men of his actiiiaintance, and taxing all the resources of the college, which at such times were available for undergraduates as well as their betters, to minister to their comfort and enjoyment. And he was well repaid. There was something perfectly new to the ladies, and very piquant, in the life and habits of the place. They found it very diverting to be receiving in Tom's rooms, presiding over his breakfasts and luncheons, altering the position of his furniture, and making the jilace look as pretty as circumstances would allow. Then tjiere was pleasant occui)ation for every spare hour, and the fetes and amusements were all unlike everything but theni- silves. Of course the ladies at once became enthusiastic St. Ambrosians, and managed in sj)ite of all distractions to find time foi' making up rosettes and bows of blue and white, in •\\ liich to appear at the procession of the boats, which was the great event of the ^fonH TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. The barges above and below the Uuiversity barge, wliich occupied the post of honour, were also covered with ladies, and Christchurch Meadow swarmed with gay dresses and caps and gowns. On the opposite side the bank was lined with a crowd in holiday clothes, and the punts plied across without intermission loaded with people, till the groups stretched away do^\^l the towing path in an almost continuous line to the starting place. Then one after another the racing-boats, all pauited and polished up for the occasion, with the college Hags drooping at their sterns, put out and passed down to their stations, and the bands played, and the sun shone his best. And theii after a short pause of expectation the distant bank became all alive, and the groups all turned one way, and came up the towing path again, and the foremost boat with the blue and white flag shot through the Gut and came up the reach, followed by another, and another, and another, till they were tired of counting, and the leaeling boat was already close to them before the last had come within sight. And the bands played up all togetlier, and the crowd on both sides cheered as the St. Ambrose boat spurted from the Cherwell, and took the place of honour at the winning-post, opposite the University barge, and close under where they were sitting. " Oh, look, Katie dear ; here they are. There's Tom, and Mr. Hardy, and ISlr. Jervis ;" and Mary waved her handker- chief and clapped her bauds, and was in an ecstasy of enthu- siasm, in which her cousin was no whit behuid her. The gallant crew of St. Ambrose were by no means imconscious of, and fully appreciated, the compliment. Then the boats passed up one by one ; and, as each came opposite to the St. Ambrose boat, the crews tossed their oars and cheered, and the St. Ambrose crew tossed their oars and cheered in return ; and the whole ceremony went off in triumph, notwithstanding the casualty which occurred to one of the torpids. The torpiils being hlled with the refuse of the rowing men — generally awkward or very young oarsmen — hnd some difficidty in the act of tossing ; no very safe operation for an unsteady crew. Accordingly, the torjjid in question, having sustained her crew gallantly till the siduting point, and allowed them to get their oars fairly into the air, proceeded gravely to turn over on her side, and shoot them out into the stream. A thrill ran along the top of the barges, and a little scream or two might have been heard even through the notes o! Annie Laurie, which were fdling the air at the moment ; but iLie band placed on, and the crew swani ashore, and two roper time to come on business ; he would see them the next day at twelve o'clock. But they would not go away, and then papa asked me to go out and see them. You can fancy hovr disagree ible it was ; and I was so angry with them for coming, wlien they knew how nei'vous papa is after a journey, that I could not have patience to persuade them to leave ; and so at last they made poor papa see thom after all. He was lying on a sofa, and quite unfit to cope with a hard bad man lilve farmer Tester, and a fluent plausible lawyer. They told their story all their own way, and the farmer declared that the man had tempted the pony into the allot- ments with corn. And the lawyer said that the consta1>le had no right to l^eep the pony in the pound, and that he was liable to all sorts of punishments. They wanted papa to THE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAG, .^21 make au order at once for the pound to bo opened, and I tliink he woukl have done so, but I asked him in a whisjier to send for the constable, and hear what he liad to say. The constable was waiting in the kitclien, so he came in in a minute. You can't think how well he behaved ; I have quite forgiven hun all his obstinacy about the singing. He told the wliolo story about the pigs, and how farmer Tester had stopped money out of the men's wages. And when tlio lawyer tried to frighten him, he answered him quite boldly, that he miglitn't know so much about the law, but he knew what was always the custom long before his time at Engle- bouru about the pound, and if farmer Tester wanted his beast out, he must bring the ' tally ' like another man. Then tlie lawyer appealed to papa about the law, and said how absurd it was, and tliat if such a custom were to be upheld, the man who had the tally might charge lOOZ. for the damage. And poor papa looked througli his law books, and could find nothing about it at all ; and while he was doing it farmer Tester began to abuse the constable, and said he sided with all the good-for-nothing fellows in the parish, and that bad blood would come of it. But the constable quite fired up at that, and told him that it was such as he who made bad blood in the parish, and that poor folks had their rights as well as thcu- betters, and should have them while he was constable. If he got papa's oi-der to open the pound, he sup- loosed he must do it, and 'twas not for him to say what was law, but Harry Winburn had had to get the * tally ' for his pig from farmer Tester, and what was fair for one was fair for all. " I was afraid papa would have made the order, but the lawyer said something at last which made Imn take the other side. So he settled that the farmer should pay five shillings for the ' tally,' which was what he had taken from Betty, and had stopped out of the Avages, and that was the only order he would make, and the laAvj^er might do M'hat he pleased about it. The constable seemed satisfied with this, and undertook to take the money down to Harry Winburn, /or farmer Tester declared he would sooner let the pony starve than go himself. And so papa got rid of them after an hour and more of this talk. The lawyer and farmer Tester went away grumbling and very angry to the Eed Lion. I was very anxious to hear how the matter ended ; so I sent after the constable to ask him to come back and see me when he had settled it all, and about nine o'clock he came. He had had a very hard job to got Harry Winburn to take the money, and give up the ' tally.' The men said that, if farmer Tester T 822 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. could make them pay half-a-crown for a pig in his turnips, whicli were no bigger than radishes, he ought to pay ten shillings at least for his pony trampling down their corn, which was half grown ; and I couldn't help thinking this seemed very reasonable. In the end, however, the constable had persuaded them to take the money, and so the pony was let out. " I told him how pleased I was at the way he had behaved, Dut the little man didn't seem quite satisfied himself. He should have liked to have given the lawyer a piece more of his mind, he said, only he was no scholar ; ' but I've a got all the feelins of a man, miss, though I medn't have the ways o' bringin' on 'em out.' You see I am quite coming round to your opinion about him. But when I said that I hoped all the trouble was over, he shook his head, and he S(>cms to think that the men Avill not forget it, and that some of the wild ones will be trying to pay farmer Tester out in the winter nights, and I could see he was very anxious about Harry Wiubiu-n ; so I promised him to go and see Betty. " I went down to her cottage yesterday, and found her very low, poor old soul, about her son. She has had a bad nttack again, and T am afraid her heart is not right. She will not live long if she has much to make her anxious, and how is that to be avoided 1 For her son's courting is all going wrong, she can see, though he will not tell her anything about it ; but he gets more moody and restless, she says, and don't take a pride in anything, not even in his flowers or his allot- ment ; and he takes to going about, more and more every day, with these men, who will be sure to lead him into trouble. " After I left her, I walked up to the Hawk's Lynch, to see whether the view and the air would not do me good. And it did do me a great deal of good, dear, and I thouglit of you, and when I should see your bright face and hear your h.-ipp)' laugh again. The village looked so pretty and peaceful. T could hardly Ijolieve, while I was up there, that there were all these miserable quarrels and heartburnings going on in. it. I suppose they go on everywhere, but one can't help feeling as if there were soinething specially hard in those which come under one's own eyes, and touch oneself And thea they are so frivolous, and everything might go on so com- fortably if people would only be reasonable. I ought to have been a man, I am sure, and then I might, perhaps, be able to do more, and should have more influence. If poor papa were oidy well and strong ! " But, dear, I shall tire you with all these long liistorios I THE LOXG VACATION LETTER-EAG. 323 aTnl complainings. I have run on till I have no room left for anything else ; but you can't think what a comfort it is to me to write it all to you, for 1 have no one to tell it to. I feel 60 much better, and more cheerful since I sat down to write this. You must give my dear love to uncle and aunt, and let me hear from you again wlienever you have time. If you could coiue over again and stay for a few days it would be very kind ; but I must not press it, as there is nothing to attract you here, only we miglit talk over all that we did and saw at Oxford. — Ever, dearest Mary, your very affectionaie cousin, " Katie. " P.S. — I should like to have the pattern of the jacket you wore the last day at Oxford. Could you cut it out in thill paper, and send it in your next 1 " "July—, 184—. " My dear Brown, — I was very glad to see your hand, and to hear such flourishing accounts of your vacation doings. You won't get any like announcement of me, for cricket has not yet come so far west as this, at least not to settle. We have a few pioneers and squatters in the villages ; but, T am sorry to say, nothing yet like matches between the elevens of districts. Neighbours we have none, except the rector ; so I have plenty of spare time, some of which I feel greatly dis- posed to devote to you j and I hope you won't find me too tedious to read. " It is very kind of your father to wish that you should be my first pupil, and to propose that I should spend the last month of this vacation with you in Berkshire. But I do not like to give up a whole month. My father is getting old and infirm, and I can see that it would be a great trial to him, altliough he urges it, and is always telling me not to let him keep me at home. What do you say to meeting me half way 1 I mean, that you should come here for half of the time, and then that I should retiu-n with you for the last fortnight of the vacation. Tliis I could manage perfectly. "But you cannot in any case be my first pupil ; for not to mention that I have been as yon know, teaching for some years, I have a pupil here, at this minute. You are not likely to guess who it is, though you know him well enough — perhaps I sliould say too well — so, in a word, it is Blake. I had not been at home three days before I got a letter from him, asking me to take him, and putting it in such a APay that I couldn't refuse. I would sooner not have had him, as I had already got out of taking a reading party with some Y 2 324 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. trouWe, and felt inclined to enjoy myself here in dignifiod idleness till next term. But what can you do when a man puts it to you as a great personal favour, &c. &c. 1 So I wrote to accept. You may imagine my disgust a day or two afterwards, at getting a letter from an uncle of his, some official person in London apparently, treating the whole matter in a bnsiness point of view, and me as if I were a training groom. He is good enough to suggest a stimulant to me in the shape of extra pay and his future patronage in the event of his nephew's taking a first in Michaelmas term. If I had re- ceived this letter before, I think it would have turned the scale, and I should have refused. But the thing was done, and Blake isn't fairly responsible for his relative's views. " So here he has been for a fortnight. He took a lodging in the village at first ; but of course my dear old father's ideas of hospitality were shocked at this, and here he is, our inmate. " He reads fiercely by fits and starts. A feeling of personal hatred against the examiners seems to urge him on more than any other motive ; but this will not be strong enough to keep him to regular work, and without regular work he won't do, notwithstanding all his cleverness, and he is a marvellously clever fellow. So the first thing i have to do is to get him steadily to the collar, and how to do it is a pretty particular puzzle. For he hasn't a grain of enthusiasm in his composi- tion, nor any power, as far as I can see, of throwing himself into the times and scenes of which he is reading. The phi- losophy of Greece and the history of Rome are matters of perfect indifference to him — to be got up by catch-words and dates for examination and nothing more. I don't think he would care a straw if Socrates had never lived, or Hannibal had destroyed Rome. The greatest names and deeds of the old world are just so many dead counters to him — the Jewish just as much as the rest. I tried him with the story of the attempt of Antiochus Epii)hanes to conquer the Jews, and the glorious rising of all that was living in the Holy Land under the Macabees. Not a bit of it ; I couldn't get a spark out of him. He wouldn't even read the story be- cause it is in the Apocrj^pha, and so, as he said, the d— d examiners couldn't ask him anything about it in the schools. Then his sense of duty is quite undeveloped. He has no notion of going on doing anything disagreeable because he ought. So here I am at fault again. Ambition he has in abundance ; in fact so strongly, that very likely it may in the I tft; long vacation lftter-bag. 525 end pull Lim through, and make him work hard enough for his Oxfoid purposes at any rate. But it wants repressing rather than encouragement, and 1 certainly sha'n't appeal to it. " You will begin to think I dislike him and want to get rid of him, but it isn't the case. You know what a good temper he has, and how remarkably well he talks ; so he makes himself very pleasant, and my father evidently enjoys his company ; and then to be in constant intercourse with a subtle intellect like his, is pleasantly exciting, and keeps one alive and at high pressure, though one can't help always wishing that it had a little heat in it. You would be im- mensely amused if you could drop in on us. " I think I have told you, or you must have seen it for yourself, that my father's principles are true blue, as becomes a sailor of the time of the great war, while his instincts and practice are liberal in the extreme. Our rector, on tjhe contrary, is liberal in principles, but an aristocrat of the aristocrats in instinct and practice. They are always ready enough therefore to do battle, and Blake delights in the war, and fans it and takes part in it as a sort of free lance, laying little logical pitfalls for the combatants alternately, with that deferential manner of his. He gets some sort of intellectual pleasure, I suppose, out of seeing where they ovyht to tumble in ; for tumble in they don't, but clear his pit-falls in their stride — at least my father does — quite innocent of having neglected to distribute his middle term ; and the rector, if he has some inkling of these traps, brushes them aside, and disdains to spend powder on any one but his old adversary and friend. I employ myself in trying to come down ruth- lessly on Blake himself ; and so we spend our evenings after dinner, which comes off at the primitive hour of five. We used to dine at three, but my father has conformed now to college hours. If the rector does not come, instead of argumentative talk, we get stories out of my father. In the mornings we bathe, and boat, and read. So, you see, he and I have plenty of one another's company, and it is certainly odd that we get on so well with so very few points of sympathy. But, luckily, besides his good temper and cleverness, he has plenty of humour. On the whole, I think we shall rub through the two months which he is to spend here without getting to hate one another, though there is little chance of our becoming friends. Besides putting some history and science into him (scholarship he does not need), I shall be satisfied if I can make him give up his use of the pronoun 'you' before h? goes. In talking of the com laws, or foreign policy, or India, H26 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. or any other political subject, however interesting, he never will identify himself as an Englishman ; and ' you do this,' or ' you expect that' is for ever in his mouth, speaking of his own countrymen. I believe if the French were to land to- morrow on Portland, he would comment on our attempts to dislodge them as if he had no concern with the business except as a looker-on. " You will think all this rather a slow return for your jolly gossiping letter, full of cricket, archery, fishing, and I know not what pleasant goings-on. But what is one to do % one can only write about what is one's subject of interest for the time being, and Blake stands in that relation to me just now. I should prefer it otherwise, but &i on ria pas ce qu'on aime il faut aimer ce quon a. I have no incident to relate ; these parts get on without incidents somehow, and without society. I wish there were some, particularly ladies' society. 1 break thQ tenth commandment constantly, thinking of Commemora- tion, and that you are within a ride of Miss Winter and her cousin. When you see them next, pray present my respectful compliments. It is a sort of consolation to think that one may cross their fancy for a moment and be remembered as part of a picture which gives them pleasure. With which piece of sentiment I may as well shut up. Don't you forget my message now, and — " Believe me, ever yours most truly, "John Hardy. " P.S. — I mean to speak to Blake, when I get a chance, of that wretched debt which you have paid, unless you object. I should think better of him if he seemed more uncomfortable about his affairs. After all he may be more so than I think, for he is very reserved on such subjects." " Englebourn Rectory, ''July, 184—. " Dearest Mary, — I send the coachman with this note, in order that you may not be anxious about me. 1 have just retxirned from poor Betty Winburn's cottage to write it. She is very very ill, aud I do not think can last out more than a day or two ; and she seems to cling to me so that I cannot have the heart to leave her. Indeed, if I could make up my mind to do it, I should never get her poor white eager face out of my head all day, so that I should be very bad company, and quite out of place at your party, making everybody melancholy and uncomfortable who came near me. So, dear, I am not coming. Of course it is a great disappointment. I had set my heart on being with you, and enjoying it all thoroughly ; TilE LONG VACATION LETTER-BAG. 327 and even at breakfast this morning knew of nothing to hinder rae. My dress is actually lying on the bed at this minute, and it looks very pretty, especially the jacket like yours, which I and Hopkins have managed to make up from the pattern you sent, though you forgot the sleeves, which made it rather hard to do. Ah, well ; it is of no use to thmk of how pleasant things would have been which one cannot have. You must write me an account of how it all went off, dear ; or perhaps you can manage to get over here before long to tell me, " I must now go back to poor Betty. She is such a faithful, patient old thing, and has been such a good woman all her lite that there is nothing painful in being by her now, and one feels sure that it will be much happier and better for her to be at rest. If she could only feel comfortable about her son, 1 am sure she would think so herself. Oli, I forgot to say that her attack was brought on by the shock of hearing that he had been simimoued for an assault. Farmer Tester's son, a young man abuut his own age, has it seems been of late. waylaying Simon's daughter and making love to her. It is so very hard to make out the truth "in matters of this kind. Hopkins says she is a dressed-up little minx who runs after all tlie young men in the parish ; but really, from what I see and hear from other persons, I think she is a good girl enough. Even Betty, who looks on her as the cause of most of her own trouble, has never said a \vord to make me think that she is at all a light person, or more fond of admiration than any other good-looking girl in the parish. " But those Testers are a very mcked set. You cannot think what a misfortune it is in a place like tliis to have these rich fimiilies with estates of their own, in which the young men begin to think themselves above the common farmers. They ape the gentlemen, and give themselves great airs, but of course no gentleman will associate with them, as tliey are quite uneducated ; and the consequence is tliat they live a great deal at home, and give themselves up to all kinds of wickedness. This young Tester is one of these. His father is a very bad old man, and does a great deal of liarm here ; and the son is following in his steps, and is quite as bad, or worse. So you see that I sliall not easily believe that Harry Winbum has been much in the wToug. However, all 1 know of it at present is that young Tester was beaten by Harry yesterday evening in the village street, and that they came to papa at once for a summons. " Oh, here is the coachman ready to start ; so I must conclude, dear, and go back to my patient. I shall often 328 'iOM BROWN A.T OXFORD. tliiiik of you during the day. I am sure you will have a chamiuig party. With best love to all, believe me, ever dearest, '* Your most aflfectionate " Katie. " P.S. — I am very glad that uncle and aunt take to Tom, and that he is staying with you for some days. You will hnd him very useful in making the party go off well, I am sure." CHAPTER XXX. AMUaEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR. *' A LETTER, Miss, from Englcbourn," said a footman, coming up to Mary with tlie note given at the end of the last chapter, on a waiter. She took it and tore it open ; and, whUe she is reading it, the reader may be mtroduced to the place and company in which we find her. Tlio scene is a large old-fashioned square brick house, backed by fine trees, in the tops of which the rooks live, and the jackdaws and starlings in the many holes which time has worn in the old trunks ; bat they are all away on this fine summer morning, seeking their meal and enjoying themselves in the neigh- boiuing fields. In front of the house is a pretty flower- garden, separated by a haw-haw from a large pasture, sloping southwards gently down to a stream, which glides along through water-cress and willow beds to join the Kennet. The beasts have ail been driven off, and on the upper part of the field, nearest the house, two men are fixing up a third pair of targets on the rich short grass. A large tent is pitched near the archery-ground, to hold quivers and bow-cases, and luncheon, and to shelter lookers-on fi'om the mid-day sun. Beyond the brook a pleasant, well-timbered, country lies, with high clialk-downs for an horizon, ending in Marlborough hill, faint and blue in the west. Tliis is the place which Mary's father has taken for the summer and autumn, and where sho is fast becomiug the pet of tlie neighbourhood. It will not perhaps surprise our readers to find that our hero has managed to find his way to Barton Manor in the second week of the vacation, and, huvuig made the most of his opportunities, is acknowledged as a cousin by Mr. and Mrs. Porter. Their boys are at home for the holidays, and ilr. Porter's great wish is that they should get used to tlio country in their summer holidays. And as they have spent A^^roSEMENTS AT BARTON JIANOR. 329 most of their childhood and boyhood in London, to which he has been tied pretty closely hitherto, this is a great oppor- tunity. The boys only wanted a preceptor, and Tom presented himself at the right moment, and soon became the hero of Charley and Neddy Porter. He taught them to throw flica and bait crawfish nets, to bat-fowl, and ferret for rabbits, and to saddle and ride their ponies, besides getting up games of cricket in the spare evenings, which kept him away from Mr. Porter's dinner-table. This last piece of self-denial, as lie considered it, quite won over that gentleman, who agreed with his wife that Tom was just the sort of companion they would like for the boys, and so the house was thruwn open to him. The boys were always clamouring for him when he was away, and making their mother write off to press him to come again ; which he, being a very good-natured young man, and particularly fond of boys, was ready enough to do. So tills was the third visit he had paid in a month. IVJr. and Mrs. Brown wondered a little that he shoidd be so very fond of the young Porters, who were good boys enough, but very much like other boys of thirteen and fifteen, of whom there were several in the neighbovu'hood. He had indeed just mentioned an elder sister, but so casually that their attention had not been drawn to the fact, which had almost slipped out of their memories. On the other hand, Tom seemed so completely to identify himself with the boys and their pursuits, that it never o^cuiTed to their father and mother, who were doatingly fond of them, that, after all, tliey might not be the only attraction. Mary seemed to take very little notice of him, and went on with her own pursuits much as usual. It was true that she liked keepmg the score at cricket, and coming to look at them fishing or rabbiting in her walks ; but all that was very natural. It is a curious and merciful dispensation of Providence that most fathers and mothers seem never to be capable of remembering their oAvn experience, and will probably go on till the end of time thinking of their sons of twenty and daughters of six- teen or seventeen as mere children, who may be allowed to run about together as much as they please. And, where it is otherwise, the results are not very different, for there are certain mysterious ways of holding intercourse implanted in the youth of both sexes, against which no vigilance can avail. So on this, her great fete day, Tom had been helping Mary all the morning in dressing the rooms with flowers, aiul arranging all the details — where people were to sit at the cold 330 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. dinner ; how to find the proper number of seats ; how the dining-room was to be cleared in time for dancing when the dew began to fall. In all which matters there were many obvious occasions for those little attentions which are much valued by persons in like situations ; and Tom was not sorry that the boys had voted the whole prepara- tions a bore, and had gone off to the brook to ' gropple ' in the bank for craytish till the shooting began. The arrival of the note had been the first contrt-tevqjs of the morning, and they were now expecting guests to arrive every minute. " What is the matter ? No bad news, I hope," he said, seeing her vexed expi'ession. " Why, Katie can't come. I declare I could sit down and cry. I sha'n't enjoy the party a bit now, and 1 wish it were all over." " I am sure Katie would be very unhappy if she thought you were going to spoil you day's pleasure on her account." " Yes, I know she would. But it is so provoking when I had looked forward so to having her." " You have never told me why she cannot come. She was quite full of it all a few days since." " Oh, there is a poor old woman in the village dying, who is a great friend of Katie's. Here is her letter ; let me scf," she said, glancing over it to see that there was nothing in it whicli she did not wish him to read, " you may read it if you like." " Tom began reading. " Betty Winburn," he said, when he came to the name, " what, poor dear old Betty 1 why I've known lier ever since I was born. She used to live in our parish, and I haven't seen her this eight years nearly. And her boy Harry, I wonder what has become of him?" " You will see if j^ou read on," saiil Mary ; and so he read to the end, and then folded it up and returned it. " So poor old Betty is dying. Well she was always a good soul, and very kind to me when I was a boy. I should like to see her once again, and perhaps I might be able to do some- tiling for her son." " Why should we not ride over to Englebourn to-morrow 1 tliey will be glad to get us out of the way while the house is being straightened." " I should like it of all things, if it can be managed." " Oh, I will manage it somehow, for I must go and se« that dear Katie. I do feel so ashamed of myself when I tliink of all the good she is doing, and I do nothing but p'lt flowers about, and play the joiano. Isn't she an angel, now ? " " Of coiu'se she is." AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR.' 331 " Yes ; but I \von't have that sort of matter-of-course acquiescence. Now, do you really mean tliat Katie is as good as an angel 1 " " As seriously as if I saw the wings growing out of her shoulders, and dew-drops hanging on them." " You deserve to have something not at all like Avings growing out of your head. How is it that you never sco when I don't want you to talk your nonsense 1 " " How am I to talk sense about angels 1 I don't know anything about them," " You know what I mean, perfectly. I say that dear Katie is an angel, and I mean that I don't know anything in her — no not one single thing — which 1 should like to have changed. If the angels are all as good as she " "//'/ why I shall begin to doubt your orthodoxy." " You don't know what I was going to say." " It doesn't matter what you were going to say. You couldn't have brought that sentence to an orthodox conclu- sion. Oh, please don't look angry, now. Yes, I quite see what you mean. You can think of Katie just as she is now in Heaven without being shocked." Mary paused for a moment before she answered, as if she were rather taken by surprise at this way of putting her meaning, and then said seriously — " Indeed, I can. I think we should aU be perfectly hapjiy if we were all as good as she is." " But she is not very hapj^y herself, I am afraid." " Of course not. How can she be, when all the peo])le about her are so troublesome and sellish 1 " " I can't fancy an angel the least like Uncle Eobert, can you?" " I won't talk about angels any more. You have made me feel quite as if I had been saying something Avicked." " Now really it is too hard that you should lay the blame on me, when you began the subject yourscK. You ought at least to let me say what I have to say about angels." " Wby, you said you knew nothing about them half a minute ago." " But I may have my notions, like other pec pie. You have your notions. Katie is your ang(d." " Well, then, what are your notions 1 " " Katie is rather too dark for my idea of an angeh I can't fancy a dark angeL" " Why, how can you call Katie dark ?" " I only say she is too dark for my idea of an angel." " Well, go on." 332 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOKD. " Tlien, she is rather too grave." " Too grave for an augel ! " " For my idea of an angel — one doesn't want one's angel to be like oneself, and I am so grave, you know." " Yes, very. Then your angel is to be a laughing angeL A laughing angel, and yet very sensible; never talking nonsense 1 " " Oh, I didn't say that." " But you said he wasn't to be like you." " He ! who in the world do you mean by he ? " " Why, your angel, of course." " My angel ! You don't really suppose that my angel is to be a man." " I have no time to think about it. Look, they are putting those targets quite crooked. You are responsible for tlie targets ; we must go and get them straight." They walked across the ground towards the targets, and Tom settled them according to his notions of opposites. " After all, archery is slow work," he said when the targets were settled satisfactorily. " I don't believe anybody really enjoys it." " Kovf that is because you men haven't it all to yourselves. You are jealous of any sort of game in which we can join. I believe you are afraid of being beaten by us." " On the contrary, that is its only recommendation, that you can join in it." " Well, I tldnk that ought to be recommendation enough. But I believe it is much harder than most of your games. Y'ou can't shoot half so well as you play cricket, can you ? " " No, because I never practise. It isn't exciting to be walking up and down between two targets, and doing the same thing over and over again. Why, you don't find it so }ourself. You hardly ever shoot." " Indeed I do though, constantly." " Why, I have scarcely ever seen you shooting." " That is because you are away with the boys all day." " Oh, I am never too far to know what is going on. I'm sure you have never practised for more than a quarter of an hour any day that I have been here." " Well, perhaps I may not have. But I tell you I am very fond of it." Here the two boys came up from tlie brook, l!^eddy with his Scotch cap full of crayfish. '* Why, you wretched boys, where have you been 1 Yon are not fit to be seen," said ^lary, sliakiiig the arrows at them, which she was carrying in her Jiaud. " Go and dress directly, AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR. 333 or yon will be late. I think T heard a carriage drive up just now." " Oh, there's plenty of time. Look what whackers, Cousin Tom," said Charley, holding out one of his prizes by its back towards Tom, while the indignant cray-fish flapped its tail and worked about with its claws, in the hopes of getting hold of something to pinch. " I don't believe those boys have been dry for two hours together in daylight since you first came here," said Mary to Tom. " Well, and they're all the better for it, I'm sure," said Tom. " Yes, that we are," said Charley. " I say, Charley," said Tom, " your sister says she is very fond of shooting." " Ay, and so she is. And isn't she a good shot too 1 I believe she would beat you at fifty yards." " There now, you see, you need not have been so un- believing," said Mary. " Will you give her a shot at your new hat, Cousin Tom 1 " said Neddy. " Yes, Neddy, that I will ; " and he added to Mary, " I will bet you a pair of gloves you don't hit it in three shots." "Very well," said Mary ; "at thirty yards." "No, no ! fifty yards was the named distance." " No, fifty yards is too far. Why, your hat is not much bigger than the gold." " Well, I don't mind splitting the difference ; we %vill say forty." " Very well — three shots at forty yards." " Yes ; here, Charley, nm and hang my hat on that target." The boys rushed ofi' with the hat — a new white one — and hung it with a bit of string over the centre of one of the targets, and then, stepping a little aside, stood, clapping tlieir hands, shouting to Mary to take good aim. " You must string my bow," she said, handing it to him as she buckled on her guard. " Now, do you repent ? I am going to do my best, mind, if I do shoot." " I scorn repentance ■ do your worst," said Tom, stringing the bow and handing it back to her." "And, now I will hold your arrows ; here is the forty j'-ards." Mary came to the place which he had stepped, her eyes full of fun and mischief ; and he sav at once that she knew what she was about as she took her position and drew the first arrow. It missed the hat by some tki-e«> inohfrn^only, and the boys clapped and shouted. 33 4 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " Too near to be pleasant," said Tom, handing the second arrow. " I see you can shoot." « Well, I will let you off stiU." " Gloves and all 1 " "No, of course you must pay the gloves." " Shoot away then. Ah, that will do," he cried, as the second arrow struck considerably above the hat, " I shall get my gloves yet," and he lianded the third arroAV. They were too intent on the business in hand to observe that Mr. and Mrs. Porter and several guests were already on the hand- bridge which crossed the haw-haw. Mary drew her third arrow, paused a moment, loosed it, and this time with fatal aim. The boys rushed to the target, towards which INIary and Tom also hurried, i\Ir. and Mrs. Porter and the new comers following more quietly. *' Oh, look here — what fun," said Charley, as Tom came up, holding up the hat spiked on the arrow, which ho had drawn out of the target. " \\niat a wicked sliot," he said, tnking the hat and turning to INIary. " Look here, you have actually gone through three places — through crown, and side, and brim." Mary began to feel quite sorry at her (^wn success, and looked at the wounded hat sorrowfully. " Hullo, look here — here's papa and mamma and some people, and we ain't dressed. Come along Neddy," and the b<)3's made off towards the back premises, while jMary and Tom, turning round, found themselves in the presence of ISfr. and Mrs. Porter, Mrs Brown, and two or three other fjuests. CHAPTER XXXT. BEHIND THE SCEN'KS. Mr. and Mrs. Brown had a long way to di'ive horar" that evening, including some eight miles of very inditfcrcnt chalky road over the downs, which separate the Vale of Kennet from the Vale of White Horse, ^fr. Brown was an early man, and careful of his horses, who responded to his care by being always well up to much more work than they were ever put to. The drive to Barton Manor and back in a day was a rare event in their lives. Their master, taking this fact into consideration, was bent on giving them plenty of time for the return journey, and had ordered his groom to be ready to start by eight o'clock. But, that they might not disturb the BEHIND THE SCENES. 335 rent by their early departure, he had sent the carnage to the village inn instead of to the Porters' stables. At the appointed time, therefore, and when the evening's annisements were just beginning at the Uianor house, Mr. Brown sought out his wife ; and, after a few words of leave- taking to their host and hostess, the two sli[)ped quietly away, and walked down the village. The carriage was stand- ing before the inn all ready for them, with the hostler and ]Mr. Brown's groom at the horses' heads. The carriage was a high phaeton having a roomy front seat with a hof^d to it, specially devised by Mr. Brown with a view to his wife's comfort, and that he might with a good conscience enjoy at the same time the pleasures of her society and of driving his own horses. T\Tien once in her place Mrs. Bro^^^l was as comfortable as she would have been in the most luxurious barouche with C springs, but the ascent was certainly rather a drawback. The pleasm'c of sitting by her husband and of receiving his assiduous lielp in the proliminaiy climb, how- ever, more than compensated to Mrs. Brown for this little inconvenience. Mr. Brown helped her up as usual, and arranged a plaid carefully over her knees, the weather being too hot for the apron. He then proceeded to walk round the horses, patting them, examining the bits, and making inquiries as to hoAV they had fed. Having satisfied himself on these points, and feed the hostler, he took the reins, seated himself by his wife, and started at a steady pace towards the hills at the back of Barton village. For a minute or two neither of them spoke, Mr. Brown being engro.ssed with his horses and she with her thoughts. I'rcsently, however, he turned to her, and, having ascertained that she was quite comfortable, went on — " "Well, my dear, wliat do you think of them 1 " " Oh, I think they are agreeable peojile," answered Mrs. Brown ; " but one can scarcely judge from seeijig them to- day. It is toe far for a chive ; we shall not be home till midnight." " But I am very glad we came. After all they are con- nexions through poor Robert, and he seems anxious that they should start well in the county. Why, he has actually Avritten twice you know about our coming to-day. We must try to show them some civility." " It is impossible to come so far often," ]\Irs. Brown per- sisted. " It is too far for ordinary visiting. What do you say to asking them to come and spend a day or two with us ? " 336 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. " Certainly, my dear, if you wish it," answered Mrs. Brc>wn, but witliout much cordiality in her voice. " Yes, I should like it ; and it will please Eobert so much. We might have him and Katie over to meet them, don't you think 1 " " Let me see," said Mrs. Brown, with much more alacrity, " Mr. and Mi*s. Porter vnW have the best bedroom and dress- ing-room ; Itobert must h.ive the south room, and Katie the chintz. Yes, that will do ; I can manage it very well." "And their daughter; you have forgotten her." " Well, you see, dear, there is no more room." " Why, there is the dressing-room, next to the south room, with a bed in it. I'm sui'e nobody can want a better room." " You know, John, that Robert cannot sleep if there is tlie least noise. I could never put any one into his dressing- room ; there is only a single door betAveen the rooms, and, even if they made no noise, the fancy that some one was sleeping there would keep him awake all night." " Plague take his fancies ! Robert has given way to them till he is fit for nothing. But you can put him in the chintz room, and give the two girls the south bedroom and dressing- room." " What, put Robert in a room which looks north 1 My dear John, what can you be thinking about 1 " Mr. BroAvn uttered an impatient grunt, and, as a vent to his feelings more decorous on the whole than abusing his brother-in-law, drew his whip more smartly than usual across the backs of his horses. The exertion of muscle necessary to reduce those astonished animals to their accustomed steady trot restored his temper, and he returned to the charge — " I suppose we must manage it on the second floor, then, unless you could get a bed run up in the school-room." " No, dear ; I really should not like to do that — it M'ould be so very inconvenient. We are always wanting the room for workwomen or servants : besides, I keep my account- books and other things there." " Then I'm afraid it must be on the second floor. Some ol the children must be moved. The girl seems a nice girl, with no nonsense about her, and won't mind sleeping up there. Or, why not put Katie upstaii-s 1 " " Indeed, I should not think of it. Katie is a dear good girl, and I vdll not put any one over her head." " Nor I, dear. On the contrary, I was asking you to put her over another person's head," said Mr. Brown, laughing at his own joke. This unu'-ual reluctance on the part of his wife to assist in carrying out any hospitable plans of his began BEHIND THE SCENES. 337 to strike liim ; so, not being an adept at concealing his thonglits, or gaining his point by any attack except a direct one, after driA'ing on for a minute in silence, he tui'ned sud- denly on his wife, and said, — " Why, Lizzie, you seem not to want to ask the girl V " Well, John, I do not see the need of it at all." " No, and you don't want to ask her 1 " " If you must know, then, I do not." '■' Don't you like her 1 " " I do not know her well enough either to like or dis like." " Then, why not ask her, and see what she is like 1 But the truth is, Liz;de, you have taken a prejudice against her." " Well, John, I think she is a thoughtless girl, and extra- vagant ; not the sort of girl, in fact, that I should wish to be much with us." "Thoughtless and extravagant ! " said Mr. Brown, looking grave ; " how you women can be so sharp on one another ! Her dress seemed to me simple and pretty, and her manners very lady-like and pleasing." " You seem to have quite forgotten about Tom's hat," said Mrs. Brown. " Tom's white hat — so I had," said Mr. Brown, and ho relapsed into a low laugh at the remembrance of the scene. " I call that his extravagance, and not hers." " It was a new hat, and a verj'' expensive one, which he had bought for the vacation, and it is quite spoilt." " Well, my dear ; really, if Tom will let girls shoot at his hats, he must take the consequences. He must wear it with the holes, or buy another." " How can he afford another, John ? you know how poor he is." ]Mr. Bro^^'Tl drove on now for several minutes without speak- ing. He knew perfectly well what his wife was coming to now, and, after weighing in his mind the alternatives of accepting battle or making sail and changing the subject altogether, said, — " You know, my dear, he has brought it on himself. A headlong, generous sort of j'oungster, like Tom, must be taught early that he can't have his cake and eat his cake. If he likes to lend his money, he must find out that he hasn't it to spend." " Yes, dear, I quite agree with you. But 50^. a year is a great deal to make him pay." " Not a bit too much, Lizzie. His allowance is quite enough without it to keep him like a gentleman. Besides, after all. z 338 TOM BBOWN AT OXFOKD. he gets it in meal or in malt ; I have just paid 25^, for his " I know how kind and liberal you are to him ; only I am so afraid of his getting into debt." " I wonder what men would do, if they hadn't some soft- hearted woman always ready to take their parts and pull them out of scrapes," said Mr. Brown. " Well, dear, how much do you want to give the boy ! " " Twenty-five pounds, just for this year. But out of my own allowance, John." " Nonsense ! " replied Mr. Brown ; " you want your al- lowance for yourself and the children." " Indeed, dear John, I would sooner not do it at all, then, if I may not do it out of my own money." " Well, have it your own way. I believe you would always look well dressed, if you never bought another gown. Then, to go back to what we were talking about just now — ^you will find a room for the girl somehow 1 " " Yes, dear, certainly, as I see you are bent on it." * " I think it would be scarcely civU not to Ask her, especially if Katie comes. And I own I think her very pretty, and have taken a great fancy to her." " Isn't it odd that Tom should never have said anything about her to us ] He has talked of all the rest till I knew them quite weU before I went there." " ijfo ; it seems to me the most natural thing in the world." " Yes, dear, very natural. But I can't help wishing he had talked about her more ; I should think it less dangerous." " Oh, you think Master Tom is in love with her, eh 1 " said Mr. Brown, laughing. " More unlikely things have happened. You take it very easily, John." " Well, we have all been boys and girls, Lizzie. The world hasn't altered much, I suppose, since I used to get up at five on winter mornings, to ride some twenty miles to cover, on the chance of meeting a young lady on a grey pony. I remember how my poor dear old father used to wonder at it, when our hounds met close by, in a better country. I'm afraid I forgot to tell him what a pretty creature ' Gipsy ' was, and how well she was ridden." "But Tom is only twenty, and he must go into a pro- fession." " Yes, yes ; much too young, I know — too young for any- thing serious. We had better see them together, and then, if there is anything in it, we can keep them apart. There cannot be much the matter yet." BEHIND THE SCEjSliS. 389 " Well, dear, if you are satisfied, I am sure I am." And so the conversation turned on other subjects, and Mr. and ]\lrs. Brown enjoyed their moonlight drive home through the delicious summer night, and were quite sorry when the groom got down from the hind-seat to open their own gates, at half-past twelve. About the same time the festivities at Barton Manor were coming to a close. There had been cold dinner in the tent at six, after the great match of the day ; and, after dinner, the announcement of the scores, and the distribution of prizes to the winners. A certain amount of toasts and speechifying followed, which the ladies sat through with the most ex- emplary appearance of being amused. When their healths had been proposed and acknowledged, they retired, and were soon followed by the younger portion of the male sex ; and, while the J.P.'s and clergymen sat quietly at their wine, which Mr. Porter took care should be remarkably good, and their wives went in to look over the house and have tea, their sons and daughters split up into groups, and some shot handi-v. caps, and some walked about anil flirted, and some played at bowls or lawn billiards. And soon the band appeared again from the servants' hall, mightily refreshed ; and dancing began on the grass, and in due time was transferred to the tent, when the grass got damp with the night dew ; and then to the hall of the house, when the lighting of tlie tent began to faU. And then there came a supper, extemporizeil out of the remains of the duiner ; after which, papas and mammas began to look at their w^atches, and remonstrate with daugh- ters, coming up with sparkling eyes and hair a little shaken out of place, and pleading for "just one more dance." "You have been going on ever since one o'clock," remonstrated the parents ; " And are ready to go on till one to-morrow," replied the chUdi'en. By degrees, however, the frequent sound of wheels was heard, and the dancers got thinner and thimier, till, for the last half-hour, some half-dozen couples of young people danced an internnnable reel, while Mr. and Mrs. Porter, and a few of the most good-natured matrons of the neighbourhood looked on. Soon after midnight the band struck ; no amount of negus coidd get anything more out of them but " God save the Queen," which they accordingly played and departed ; and then came the final cloaking and driving olf of the last guests. Tom and ^Mary saw tlie last of them into their carriage at the hall-door, and lingered a moment Ln the porch. " What a lov(!ly night ! " said Mary. " How I hate going to bed ! " 2 '2 340 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " It is a dreadful bore," answered Tom ; " but here is the butler waiting to shut up ; we must go in." " I wonder where papa and mamma ^e." " Oh, they are only seeing things put a little to rights. Let us sit here till they come ; they must pass by to get to their rooms." So the two sat down on some hall chairs. " Oh dear ! " I wish it were all coming over again to- morrow," said Tom, leaning back, and lookmg up at the ceiling. " By the way, remember I owe you a pair of gloves; what colour shall they be 1 " " Any colour you like. I can't bear to think of it. I fell so dreadfully ashamed when they all came up, and your mother looked so grave ; I am sure she was very angry." " Poor mother ! she was thinking of my hat with three arrow-holes in it." "Well, I am very sorry, because I wanted them to like me." "And so they wiU ; I should like to know who can help it." " Now, I won't have any of your nonsensical compliments. Do you think they enjoyed the day 1 " " Yes, I am sure they did. My father said he had nevei liked an archery meethig so much." " But they went away so early." " They had a very long drive, you know. Let me see," he said, feeling in his breast-pocket, " mother left me a note, and I have never looked at it till now." He took a slip of paper out and read it, and his face fell. " What is it t " said Mary, leaning forward. " Oh, nothing ; only I must go to-morrow morning." " There, I was sure she was angry." " No, no ; it was written this morning before she came here. I can tell by the paper." " But she will not let you stay here a day, you see." " I have been here a good deal, considering all things, I should like never to go away." " Perhaps papa might hnd a place for you, if you asked him. Which should you like, — to be tutor to the boys, or gamekeeper 1 " " On the whole, I should prefer the tutorship at present ; you take so much interest in the boys." " Yes, because they have no one to look after them now in the holidays. But, when you come as tutor, I shall wash my hands of them." " Then I shall decline the situation." " How are you going home to-morrov.' 1 " BEHIND THE SCENES. 341 *' I shall ride round by Englebourn. They wish Bie to gc round and see Katie and Uncle Robert. You talked about riding over there yourself this morning." " I should like it so much. Bat how can we manage it 1 I can't ride back again by myself." " Couldn't you stay and sleep there 1 " *' I will ask mamma. No, I'm afraid it can hardly bo managed ; " and so saying, Mary leant back in her chair, and began to pull to pieces some flowers she held in her hand. " Don't pull them to pieces ; give them to me," said Tom. " I have kept the rosebud you gave mo at Oxford, folded up in " " AYliich you took, you mean to say. 'No, I won't give you any of them — or, let me see — yes, here is a sprig of lavender ; you may have that." '' Thank you. But, why lavender ? " " Lavender stands for sincerity. It will remind you of the lecture you gave me." " I "wish you would forget that. But you know what flowers mean, then 1 Do give me a lecture : j'ou owe me one. "Wliat do those flowers mean which you will not give me, — the piece of heather for instance 1 " " Heather signifies constancy." *' And the carnations 1 " " Jealousy." " And the heliotrope 1 " " Oh, never mind the heliotrope." " But it is such a favourite of mine. Do tell me whr.t it means 1 " " Je vous aime," said Mary, with a laugh, and a sliglit blush ; " it is all nonsense. Oh, here's mamma at last," and she jumped up and went to meet her mother, who came out of the drawing-room, candle in hand. " My dear JNIary, I thought you were gone to bed," said ^Irs. Porter, looking from one to the other seriously. " Oh, I'm not the least tired, and I couldn't go without wishing you and papa good night, and thanking you for all the trouble you have taken." " Indeed, we ought all to thank you," said Tom ; " every- body said it was the pleasantest party they had ever been at." "I am very glad it Avent off well," said Mrs. Porter, gravely ; " and now, Mary, you must go to bed." " I am afraid I must leave you to-morrow morning," said Tom. " Yes ; Mrs. Brown said they expect you at homo tc- tiorrow." 342 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " T am to ride round by Uncle Robert's ; would you like one of the boys to go with me 1 " " Oh, dear mamma, could not Charley and I ride over to Englebourn 1 I do so long to see Katie." " No, dear ; it is much too far for you. "We will drive over in a few days' time." And, so saying, Mrs. Porter wished Tom good night, and led off her daughter. Tom went slowly up stairs to his room, and, after packing his portmanteau for the carrier to take in the morning, threw up bis window and leant out into the night, and watched the light clouds swimming over the moon, and the silver mist folding the water-meadows and willows in its soft cool mantle. His thoughts were such as will occur to any reader who has passed the witching age of twenty ; and the scent of the lieliotrope-bed, in the flower-garden below, seemed to rise very strongly on the night air. CHAPTER XXXII. A CKISIS. In the forenoon of the following day Tom rode slowly along the street of Englebourn towards the Rectory gate. He had left P>arton soon after breakfast, without having been able to exchange a word with ]\Iary except in the presence of her mother, and yet he had felt more anxious than ever before at least to say good bye to her without witnesses. With this view he had been up early, and had whistled a tune in the hall, and held a loud conversation with the boys, who ap- peared half-dressed in the gallery above, while he brushed the dilapidated white hat, to let all whom it might concern know that he was on the move. Then he had walked up and down the garden in full view of the windows till the bell rang for prayers. He was in the breakfast-room before the bell had done ringing, and Mrs. Porter, followed by her daughter, entered at the same moment. He could not help fancying that the conversation at breakfast was a little con- strained, and particularly remarked that nothing was said by the heads of the family when the boys vociferously bewailed his approaching departure, and tried to get him to name some day for his return before their holidays ended. Instead of encouraging the idea, Mrs. Porter reminded Neddy and Charley that they had only ten days more, and had not yet looked at the work they had to do for their tutor in the A CRISIS. 343 holidays. Inniiediatply after breakfast 'Mrs. Porter liad wished him good bye herself very kindly, but (he coiild not help thinking) without that aii- of near relationship which he had flattered himself was well established between himself and all the members of the Porter family ; and then she had added, " Now, ]\Iary, you must say good bye ; I want you to come and help me with some work this morning." He had scarcely- looked at her all the morning, and now one shake of the hand and sh.e was spirited away in a moment, and he was left standing, dissatisfied and uncomfortable, with a sense of incompl«teness in his mind, and as if he had had a thread in his life suddenly broken off which he could not tell how to get joined again. However, there was nothing for it but to get off. He had no excuse for delay, and had a long ride before him ; so he and the boys went round to the stable. On theu' passage through the garden the idea of picking a nosegay and sending it to her by one of the boys came into his head. He gathered tlie flowers, but then thought better of it, and threw them away. What right, after all, had he to be sending flowers to her — above all, flowers to whicli they had attached a mean- ing, jokingly it was true, but still a meaning 1 l^o, he had no right to do it ; it would not be fair to her, or her father or mother, after the kind way in which they had all received him. So he tlirew away the flowers, and mounted and rode off, watched by the boys, who Avaved their straw hats as he looked back just before coming to a turn in the road which would take him out of sight of the Manor House. Ho rode along at a foot's pace for some time, thinking over the events of the past week ; and then, beginning to feel purposeless, and somewhat melancholy, urged his horse into a smart trot along the waste land which skirted the road. But, go what pace he would, it mattered not ; he could not leave his thoughts behind. So he pulled up again after a mile or so, slackened his reins, and, leaving his horse to pick his own way along the road, betook himself to the serious considera- tion of his position. The more he thought of it the more discontented he be- came, and tlie day clouded over as if to suit his temper. He felt as if within the last twenty- four hours he had been some- how unwarrantably interfered with. His mother and Mrs, Porter had both been planning something about him, he felt sure. If they had anything to say, why couldn't they say it out to him 1 But what could there be to say 1 Couldn't he and Mary be trusted together without making fools of them- selves^ He did not stop to analyse his feehngs towards her, 341: TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD. or to consider vvhother it was very prudent or desirable for her that they should be thrown so constantly and unreservedly together. He was too much taken up with what he chose to consider his own wrongs for any such consideration. — " Why can't they let me alone 1 " was the question which he asktsd himself perpetually, and it seemed to him the most reasonalj'e one in the world, and that no satisfactory answer was possible to it, except that he ought to be, and should be, let alone. And so at last he rode along Englebourn street, convinced tliat what he bad to do before all other things just now was to assert himsoK properly, and show every one, even his own mother, that he was no longer a boy to be managed according to any one's fancies except his own. He rode straight to the stables and loosed the girths of his liorse, and gave particular directions about grooming and feed- ing him, and stayed in the stall for some minutes rubbing his ears and fondling him. Tlie antagonism which possessed him for the moment against mankind perhaps made him appreciate the value uf his relations with a well-tj'ained beast. Then he went round to the house and inquired for his uncle. He had not been in Engleboiun for some years, and the servant did not know him, and answered that Mr. Winter was not out of his room and nevei oaw strangers till the afternoon. Where was Lliss Winter, then 1 She was down the \'illage at Widow Winburn's, and he couldn't tell when she would be back, the man said. The contents of Katie's note of the day before had gone out of his head, but the mention of Betty's name re- called them, and with them something of the kindly feeling which had stirred withiu him on bearing of her illness. So, saying he woidd call later to see his uncle, he started again to find the widow's cottage, and his cousin. The servant had directed liim to the last house in the village, but, when he got outside of the gate, there were houses in two dii-ections. He looked about for some one from whom to inquire further, and his eye fell upon our old acquaintance, the constable, coming out of his door with a parcel under his arm. The little man was in a brown study, and did not notice Tom's first address. He was in fact anxiously tliinking over his old friend's illness and her son's trouble ; and was on his way to farmer Groves's, (having luckily the excuse of taking a coat to be tried on) in the hopes of getting him to intei>^ fere and patch up the quarrel between young Tester ana Harry. Tom's first salute had been friendly enough ; no one knew better how to speak to the poor, amongst whom he had A ci'jsis, 345 livod all liis life, than lie. But, not getting any answer, and being in a touchy state of mind, he was put out, and shouted — " Hullo, my man, can't you hear me ? " " Ees, I beant duuch," replied the constable, turning and looking at his questioner. " I thought you were, for I spoke loud enough before. Wliich is Mrs. Winburn's cottage 1 " "The furdest house down ther," he said, pointing, "'tis in my way if you've a mind to come." Tom accepted the oircr and walked along by tlie constable. "Mrs. Winburn is ill, isn't she?" he asked, after look-Eg his guide over. " Ees, her be — terrible bad," said the constable. " What is the matter with her, do yon know?" " Zummat o' fits, I hears. Her've had 'em this six year, on and off."' " I suppose it's dangerous. I mean she isn't likely to got well V " 'Tis in the Lord's hands," replied the constable, " but her's that bad wi' pain, at times, 'twould be a mussy ii" 'twoud plaase He to tak' her out on't." " Perhaps she mightn't think so," said Tom, superciliouslj^ ; he was not in the mind to agree with any one. The con- stable looked at him solemnly for a moment aiid then said — ■ " Her's been a God-fearin' woman from her youth up, and her's had a deal o' trouble. Thaay as the Lord loveth He chasteueth, and 'tisn't such as thaay as is afeard to go afore Him." " Well, I never found that having troubles made people a bit more anxious to get ' out on't,' as you call it," said Tom. " It don't seem to me as you can 'a had much o' trouble to judge by," said the constable, who was beginning to be nettled by Tom's manner. " How can you tell that ?" " Leastways 'twould be whoam-made, then," persisted the constable ; " and ther's a sight o' odds atween whoam-made troubles and thaay as the Lord sends." " So there may ; but I may have seen both sorts for any- thing you can tell." " Nay, nay ; the Lord's troubles leaves His marks." *' And you don't see any of tJiem in my face, eh 1" The constable jerked his head after his own peculiar fashion, but declined to reply directly to tliis interrogat^gry. lie parried it by one of his own. " In the doctorin' line, make so bould 1 " 346 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " No," said Tom, " You don't seem to have such very good eyes, after all." " Oh, I seed you wasn't old enough to be doin' for your- self, like ; but I thought you med ha' been a 'sistant, or summat." " Well, then, you're just mistaken," said Tom, considerably disgusted at being taken for a country doctor's assistant. "I ax your pardon," said the constable. "But if yea beant in the doctorin' line, what be gwine to Widow Winburn s for, make so bould?" " That's my look out, I suppose," said Tom, almost angrily. " That's the house, isn't it ? " and he pointed to the cottage, already described, at the corner of Eugleboxirn Copse. « Ees." " Good day, then." " Good day," muttered the constable, not at all satisfied with this abrupt close of the conversation, but to3 unready to prolong it. He went on his own way slowly, looking back often, till he saw the door oj^en ; after which he seemed better satisfied, and ambled out of sight. " The old snuftler !" thought Tom, as he strode up to the cottage door — " a ranter, I'll be bound, M'ith his ' Lord's troubles,' and ' Lord's hands,' and ' Lord's marks.' I hope Uncle Robert hasn't many such in the parish." He knocked at the cottage door, and in a few seconds it opened gently, and Katie slipped out with her finger on her lips. She made a slight gesture of surprise at seeing him, and held out her hand. "Hush!" she said, "she is asleep. You are not in a hurry?" "No, not particularly," he answered, abruptly ; fi>r there was something in her voice and manner wliich jarred with his humour. "Hush!" she said again, "you must not speak so loud. We can sit down here, and talk quietly. I shall hear if she moves." So he sat down opposite to her in the little porch of the cottage. She left tlie door ajar, so that she might catch the least movement of her patient, and then turned to him with a bright smile, and said, — " Well, I am so glad to see you ! 'NYliat good wind blows you here 1 " " No particxilarly good wind, that I know of. Mary showed me your letter yesterday, and mother wished me to come round here on my way home ; aud so here I am." " And how did the party go off ! I long to hear about iL" A CTvisis. 347 " Very well ; half the couiitj^ -svere there, and it was all Very well done." " And how did dear ^Mary look 1 " "Oh, just as usual. But now, Katie, why didn't you come 1 Mary and all of us were so disappointed." " I thought you read my letter ? " " Yes, so I did." " Then you know the reason." " I don't call it a reason. Koally, you have no right to shut yourself up from everything. You will he getting moped to death." •' But do I look moped 1 " she said ; and he looked at her, and couldn't help admitting to himself, reluctantly, that she did not. So he re-oj)ened fire from another point. " You will wear yourself out, nursing every old woman in the parish." " But I don't nurse every old woman." " Why, there is no one here but you to-day, now," he said, with a motion of his head towards the cottage. " No, because I have let the regular nurse go home for a few hours. Besides, this is a special case. You don't know what a dear old soul Betty is." " Yes, I do ; I remember her ever since I was a child." " Ah, I forgot ; I have often heard her talk of you. Then you ought not to be surprised at anything I may do for her." " She is a good, kind old woman, I know. But still I must say, Katie, you ought to think of your friends and relations alittle, and what you owe to society." " Indeed, I do think of my friends and relations very much, and I should have liked, of all things, to' have been w'ith you yesterday. You ought to be pitying me, instead of scolding me." " My dear Katie, you know I didn't mean to scold you ; and nobody admires the way you give yourself up to visiting, and all that sort of thing, more than I ; only you ought to have a little pleasure sometimes. People have a right to think of themselves and their own happiness a little." " Perhaps I don't find visiting and all that sort of thing so very miserable. But now, Tom, you saw in. my letter that poor Betty's son has got into trouble 1 " " Yes ; and that is what brought on her attack, you said." " I believe so. She was in a sad state about him all yester- day, — so painfidly eager and anxious. She is better to-day ; but still I think it would do her good if you would see her, and say you will be a friend to her son. Would you mind 1 " " It was just what I wished to do yesterday. I will do all 348 TOM BEOWN AT OXFOKD. I can for liiiii, I'm sure. I always liked him as a boy ; yon can tell her that. But I don't feel, somehow — to-day, at least — as if I could do any good by seeing her." " Oh, why not ? " " 1 don't think I'm in the right humour. Is she very ill ? " " Yes, very ill indeed ; I don't think she can recover." " Well, you see, Katie, I'm not used to death-beds. I shouldn't say the right sort of thing." " How do you mean — the right sort of thing 1 " ** Oh, you know. I couldn't talk to her about her soul. I'm not fit for it, and it isn't my place." *' No, indeed, it isn't. But you can remind her of old times, and say a kind word about her son." " A^ery well, if you don't think I shall do any harm." " I'm sure it will comfort her. And now tell me ubout yesterday." They sat talking for some time in the same low tone, and Tom began to forget his causes of quarrel with the world, and gave an account of the archsry party from his own point of view. Katie saw, with a woman's quickness, that he avoided mentioning Mary, and smiled to herself, and drew her own conclusions. At last, there was a slight movement in the cottage, and, laying her hand on his arm, she got up quickly, and went m. In a few minutes she came to the door again. " How is she 1 " asked Tom. " Oh, much the same ; but she Las waked without pain, which is a great blessing. Now, are you ready 1 " " Yes ; you must go with me." " Come in, then." She turned, and he followed into the cottage. Betty's bed had been moved into the kitchen, for the sake of light and air. He glanced at the corner where it stood with almost a feelmg of awe, as he followed his cousin on tip-toe. It was all he could do to recognise the pale, drawn face which lay on thii coarse pillow. The rush of old memories which the sight called up, and the thought of the sulfering of his poor old friend touched him deeply. Katie went to the bed- side, and, stooping down, smoothed the pillow, and placed her hand for a moment on the forehead of her patient. Then she looked up, and beckoned to him, and said, in her low, clear voice, — " Betty, here is an old friend come to see yoti ; my cousin, Squire Brown's son. You remember him quite a htllo boy 1 " The old woman moved her head towards the voice, and A CRISIS. 349 smiled, "but gave no further sign of recognition. Tom stole across the floor, and sat down by the bed-side. " Oh, yes, Betty," he said, leaning towards her and speaking softly, " you must remember me. Master Tom — who used to come to your cottage on baking days for hot bread, you know." " To be sure, I minds un, bless his little heart," said the old woman faintly. " Hev he come to see poor Betty? Do'eu let un com', and lift un up so as I med see un. My sight be getting dim -like." " Here he is, Betty," said Tom, taking her hand — a hard- working hand, lying there with the skin all puckered from long and daily acquaintance with the washing-tub — " I'm Master Tom." " Ah, dearee me," she said slowly, looking at him with lustreless eyes. " Well, you be growed into a fine young gentleman, surely. And how's the Squire and Madam Brown, and all the fam'ly ? " " Oh, very well, Betty, — they will be so sorry to hear of your illness." " But there ain't no hot bread for un. 'Tis ill to bake wi' no fuz bushes, and bakers' stuff is poor for hungry folk." " I'm within three months as old as your HaiTy, you know," said Tom, trying to lead her back to the object of his visit. " Harry," she repeated, and then collecting herself went on, "our Harry ; where is he? They haven't sent un to prison, and his mother a dyLn' ? " " Oh, no, Betty ; he will be here directly. I came to ask whether there is anything I can do for you." " You'll stand by un, poor buoy — our Harry, as you used to play wi' when you was little — 'twas they as aggravated un so as he couldn't abear it, afore ever he'd a struck a fly." " Yes, Betty ; I will see that he has fair play. Don't trouble about that ; it will be all right. You must be quite quiet, and not trouble yourself about anything, that you may get well and about again." " Nay, nay, Master Tom. I be gwine whoam ; ees, I be gwine whoam to my maester, Harry's father — I knows I be — and you'll stand by un when 1 be gone ; and Squire Brown '11 say a good word for un to the justices ? " " Yes, Betty, that he will But you must cheer up, and you'll get better yet ; don't be afraid." " I beant afeard, Master Tom ; no, bless you, I beant afeard but what the Lord '11 be mussiful to a poor lone woman like me, as has had a sore time of it since my measter died, wi' a 350 TOM BROWN AT OXrOED. hungry boy liko our Harry to kep, back and belly ; and the rheumatics terrible bad all winter time." " I'm sure, Betty, you have done your diity by him, and every one else." " Dwontee speak o' doin's, INIaster Tom. 'Tis no duin's o' ourn as'll make any odds where I be gwine." Tom did not know what to answer ; so he pressed her hand and said, — " Well, Betty, I am very glad I have seen you once more : I sha'n't forget it. Harry sha'u't want a friend while I live. ' " The Lord bless you, Master Tom, for that word," said the dying woman, returning the pressure, as her eyes filled with tears. Katie, who had been watching her carefully from the other side of the bed, made him a sign to go. " Good-bye, Betty," he said ; " I won't forget, you may be sure; God bless you;" and then, disengaging his haiul gnutly, wont out again into the porch, where he sat down to wait for his cousin. In a few minutes the nurse returned, and Katie came out of the cottage soon afterwards. " Now I will walk up home vrith you," she said. " You must come in and see papa. Well, I'm sure you must be glad you went in. Was not I right 1 " " Yes, indeed ; I wish I could have said something more to comfort her." " You couldn't have said more. It was just what sho wanted." " But where is her son 1 I ought to'see him before I go." " He has gone to the doctor's for some medicine. He will be back soon." " AVell, I must see him ; and I should like to do something for him at once. I'm not very flush of money, but I must give you something for him. You'll take it ; I shouldn't like to offer it to him." " I hardly think he wants money ; they are well oil now. He earns good wages, and Betty has done her washing up to ihis week." " Yes, but he will be fined, I suppose, for this assault ; and then, if she should die, there vnll be the funural expenses." " Very well ; as you please," she said ; and Tom proceeded to hand over to her all his ready money, except a shilling or two. After satisfying his mind thus, he looked at her, and said — " Do you know, Katie, I don't think I ever saw you so happy and in such spirits 1 " " There now 1 And yet you began talking to me r.s if I A CRISIS. 351 ■ward looking sad enough to turn all the beer in the parish sour." " "Well, so you ought to be, according to Cocker, spending all your time in sick rooms." " According to who ? " " According to Cocker." " Who is Cocker 1 " " Oh, I don't know ; some old fellow who wrote the rules of arithmetic, I believe ; it's only a bit of slang. But. T repeat, you have a right to be sad, and it's taking an unfair advantage of your relations to look as pleasant as you do." Katie laughed. "You ought not to say so, at any rate,'*' she said, " for you look all the pleasanter for yuur visit to a sick room." " Did I look very unpleasant before 1 " " Yv''ell, I don't think you were in a very good humour." " No, I was in a very bad humour, and talking to you and poor old Betty has set me right, 1 think. But you said hers was a special case. It must be very sad work in general." " Only when one sees people in great pain, or when they are wicked, and quarrelling, or complaining about nothing ; then I do get very low sometimes. But even then it is much better than keeping to oneself. Anything is better than thiidfing of oneself, and one's own troubles." " I dare say you are right," said Tom, recalling his morn- ing's meditations, " especially when one's troubles are home- made. Look, here's an old felloAV who gave me a lecture on that subject before I saw you this morning, and took me for the apothecary's boy." They were almost opposite David's door, at which he stood with a piece of work in his hand. He had seim IMiss Winter from his look-out window, and had descended from his board in hopes of hearing news. Katie returned his respectful and anxious salute, and said, " She is no worse, David. We left her quite out of pain and very quiet," "Ah, 'tis to be hoped as she'll hev a peaceful time on", now, poor soul," said David ; " I've a been to farmer Groves', and I hopes as he'll do summat about Harry." "I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Winter, "and my cousin here, who knew Harry very well when they were little boys together, has promised to help him. This is Harry's b«st friend," she said to Tom, " who has done more than any one to keep him right." David seemed a little embarrassed, and began jerking his head about when his acquaintance of the morning, whom he 352 TOM BROWN AT OXIOED, had scarcely noticed before, was introduced by Miss Winter as "my cousin." " I wish to do all I can for him," said Tom, " and I'm very- glad to have made your acqiiaintance. You must lot mo know whenever I can help ; " and he took out a card and handed it to David, wh"" looked at it, and then said, — " And I be to wiite to you, sir, then, if Harry gets into trouble?" "Yes j but we must keep him out of trouble, even home- made ones, which don't leave good marks, you know," said Tom. " And l^aay be nine out o' ten o' aal as comes to a man, sir," said David, "as I've a told Harry scores o' times." " That seems to be your text, David," said Tom, laughing. " Ah, and 'tis a good un too, sir. Ax Miss Winter else. 'Tis a sight better to hev the Lord's troubles while you bo about it, for thaay as hasn't makes wus for theirselves out o' nothin'. Dwon't 'em, miss ? " "Yes ; you know that I agree with you, David." " Good-bye, then," said Tom, holding out his hand, " and mind you let me hear from you." " What a queer old bird, with his whole wisdom of man packed up small for ready use, like a quack doctor," he said, as soon as they were out of hearing. " Indeed, he isn't the least hke a quack doctor. I don't know a better man in the parish, though he is rather obstinate, like all the rest of them." " I didn't mean to say anything against him, I assure you," said Tom ; "on the contrary, I think him a fine old fellow. But I didn't think so this morning, when he showed me the way to Betty's cottage." The fact was that Tom saw all things and persons with quite a different pair of eyes from those which he had been provided with when he arrived in Englebourn that morning. He even made allowances for old Mt. Winter, who was in his usual querulous state at luncheon, though perhaps it would have been difficult in the whole neigh- bourhood to find a more pertinent comment on, and illus- tration of, the constable's text than the poor old man furnished, with his complaints about his own health, and all he had to do and think of, for everybody about him. It did strike Tom, however, as very wonderful how such a character as Katie's could have grown up under the shade of, and in con- stant contact with, such a one as her father's. He wished his uncle good-bye soon after luncheon, and he and Katie started again down the village — she to return to her nursing and he on his -way homo. He led his horse by the bridle and A CRISIS. 8iio \ra1kefl liy her side down the street She pointed to the Hawk's Lynch as they walkeii along, and said, " You should ride up there ; it is scarcely out of your way. Mary and I used to walk there every day when she was here, and she was 80 fond of it." At the cottage they found Harry Winburn. Ho carae out, and the two young men shook hands, and looked one anothei over, and exchanged a few shy sentences. Tom managed with difficulty to say the. little he had to say, but tried to make up for it by a hearty manner. It was not the time or place for any unnecessary talk ; so in a few minutes he was mounted and riding up the slope towards tlie heath. " I should say he must be half a stone lighter than T," ho thought, " and not quite so tall ; but he looks as hard as iron, aj^d tough as whipcord. "What a No. 7 he'd make in a heavy crew ! Poor fellow, he seems dreadfully cut up. I hope I shall be able to be of use to him. Now for this place which Katie showed me from the village street." He pressed his horse up the steep side of the Hawk's T.jmch. The exhilaration of the scramble, and the sense of power, and of some slight ri.sk, which he itlt as he helped on the gallant beast \Anth hand and knee and heel, while the loose turf and stones flew from his hoofs and rolled down the hill behind them, made Tom's eyes kindle and his pulse beat quicker as he reached the top and pulled up under the Scotch firs. " This was her favourite walk, then. No wonder. What an air, and what a view !" He jumped off his horse, slipped the bridle over his arm and let him pick away at the short grass and tufts of heath as he himself first stood, and then sat, and looked out over the scene which she had so often looked over. She might have sat on the very s])ot he was sitting on ; she must have taken in the same expanse of wood and meadow, village and ]iark, and dreamy, distant hill. Her presence seemed to fill the air round him. A rush of new thoughts and feelings swam through his brain and carried him, a willing piece of drift-man, along with them. He gave himself up to the stream, and revelled in them. His ey« traced back the road along which he had ridden in the morning, and rested on the Barton woods, just visible in the distance, on this side of the point where all outline except that of the horizon began to be lost. The flickering July aix eeemed to beat in a pulse of purple glory over the spot. The soft wind which blew straight from Barton seemed laden with her name, and whispered it in the firs over his head. Every nerve in his body was bounding with new life, and he coulc eit stQl no longer. He rose, sprang on his horse, and, with 354 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Bhont of joy, turned from the vale and rushed away on to the heath, northwards, towards his home behind the chalk hills. He had ridden into Eiiglebourn in the morning an almost unconscious dabbler by the margin of the great stream ; he rode from the Hawk's L;vTich in the afternoon over head ana «?ars, and twenty, a humlred, ay, unnumbered fathoms below that, deep, consciously, and triumphantly in love. But at what a pace, and in what a form ! Love, at least in his first access, must be as blind a horseman as he is an archer. The heath was rough with peat-cutting and turfcutting, and many a deep-rutted farm road, and tufts of heather and furze. Over them and throiigh them went horse and man — horse rising seven, and man twenty off, a well-matched pair in age for a wild ride — headlong towards the north, till a blind rut somewhat deeper than usual put an end to their career, and sent the good horse staggeriiig forward some thirty feet on to his nose and knees, and Tom over his shoulder, on to his back in the heather. " Well, it's lucky it's no worse," thought our hero, as he picked himself up and anxiously examined the horse, who stood trembling and looking wildly puzzled at the whole proceeding ; " I hope he hasn't overreached. Wliat will the governor say ? His knees are all right. Poor old boy," he said, patting him, " no wonder you look astonished. You're not in love. Come along ; we won't make fools of ourselves any more. "V\Tiat is it ? — 'A tnie love forsaken a new love may get, But a neck that's once broken can never be set. ' WHiat stuff ! one may get a neck set for anything I know ; but a new love — blasphemy ! " The rest of the ride passed off soberly enough, except in Tom's brain, wherein were built up in gorgeous sticcession castles such as — we have all built, I sujipose, before now. And with the castles were built up side b}'^ side good honest resolves to be worthy of her, and win her and worship her ^vith body, and mind, and- soul. And, as a first instalment, away to the witids went all the selfish morniiig thoughts ; and he rode down the northern slope of tlie chalk hills a dutiful and affectionate son, at peace with Mrs. Porter, honouring her for her care of the treasui'e which he was seeking, and in good time for dinner. " Well, dear," said Mrs. Brown to her husband when they were alone that night, " did you ever see Tom in such spii'its, and so gentle and affectionate 1 Dear boy ; there can be lothing the matter." " Didn't I tell you so," replied Mr. Brown ; " you women PKOWN PATRONUS. 355 linve always got some nonsense in your heads as soon as yonr boys have a hair on their chin or youi- giils begin to put up their back hair." " Well, John, say what you will, I'm sure Mary Porter ia a very sweet, taking girl, and — " " I am quite of the same opinion," said Mr. Brown, " and am very glad you have written to ask them here." And so the worthy couple went happily to bed. CHAPTEE XXXIII. BROWN PATRONUS. On a Saturday afternoon in August, a few weeks after his eventful ride, Tom returned to Englebourn Rectory, to stay over Sunday, and attend Betty Winburn's funerah He was strangely attracted to Harry by the remembrance of their old boyish rivalry ; by the story which he had heard from his cousin, of the unwavering perseverance with which the young peasant clung to and pursued his suit for Simon's daughter ; but, more than all, by the feeling of gratitude with which he remembered the effect his visit to Betty's sick-room had had on him, on the day of his ride from Barton Manor. On that day he knew that he had ridden into Englebourn in a miser- able mental fog, and had ridden out of it in sunshine, which had lasted through the intervening weeks. Somehow or another he had been set straight then and there, turned into the right road and out of the wrong one, at what he very naturally believed to be the most critical moment of his life. Without stopping to weigh accurately the respective merits of the several persons whom he had come in contact with on that day, he credited them all with a large amount of gratitude and good-will, and Harry Avith his mother's share as well as his own. So he had been longing to do something for him ever since. The more he rejoiced in, and gave himself up to his own new sensations, the more did his gratitude become as it were a burden to him ; and yet no opportunity offered of letting off some of it in action. The magistrates, taking into consideration the dangerous state of his mother, had let Harry off with a reprimand for his assault ; so there was nothing to be done there. He wrote to Katie offering more money for the Winburns ; but she declined — adding, however, to her note, by way of post8cri|)t, that he might give it to her ch^thing club or coal club. Thun came the news of Belty'.s death, and an intimation from Katie that she thought A A 2 356 TOM BllOWN AT OXFOED, Harry would he much gratified if he woulcl attend the funeral. He jumped at tlie suggestion. All Englebourn, from the Hawk's Lynch to the Rectory, was hallowed ground to him. The idea of getting back there, so much nearer to Barton !Manor, filled him with joy which he tried in vain to repress when he thought of the main object of his visit. He arrived in time to go and sh;ike hands with Harry before dinner ; and, though scarcely a word passed between them, he saw with delight that he had evidently given jjleasuro to the mourner. Then he had a charming long evening with Katie, walking in the garden wth her between dinner and tea, and after tea discoursing in low tones over her work- table, wliile Mr. Winter benevolently slept in his arm-chair. Their discourse branched into many paths, but managed always somehow to end in the sayings, beliefs, and perfectimis of the young lady of Barton Manor. Tom wondered how it iiad happened so when he got to his own room, as he fancied he had not betrayed himself in the least. He had determined to keep resolutely on his guard, and to make a confidant of no living soul till he was twenty-one, and, though sorely tempted to break his resolution in favour of Katie, had restrained himself. He might have spared himself all the trouble ; but this he did not know, being unversed in tlie ■ways of women, and all unaware of the subtlety and quickness fif their intuitions in all matters connected with the heart. ]*oor, dear, stolid, dim -sighted mankind, how they do see thi'ough us and walk round us ! The funeral on the Sunday afternoon between churches had touched him much, being the first he had ever attended. He walked next behind the chief mourner — the few friends, amongst whom David was conspicuous, yielding place to him. He stood beside Harry in church, and at the open grave, and made the responses as firmly as he could, and pressed his shoulder against his, when he felt the strong frame of the son trembling with the weiglit and burden of his resolutely sup- pressed agony. When they pai-ted at the cottage door, to which Tom accompanied the mourner and his old and tried friend David, though nothing but a look and a grasp of the hand passed between them, he felt that they were boMnd by a new and invisible bond ; and, as he walked back up the village and passed the churchyard, where the children were playing about on the graves — stopping every now and then to Avatch the sexton as ho stamped down, and filleil in the mould on the last-made one, beside which he had himself stood as a mourner — and heard the bells beginning to chime for the afternoon service, he resolved within himself that he would BROWN PATRONUS. 357 be a true and helpful friend to the wido-w's son. On this subject he could talk freely to Katie ; and he did so tlmt evening, expounding how much one in his position could do for a young labourmg man if he really was bent upon it, and building up grand castles for Harry, the foundations of which rested on his own di^termination to benefit and patronize him. Katie listened half doubtingly at first, but was soon led away by his confidence, and poured out the tea in the full belief that, with Tom's powerful aid, all would go well. After which they took to reading the " Christian Year " together, and branched into discussions on profane poetry, which Katie considered scarcely proper for the evening, but which, never- theless, being of such rare occurrence with her, she had not the heart to stop. The next morning Tom was to return home. After hreakfast he began the subject of his plans for Harry again, when Katie produced a small paper packet, and handed it to him, saying — - " Here is your money again." "What money]" "The money you left with me for Harry Winburn. I thought at the time that most probably he would not take it." "But ai'e you sure he doesn't want it? Did you try hard to get him to take it t " said Tom, holding out his hand re- luctantly for the money. " Not myself. I couldn't offer him money myself, of course ; but I sent it by David, and begged him to do all he could to persuade him to take it." " Well, and why wouldn't he 1 " " Oh, he said the club-money which was coming in was more than enough to pay for the funeral, and for himself ho didn't want it." " How provoking ! I wonder if old David really did his best to get him to take it." " Yes, I am sure he did. But you ought to be very glad to find some independence in a poor man." " Bother his independence ! I don't like to feel that it costs me nothing but talk — T want to pay." " Ah, Tom, if you knew the poor as well as I do, yoa wouldn't say so. I am afraid there are not two other men in the parish who would have refused your money. Tlie fear of undermining their independence takes away all my pleasure in giving." " Undermining ! Why, Katie, I am sure I have heard you mourn over their stubbornness and unreasonableness." " Oh, yes ; they are often provokingly stubborn and un- reasonahle, and yet not independent about money, or anything 358 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. tliey can get out of you. Besides, T acknowledge that T liave li)econie wiser of late ; I used to like to see them dependent, and cringing to me, but now I dread it." " But you would like David to give in about the singing, wouldn't you 1" " Yes, if he would give in I should be very proud. I have learnt a great deal from him ; I used positively to dislike him ; but, now that I know him, I think him the best man in the parish. If he ever does give in — and I think he will — it will be Vvorth anything, just because he is so independent." " That's all very well ; but what am T to do to sliow Harry Winburn that I mean to be his friend, if he won't take money 1 " " You have come over to his mother's funeral — he will think more of that than of all the money you could give him ; and you can show sympathy for him in a great many ways." " Well, I must try. By the way, about his love affair ; is the young lady at home t I have never seen her, you know." " No, she is away with an aunt, looking out for a place. I have persuaded her to get one, and leave home again for the present. Her father is qixite well now, and she is not wanted." " Well, it seems I can't do any good with her, then ; but could not T go and talk to her father about Harry ? I might lielp him in that way." " You must be very careful ; Simon is such an odd-tempered old man." " Oh, I'm not afraid ; he and I are great chums, and a little soft soap will go a long way with him. Fancy, if I could get him this very morning to * sanction Harry's suit/ as the phrase is, what should you think of me 1" " I should think very highly of your powers of persuasion." 'Not the least daunted by his cousin's misgivings, Tom started in quest of Simon, and found him at work in front of the greenhouse, surrounded by many small pots and heaps of finely sifted mould, and absor!)ed in his occupation. Simon was a rough, stolid Berkshire rustic, somewhat of a tyrant in the bosom of his family, an unmanageable servant, a cross-grained acquaintance ; as a citizen, stiff-necked and a grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went right in the parish ; but, withal, a thorough honest worker ; and, when allowed to go his own way — and no other way would he go, as his mistress had long since discovered — there was no man who earned his daily bread more honestly. He took a pride in his work, and the Rectory garden was always trim and well kept, and the beds bright with flowers from early spring till lute autumn. BROWN PATRONUS. 35S He ^as absorbed in what he Avas about, and Tom came up close to him without attracting the least sign of recognition ; 80 he stopped, and opened the conversation. " Good day, Simon ; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gaj' as yours." Simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it was, touched his battered old hat, and answered, — " ISIornin' sir ! Ees, you finds me alius in blume." " Indeed I do, Simon : but how do you manage it 1 T should like to tell my father's gardener." " 'Tis no use to tell un if a hevn't found out for hisself. Tis nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does it." " Well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet, somehow, we never look half so bright as you do." " ]May be as your gardener just takes and hits it auver the top o' the ground, and lets it lie. That's no kind o' good, that beant — 'tis the roots as wants the stuff ; and you med jist as well take and put a round o' beef agin my back bwone as hit the stuff auver the ground, and never see as it gets to the roots o' the plants." " No, I don't think it can be that," said Tom, laughing ; " our gardener seems always to be digging his manure in, but somehow he can't make it come out in flowers as you do." "Ther' be mwore waays o' killin' a cat besides choking on un wi' crame," said Simon, chuckling in his turn. " That's true, Simon," said Tom ; " the fact is, a gardener must know bis business as well as you to be always in bloom, eh?" "That's about it, sir," said Simon, on whom the flattery was beginning to tell. Tom saw this, and thought he might now feel his way a little further with the old man. " I'm over on a sad errand," he said ; " I've been to poor Widow Winburn's funeral — she was an old friend of yours, I think?" " Ees ; I minds her long afore she wur married," said Simon, turning to his pots again, '• She wasn't an old woman, after all," said Tom. " Sixty-two year old cum ^Michaelmas," said Simon. " Well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten years at least ; why, you must be older than she by some years, Simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man." Simon went on with his potting without replying except SGO TOM BKOWN AT OXTORD. by a carefully measured grant, sufficient to show that he had heard the remark, and was not much impressed by it. Tom saw tlia(, he must change his attack ; so, after watch- ing Simon for a minute, he began again. "I wonder why it is that the men of your time of life are so much stronger than the young ones in constitution. Now, I don't believe there are three young men in Engleboiirn who would have got over that fall you had at Farmer Groves' so quick as you have ; most young men would have been crippled for life by it." "Zo 'em would, the young wosbirds. I d won't make no account on 'em," said Simon. " And you don't feel any the worse for it, Simon ?" *' Narra mossel," replied Simon ; but presently he seemed to recollect something, and added, " I wun't saay but what I feels it at times when I've got to stoop about much." " Ah, I'm sorry to hear that, Simon. Then you oiTghtn't to have so much stooping to do ; potting, and that sort of thing, is the work for you, I should think, and just giving an eye to everything about the place. Anybody could do the digging and setting out cabbages, and your time is only wasted at it." — Tum had now found the old man's weak point. " Ees, sir, and so I tells miss," he said " but wi' nothin' but a bit o' glass no bigger'n a cowcumber frame 'tis all as a man can do to keep a few plants alive droo' the winter." " Of course," said Tom, looking round at the very respect- able greenhouse which Simon had contemptuously likened to a cucumber- frame, "you ought to have at least another house as big as this for forcing." " Master ain't pleased, he ain't," said Simon, " if he dwon't get his things, his sj)ring wegebatles, and his strawberries, as early as though we'd a got forcin' pits and glass like other folk. 'Tis a year and mwore since he promised as I sh'd hev glass along that ther' v/all, but 'tis no nigher comin' as I can see. I be to spake to miss about it now, he says, and, when I spakes to her, 'tis, ' Oh, Simon, we must wait till the 'spensary's 'stablished,' or ' Oh, Simon, last winter wur a werry tryin wun, and the sick club's terrible bad off for fund.s,' — and so we gwoes on, and med gwo on, for aught as 1 can see, so long as there's a body sick or bad off in all the parish. And that'll be alius. For, what wi' miss's wisitin' on 'era, and Bcndin' on 'em dinners, and a'al the doctor's stuff as is served (♦ut o' the 'spensary — wy, 'tis enough to keep em bad a'f>l thor lives. Ther ain't no credit in gettin' well. Ther wiir ao sich a caddie about sick folk when I wur a bwoy. EKOWN PATKONUS. 3G1 Simon had never been known to make such a long speech before, and Tom argued well for his negotiation. " Well, Simon," he said, " I've been talking to my cousin, and I think she will do what you want now. The dispeusary is set up, and the people are very healthy. How much glass should you want, now, along that wall 1 " " A matter o' twenty fit or so," said Simon. "I think that car be managed,'^ said Tom; "I'll sjieak to my cousin about it ; and then you would have plenty to do in the houses, and you'd want a regular man under you." " Ees ; 'twould take two on us reg'lar to kep things aa should be." " And you ought to have somebody who knows what he is about. Can you think of any one who would do, Simon 1 " " Ther's a young chap as works for Squu-e Wurley. I've heard as he wants to better liisself." "But he isn't an Englebourn man. Isn't there any one in the parish 1 " " Ne'er a one as I knows on." " What do you thinlv of liarry Winbum — he seems a good hand with flowers 1 " The words had scarcely passed his lips when Tom saw that he had made a mistake. Old Simon retired uito himself at once, and a cu.nnhig tlistrustful l(Jo!i came over his face. There was no doing anything with him. Even the new forcing house had lost its attractions for liim, and Tom, after some further inelfectual attempts to bring him round, returned to the house somewhat crestl'allen. " Well, how have you succeeded ] " said Katie, looking up from her work, as he came in and sat down near her table. Tom shook his head. " I'm afraid I've made a regular hash of it," he said. " I thought at fii'st I had quite conje round the old savage by praising the garden, and promising that you woalel let him have a new house." " You don't mean to say you did that 1" said Katie, stopping her work. " Indeed, but I did, though. I was drawn on, you know. I saw it was the right card to play ; so I couldn't help it." " Oh, Tom 1 how could you do so 1 We don't want another house the least in the world ; it is only Simon's vanity. He wants to beat the gardener at the Grange at the flower-shows. Every penny will have to come out of what papa allows me for the parish." "Don't be afraid, Katie ; you won't have to spend a penny. Of course I reserved a condition. The new house was to bo put up if he would take Harry as under-gardener." 3G2 TOM BEOVVN AT OXFORD. " What did he say to that 1 " " Well, he said nothing. I never came across such an old Turk. How you have spoiled liiui ! If he isn't pleased, ha won't take the trouble to answer you a word. I was very ii'jar telling him a piece of my mind. But he looked all th& more. I believe he would poison Harry if he came hero. What can have made him hate him so ? " " He is jealous of him. jMary and I were so foolish as to praise poor Betty's flowers before Simon, and he has nevei forgiven it. I think, too, that he suspects, somehow, that wo talked about getting Harry here. 1 ought to have told you, but I quite forgot it." " Well, it can't be helped. I don't think I can do any good in that quarter ; so now I shall be off to the Grange to see what I can do there." " How do you mean 1 " " Why, Harry is afraid of being turned out of his cottage. I saw how it worried him, thinking about it ; so I shall go to the Grange, and say a good word for him. Wurley can't refuse if I offer to pay the rent myself — it's only six pounds a year. Of course, 1 sha'n't tell Harry ; and he will pay it all the same; but it may make all the difference with Wurley, who is a regular screw." " Do you know Mr. Wurley 1 " " Yes, just to speak to. He knows all about me, and he will be very glad to be civil." " iSTo doubt he will ; but I don't like your going to his house. You don't know what a bad man he is. Nobody but men on the turf, and that sort of people, go there now ; anil I believe he thinks of nothing but gambling and game- preserving." " Oh, yes ; I know all about him. The county people are beginning to look shy at him ; so he'll be all the more likely to do what I ask hini." " But you won't get intimate with him 1 " " You needn't be afraid of that." " It is a sad house to go to — I hope it won't do you any hann." " Ah, Katie ! " said Tom, with a smile not altogether cheer- ful, " 1 don't think you need be anxious about that, AVhen one has been a year at Oxford, there isn't much snow left to Boil ; so now I am off. I must give myself plenty of time to cook AVurley." " WelL, 1 suppose I must not hinder you," said Katie. " I do hope you will succeed in some of your kind plans foi Harry." BKOTVN PATEOXUS o63 " I shall do my best ; and it is a great thing to have some- body besides oneself to think about and try to lielp — some poor person — don't you think so, even for a man ? " "Of course I do. I am sure you can't be happy without it, any more than I. We shouldn't be our mothers' children if we could be." "Well, good-bye, dear; you can't think how I enjoy these glimpses of you and your work. You must give my love to Uncle Robert." And so they bade one another adieu, lovingly, after the maimer of cousins, and Tom rode away with a very soft place in his heart for his cousin Katie. It was not the least the same sort of passionate feeling of worship with which ho regarded Mary. The two feelings could lie side by side in his heart with plenty of room to s])are. In fact, his heart had been getting so big in the last few weeks, that it seemed capable of taking in the whole of mankind, nrt to mention woman. Still, on the whole, it may be safely asserted, that had matters been in at all a more forward state, and could she have seen exactly what was passing in his mind, Mary would probably have objected to the kind of affection which he felt for his cousin at this particular time. The joke about cousinly love is probably as old, and certainly as true, as Solomon's proverbs. However, as matters stood, it could be no concern of Mary's what his feelings were towards Katie, or any other person. Tom rode in at the lodge gate of the Grange soon after eleven o'clock and walked his horse slowly through the park, admiring the splendid timber, and thinking how he should break his request to the owner of the place. But his thoughts were interrupted by the proceedings of the rabbits, which were out by hundreds all along the sides of the plantations, and round the great trees. A few of the nearest just deigned to notice him by scampering to their holes under the roots of the antlered oaks, into which some of them popped with a disdainful kick of their hind legs, while others turned rounJ sat up, and looked at him. As he neared the house, ho j)assed a keeper's cottage, and was saluted by the barking of dogs from the neighbouring kennel 5 and the young pheasants ran about round some twenty hen-coops, which were arranged along opposite the door where the keeper's children were playing. The pleasure of watching the beasts and birds kept him from arranging his thoughts, and he reached the baU-door without having formed the plan of his campaign. A footman answered the bell, who doubted whether his master was down, but thought he would see the gentleman if 3Gi TOxM BROWN AT OXFOED. he '.vould send iu his name. "Wliereupon Tom handed in his card ; and, iu a few minutes, a rakish-looking stable-boy came round for his horse, and the butler appeared, with his master's eompliments, and a request that he would step into the breakfast-room. Tom followed this portly personage through the large handsome hall, on the walls of which hung a buflf- coat or two and some old-fashioned arms, and large paintings of dead game and fruit — through a drawing-room, the furni- ture of which was all covered up in melancholy cases — into the breakfast parlour, where the owner of the mansion was seated at table in a lounging .'«i/;ket. He was a man of forty, or thereabouts, who wouia Have been handsome, but for the animal look about his face. His cheeks were beginning to fall into chaps, his full li})s had a liquorish look about them, and bags were beginning to form under his light blue eyes. His hands were very white and delicate, and shook a little as he poured out his tea ; and he was full and stout in body with small shoulders, and thin arms and legs ; in short, the last man whom Tom would have chosen as bow in a pair oai. The only part of him which showed strength were his dark whiskers, which were abundant, and elaborately oiled and curled. The room was light and pleasant, with two windows looking over the park, and furnished luxuriously, in the most modern style, with all manner of easy chaii's and sofas. A glazed case or two of well-bound books showed that some former owner had cared for such things ; but the doors had, probably, never been opened in tlie present reign. The master, and his usual visitors, found sufficient food for the mind in the Racing Calendar, " Boxiana," "The Adventures of Corinthian Tom," and Bell's Life, wliicli lay on a side table ; or in the pictures and prints of racers, opera dancers, and stee[)lc-chases, which hung in profusion on the walls The breakfast-table was beautifully appointed, in the matter of cliina and plate ; and delicate little rolls, neat pats of butter in ice, and two silver hot diahes containing curry and broiled salmon, and a plate of fruit, piled in tempting profu- sion, appealed, apparently in vain, to the appetite of the lord of the feast. " Mr. Brown, sir," said the butler, ushering in our hero to his master's presence. " Ah, Brown, I'm very glad to see you here," said Jlr. "Wurley, standing up and holding out his hand. " Have any breakfast ? " " Thank you, no, I have breakfasted," said Tom, somewhat astonisiied at the intimacy of the greeting ; but it was his cue lo do the friendly thing — so he shook the proffered hand. BROWN PATEONUS. 3G5 which felt very limp, and sat down by the table, looking pleasant. " Ridden from home this morning ? " said Mr. Wnrley, picking over daintily some of the curry to which he had helped himself. " No, I was at my uncle's, at Englebourn, last niglit. Tt is very little out of the way ; so 1 tliought I would just call on my road home." " Quite right, I'm very glad you came without ceremony. People about here are so d — d full of ceremony. It don'/; suit me, all that humbug. But I wish you'd just pick a bit." " Tliank yon. Then I will eat some fruit," said Tom, help- ing himself to some of the freshly picked grapes ; " how very fine these are ! " "Yes, I'm open to back my houses against the field for twenty miles round. This curry isn't fit for a pig. — Take it out, and tell the cook so." The butler solemnly obeyed, while his master went on with one of the frequent oaths with which he garnished his conversation. " You're right, they can't spoil the fruit. They're a set of skulking devils, are servants. They tliink of nothing but stuffing themselves, and how they can cheat you most, and do the least work." Say- ing which, he helped himself to some fruit; and the two ate their grapes for a short time in silence. But even fruit seemed to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away his plate. The butler came back with a silver tray, with soda water, and a smaU decanter of brandy, and long glasses on it. " Won't you have something after your ride 1 " said the host to Tom ; " some soda water with a dash of bingo clears one's head in the morning." " No, thank you," said Tom, smiling, " it's bad for training." " All, you Oxford men are all for training," said his host, drinking greeddy of the foaming mixture which the butler handed to him. " A glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh ? I know. Get some ale for Mr. Brown." Tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse this orthodox offer, and took his beer accordingly, after which his host produced a box of Hudson's regalias, and proposed to look at the stables. So they lighted their cigars, and went out. Mr. Wmiey had taken of late to the turf, and they inspected several young horses which were entered for country stakes. Tom thought them weedy-looking animals, but patiently listened to their praises and pedigrees, upon which his host waR eIoq[ueiit enough ; and, rubbing up his latest rcadingn 3GG TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. in Bell's Life, and the racing talk which he had been in the habit of hearing in Drysdale's rooms, managed to hold his own, and aslced, with a gi-ave face, about the price of the Coronation colt for the next Derby, and whether Scott's lot was not the right thing to stand on for the St. Leger, thereby raising himself considerably in his host's eyes. There were no hunters in the stable, at which Turn expresocd his surprise. In reply, Mr. Wurley abused the country, and declared that it was not worth riding across — the fact being that he had lost his nerve, and that the recejition wnich he was beginning to meet with in the field, if he came out by chance, was of the coldest. From the stables they strolled to the keeper's cottage, where !Mr. Wurley called for some buckwheat and Indian corn, and began feeding the young pheasants, which were running about, almost like barn-door fowls, close to them. " We've had a good season for the young birds," he said ; " my fellow knows that part of his business, d — n him, and don't lose many. You had better bi'ing your gun over in October ; we shall have a week in the covers early in the month." " Thank you, I shall be very glad," said Tom ; " but you don't shoot these birds ? " " Shoot 'em ! what the devil should I do with 'em 1 " " Why, they're so tame I thought you just kept them about the house for breeding. I don't care so much for pheasant shooting ; I like a good walk after a snipe, or creeping along to get a wild duck, much better. There's some sport in it, or even in partridge shooting with a couple of good dogs, now — " " You're quite wrong. Tliere's nothing like a good dry ride in a cover with lots of game, and a fellow behind to load for you." " Well, I must say, I prefer the open." " You've no covers over your way, have you ? " "Not many." '* I thought so. You wait till you've had a good day in my covers, and you won't care for quartering all day over wet turnips. Besides, this sort of thing pays. They talk about pheasants costing a guinea a head on one's table. It's all stuff; at any rate, mine don't cost me much. In fact, I say it pays, and I can prove it." " But you feed your pheasants 1 " " Yes, just round the house for a few weeks, and I sow a little buckwheat in the covers. But they have to keep them- selves pretty much, I can tell jou." BEOWN PATKONUS. 3G7 " Don't the fanners object? " "Yes, d — n tliem ; they're never sntisfied. But they don't grumble to me ; they know better. There are a dozen fellows ready to take any farm that's given up, and they know it. Just get a beggar to put a hundred or two into the groiuid, and he won't quit hold in a hurry. Will you play a game at biUiards % " The turn wliich their conversation had taken hitherto had offered no opening to Tom for introducing the object of his visit, and he felt less and less inclined to couie to the point. He looked his host over and over again, and the more he looked the less he fancied asking anything like a favour of him. However, as it had to be done, he thought he couldn't do better than fall into his ways for a few hours, and watch for a chance. The man seemed good natured in his way ; and all his belongings — the fine park and house, and gardens and stables — were not without theii- effect on his young guest. It is not given to many men of twice his age to separate a man from his possessions, and look at him apart from them. So he yielded easily enough, and they went to billiards in a fiaie room opening out of the hall ; and Tom, who was very fond of the game, soon forgot everything in the pleasure of play- ing on such a table. It was not a bad match. Mr. "Wurley understood the game far better than his guest, and could give him advice as to what side to put on and how to play for cannons. This he did in a patronizing way, but his hand was unsteady and his nerve bad. Tom's good eye and steady hand, and tlie practice he had had at the St. Ambrose pool-table, gave him con- siderable advantage in the hazards. And so they played on, !Mr. Wurley condescending to bet only half-a-crown a game, at first giving ten points, and then five, at which latter odds Tom managed to be two games ahead when the butler announced lunch, at two o'clock. " 1 think I musi order my horse," said Tom, putting on hia coat. " No, curse it, you must give me my revenge. I'm always five points better after lunch, and after dinner I could give you fifteen points. Why shouldn't you stop and dine and sleep '] I expect some men to dinner." " Thank you, I must get home to-day." "I should hke you to taste my mutton; I never kiU it under five years old. You don't get that every day." Tom, however, was proof against the mutton ; but con- sented to stay till towards tlie hour when the other guests were expected, finding that his host had a decided objection 308 TOM BHOTTNT AT OXFORD. to he left alone. So after Inncli, at which Mr. "VVurley drar,k the hetter part of a bottle of old sherry to steady his nerves, they returned again to Inlliards and Hudson's regalias. They played on for another hour ; and, though ^Ir. ^Yurley'8 hand was certainly steadier, the luck remained with Tom. ]le was now getting rather tired of playing, and wanted to be leaving, and he began to reruember the object of his visit again. But Mr. Wurley was nettled at being beaten by a boy, as he covinted his opponent, and wouldn't hear of leaving off. So Tom played on carelessly game after game, and was soon again only two games ahead. Mr. Wurley's temper was recovering, and now Tom j)rotested that he must go. Just one game more, his host urged, and Tom consented. Wouldn't he jilay for a sovereign ? No. So they played double or qMits ; and after a sharp struggle Mr. Wurley won the game, at which he was highly elated, and talked again grandly of the odds he could give after dinner. Tom felt that it was now or never, and so, as ha put on his coat, he said, — " Well, I'm much obliged to you for a very pleasant day, Mr. Wurley." "I hope j'^ou'U come over again, and stay and sleep. I shall always be glad to see you. It is so cursed hard to keep some- body always going in the country." " Thank you ; I should like to come again. But now I want to ask a favour of you before I go." "Eh, well, what is it?" said Mr. Wurley, whose face and manner becan7.e suddenly anything but encouraging. "There's that cottage of yours, the one at the corner of Englebourn copse, next the village." " The woodman's liouse, I know," said Mr. Wurley. " The tenant is dead, and I want you to let it to a friend of mine ; I'll take care the rent is paid." Mr. Wurley pricked up his ears at this announcement. He gave a sharp look at Tom ; and then bent over the table, made a stroke, and said. " Ah, I heard the old woman was dead. Who's your friend, then ? " "Well, I mean her son," said Tom, a little embarrassed; " lie's an active young fellow, and will make a good tenant, I'm sure." " I daresay," said Mr. Wurley, with a leer; "and I suppose there's a sister to keep house for him, eh ? " " No, but he wants to get married." " Wants to get married, eh 1 " said Mr. Wurley, with another leer and onth. •' You're right ; that's a ioal safer kind of thing for you." BKOWN PATRONUS. 869 " Yes," said Tom, resoliitoly disreganlinf:^ the insiimation, whicli he could not help feeling was intencied ; " it will keep him steady, and if he can get the cottage it might make all the difference. There wouldn't be much trouble about the marriage then, I dare say." " You'll find it a devilish long way. You're quite right, mind you, not to get them settled close at home ; but Engle- bourn is too far, I should say." " What does it matter to me 1 " " Oh, you're tired of her ! I see. Perhaps it won't be too fer, then." " Tired of her ! who do you moan 1 " " Ha, ha ! " said Mr. Wiirley, looking up from the table over which he was leaning, for he went on knocking the balls about ; " devilish well acted ! But you needn't try to come the old soldier over me. I'm not quite such a fool as that." " I don't know what you mean by coriiing the old soLlier. I only asked you to let the cottage, and 1 will be responsible for the rent. I'll pay in advance if you like." " Yes, you want me to let the cottage for you to put in this girl." " I beg your pardon," said Tom, interrupting him, and scarcely able to keep his temper ; " 1 told you it was for this young Winburn." " Of course you told me so. Ha, ha ! " " And you don't believe me." " Come, now, all's fair in love and war. Euc, I tell you, you needn't be mealy-moutned with mc. You don't mind his living there ; he's away at work all day, eh 1 and his wife stays at home." **Mr. Wurley, I give you my honour I never saw the girl in my life that I know of, and I don't know that she will marry hirt." "What did you talk about your friend for, then?" said Mr. Wurley, stopping and staring at Tom, curiosity beginning to mingle with his look of cunning unbelief. " Because I meant just what I said." "And the friend, then?" " I have told you several times that this young Winburn is the man." " What, 1/our friend .? " '' Yes my friend," said Tom ; and he felt himself getting red at having to call Harry his friend in such company. Mr. Wurley looked at him for a few moments, and then took his leg ofi the billiard table, and came round to Tom with the B B 370 TOM HROWN AT OXFOKD. sort of patronizing air with which he had lectured hiiii on billiards. " I say, Brown, I'll give you a piece of advice," he said. " You're a young fellow, and haven't seen anything of tlie world. Oxford's all very well, but it isn't the world. Now i tell you, a young fellow can't do himself greater harm than getting into low company and talking as you have been talk- ing. It might ruin you in the county. That sort of radical stuif won't do, yoi; know, calling a farm labourer your friend " Tom chafed at this advice fiom a man who, he well knew, was notoriously in the habit of entertaining at his house, ard living familiarly with, betting men and tiainers, and all the rifP-rafif of the turf But he restrained himself by a consider- able effort, and, instead of retorting, as he felt inclined to do, said, with an attempt to laugh it off, " Thank you, I don't think there's much fear of my turning radical. But will you let me the cottage 1 " " My agent manages all that. We talked about pulling it down. The cottage is in my preserves, and I don't mean to have some poaching fellow there to be sneaking out at night after my pheasants." " But his grandfather and great-grandfather lived there." " ] dare say, but it's my cottage." " But surely that gives him a claim to it." " D — n it ! it's my cottage. You're not going to tell me I mayn't do what I like with it, I suppose." " I only said that his family having lived there so long gives him a claim." " A claim to what ? These are some more of your cursed radical notions. I think they might teach you something better at Oxford. Tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in such a tremen- dous fury of excitement that he forgot the interests of his client altogether. " I came here, sir," he said, very quietly and slowly, "not to request your advice on my own account, or your opinion on the studies of Oxford, valuable as no doubt they are ; I camfi to ask you to let this cottage to me, and I wish to have your answer." " I'll be d — d if I do ; there's my answer." " Very well," said Tom ; " then I have only to wish you good morning. I am sorry to have wasted a day in the sompany of a man who sets up for a country gentleman witli the tongue of a Thames bargee and the heart of a Jew pawn- broker." Mr. Wurley rushed to the bell and rang it furiou^'y. I BROWN PATRONUR. 371 " P.y — !" he almost screaraed, shaking hi? list at Tom, " I'll have you hovPcwliip]ied out of my house ;" and then poured forth a flood of uncomplimentary slang, ending in another pull at the bell, and " By — ! I'll have you horsewhipped out of my house." " You had better try it on — you and your flunkeys to- gether," said Tom, taking a cigar-case out of his pocket and lighting up, the most defiant and exasjjerating action he could think of on the spur of the moment. " Here's one of them ; so I'll leave j'ou to give him his orders, and wait five minutes in the hall, where there's more room." And so, leaving the footman gajjing at his lord, he turned on his heel, with the air of Bernardo del Carpio after he had bearded King Al- phonso, and walked into the hall. He heard men running to and fro, and doors banging, aa he stood there looking at the old buff-coats, and rather thhsting for a fight. Presently a door opened, and the portly butler shuffled in, looking considerably embarrassi'd, and said, — " Please, sir, to go out quiet, else he'll be having one of his fits." " Your master, you mean." "Yes, sir," said the butler, nodding, '' I"). T. , sir. After one of his rages the black dog comes, and it's hawful work ; so I hope you'll go, sir." " Very well, of course I'll go. I don't want to give him a fit." Saying which, Tom walked oiit of the hall-door, and leisurely round to the stables, where he found already signs of commotion. Without regarding them, he got his horso saddled and bridled, and, after looking him over carefully, and pattmg him, and feeling his girths in the yard, in the presence of a cluster of retainers of one sort or another, who were gathering from the house and offices, and looking sorely puzzled whether to commence hostdilics or not, mounted and walked quietly out. After his anger had been a little cooled by the fresh air of the wild country at the back of the Hawk's Lynch, which he struck into on his way home soon after leaving the park, it suddenly occurred to him that, however satisfactory to himself the results of his encounter with this unjust landlord might seem, they would probably prove anything but agreeable to the would-be tenant, Harry Winburn. In fact, as he meditated on the matter, it became clear to him that m the course of one morning he had j^robably exasperated old Simon against his aspirant son-in-law, and put a serious spoke in Harry's love- wheel, on the one hand, while on the other, he had insurcil his speedy expi;lsiou from his cottage, if not the demolition of B 15 ^ 372 TOM BEOWN AT OXTOED. that building. Wlierenpon he became somewhat low nndor the convictior that liis friendship, which was to work such wonders for the said Harry, and deliver him out of all his troubles, had as yet only made his whole look-out in the world very much darker and more dusty. In short, as yet he had managed to do considerably less than nothing for his friend, and he felt very smaU before he got home that evening. He Avas far, however, from being prepared for the serious way in which his father looked upon his day's proceedings. Mr. Brown was sitting by himself after dinner when his son turned up, and liad to drink several extra glasses of port to keep himself decently composed, while Tom narrated the events of the day in the intervals of his attacks on the dinner, which was brought back for him. When the servant had cloarerl away, Mr. Brown proceeded to comment on the history in a most decided manner. Tom Avas wrong to go to the Grange in the first instance ; and this part of the homily was amplified by a discourse oa the corruption of the turf in general, and the special curse of small country races in particular, which such men as Wurley supported, antl which, but for them, would cease. Racing, which used to be the pastune of great people, who could well afford to spend a few thousands a year on their pleasure, had now mostly fallen into the hands of the very worst and lowest men of aU classes, most of whom would not scruple — as Mr Brown strongly put it — to steal a copper out of a blind beggar's hat. If he must go, at any rate he might have done nis errand and come away, instead of staying there all day accepting the man's hospitality. Mr. Brown liimself really should be much embarrassed to know what to do if the man should happen to attend the next sessions or assizes. But, above all, having accepted his hospitality, to turn round at the end and insult the man in his ow-n house ! This seemed to Brown, J.P. a monstrous and astounding performance. This new way of putting matters took Tom entirely by surprise. He attempted a defence, but in vain. His father admitted that it would be a hard case if Harry were turned out of his cottage, but wholly refused to listen to Tom's endeavours to prove that a tenant in such a case had any claim or right as against his landlord. A weekly tenant was a weekly tenant, and no succession of weeks' holding could make him anything more. Tom foiuid himself rushing into a line of argument which astonished himself and sounded wild, but in which he felt sure there was some truth, and which, therefore, he would not abandon, though his father was cyidently annoyed, and called it mere niisehievoiis senti- .■VTHAEN ArAN. 373 menl. Each was more moved tbau he would have liked to own ; each in his owti heart felt aggi-ieved, and blamed tht other for not understanding him. Eut, though obstinate on the general question, upon the point of his leaving the Grange, Tom Avas fau'ly brought to shame, and gave in at last, and expressed his sorrow, though he could not help maintaining tliat, if his father could have heard what took place, and seen the man's manner, he would scarcely blame him for what be bad said and done. Havdng once owned himself in the wrong, however, there was nothmg for it but to write an apology, tho composition of which was as disagreeable a task as had ovoi fallen to his lot. CHAPTER XXX IT MHAEN AFAN. Has any person, of any nation or language, found out and given to the world any occupation, work, diversion, or pursuit, more subtlely dangerous to the susceptible youth of both sexes than that of nuttmg in pairs. If so, who, where, what 1 A few years later in life, perhaps district visiting, and atteud- iiig schools together, may in certain instances be more fatal ; but, in the first bright days of youth, a day's nutting against the world ! A day in autumn, warm enough to make sitting in sheltered nooks in the woods, wherever the sunshine lies, very pleasant, and yet not too warm to make exercise uncom- fortable — two young people who have been thrown much together, one of whom is conscious of the state of his feelings towards the other, and is, moreover, aware that his hours are numbered, that in a few days at furthest they will be se})arated for many months, that persons in authority on both sides are Vjt'ginniiig to suspect something (as is apparent from the diiB- culty they have had in getting away together at all on thi.^ same afternoon) — here is a conjunction of persons and cir- cumstances, if ever there was one in the world, which is surely likely to end in a catastrophe. Indeed, so obvious to the meanest capacity is the danger of the situation, that, as Tom had, in his own mind, staked his character for resolution with his private self on the keeping of his secret till after he was of age, it is hard to conceive how he can have been {(jiilish enough to get himself into a hazel copse alone with ]\liss IVIary on the eaiHest day he could manage it after the arrival of the Porters, on their visit to Mr. and Mrs. Brown- That is to say, it would be hard to conceive, if it didn't just happen to be the most natiu'al thing in the world. 374 roM BROWN at oxfoed. For the first twentj^-four hours after their meeiing in the home of his fathers, the two young people, and Tom in parti cular, felt very uncomfortable. Mary, being a young lady of very high spirits, and, as readers may probably have discovered, much given to that kind of conversation which borders as nearly upon what men commonly call chaff as a well-bred girl can venture on, was annoyed to find herself quite at fault in all her attempts to get her old antagonist of C'ommemoration to show fight. She felt in a moment how changed his manner was, and thought it by no means changed for the better. As for Tom, he felt foolish and shy at first, to an extent which drove him half wild ; his words stuck in his throat, and he took to blushing again like a boy of fourteen. In fact, he got so angry with himself that ho rather avoided her actual presence, though she was scarcely a moment out of his sight. Mr. Brown made the best of his Bon's retreat, devoted himself most gallantly to Mary, and was completely captivated by her before bedtime on the first night of their visit. He triumphed over his wife when they were alone, and laughed at the groundlessness of her sus- picions. But she was by no means so satisfied on the subject as her husband. In a day or two, however, Tom began to take heart of grace, and to find himself oftener at Mary's side, with some- tliing to say, and more to look. But now she, in her turn, began to be embarrassed ; for all attempts to re-establish their old footing failed, and the difficulty of finding a satisfactory new one remained to be solved. So for the present, though neither of them found it quite satisfactory, they took refuge in the presence of a third party, and attached themselves to Katie, talking at one another through her. Nothing could exceed Katie's judiciousness as a medium of communication ; and through her a better understanding began to establish itself, and the visit which both of them had been looking forward to so eagerly seemed likely, after all, to be as pleasant in fact as it had been in anticipation. As they became more at ease, the vigilance of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Porter seemed likely to revive. But in a country house there must be plenty of chances for young folk who mean it, to be together; and so they found and made use of their opportunities, giving at the same time as little cause to their natural guardians as possible for any serious interference. The families got on, on the whole, so well together, that the visit was prolonged from the original four or five days to a fortnight; and this time of grace was drawing to a close when the event happened which made the visit memorable to our hero. MHAEN AFAN. OIO On tho morning in question, !^^r. T'rown arranged at break- fast that he and his wile should drive Mr. and Mrs. Porter to make calls on several of the neighbours. Tom declared liis i]itention of taking a long day after the partridges, and the young ladies were to go and make a sketch of the house from a ix)int which Katie had chosen. Accordingly, directly after luncheon, the carriage came round, and the elders departed ; and the young ladies started together, carrying their sketching apparatus with them. It was probably a bad day for scent ; for they had not been gone a quarter of an hour when Tom came home, deposited his gun, and followed on their steps. He found them sitting under the lee of a high bank, sufficiently intent on their drawings, but neither surprised nor sorry to find that he had altered his mind, and come back to internipt them. So he lay down near them, and talked of Oxford, and Englebourn, and so from one thing to another, till he got upon the subject of nutting, and the sylvan beauties of a neighbouring wood. Mary was getting on badly with her drawing, and jumi>ed at the idea of a ramble in the wood ; but Katie was obdurate, and resisted all their solicitations to move. She suggested, however, that they might go ; and, as Tom declared that they should not be out of call, and would be back in half an hour at furthest, INTary consented ; and they left the sketcher, and strolled together out of the fields, and into the road, and so through a gate into the wood. It was a pleasant oak wood. The W-M flowers were over, but the great masses of ferns, four or uve feet high, made a grand caipet round the stems of the forest monarchs, and a fitting couch for here and there one of them which had been lately felled, and lay in fallen majesty, with bare shrouded trunk awaiting the sawyers. Further on, the hazel underwood stood thickly on each side of the green rides, down which they sauntered side by side, Tom talked of the beauty of the wood in Spring-time, and the glorious succession of colouring — pale yellow, and deep blue and white, and purple — which the primroses, and hya- cinths and starwort, and foxgloves gave, each in their turn, in the early year, and mourned over their absence. But liklary preferred Autumn, and would not agree with him. She was enthiisiastic for ferns and heathnr. He gathered some sprigs of the latter for her, from a little sandy patch which they passed, and some more for his own button-hole ; and then they engaged in the absorliing pursuit of imtting, and the talk almost ceased. He caught the higher branches, and bent them down to her, and watclied her as she gathered them, and wondered at the ease and grace of all her move- 376 TUM BROWN AT OXFORD, ments. aud tlie unconscious beauty of her attitudes. Sooa she became more enterprising herself, and made little excur- sions into the copse, surmounting briers, and passing through tangled places like a Naiad, before he could be there to help her. And so they went on, along the rides and through the copse, forgetting Katie and time, till they were brought up by the fence on the further side of the wood. The ditch was on the outside, and on the inside a bank with a hedge on the top, fuU of tempting hazel-bushes. She clapped her hands at the sight, and, declining his help, stepped Lightly up the bank, and began gathering. He turned away for a moment, jumped up the bank himself, and foDowed her example. He was standing up in the hedge, and reaching after a tempting cluster of nuts, when he heard a short sharp cry of pain behind him, which made him spring backwards, and nearly miss his footing as he came to the ground. Recovering himself, and turning round, he saw Mary lying at the foot of the bank, writhing in pain. He was at her side in an instant, and dreadfully alarmed. " Good heavens ! what has happened ? " he said. " My ancle ! " she cried ; and the effort of speaking brought the sudden flush of pain to her brow. " Oh ! what can I do 1" " The boot ! the boot ! " she said, leaning forward to unlace it, and then sinking back against the bank. " It is so painfuL I hope I sha'n't faint." Poor Tom could only clasp his hands as he knelt by her, and repeat, " Oh, what can I do — what can I do 1 " His utter bewilderment presently roused Mary, and her natural high courage was beginning to master the pain. " Have you a knife 1 " " Yes — here," he said, pulling one out of his pocket, and opening it ; " here it is." " Please cut the lace." Tom, with beating heart and trembling hand, cut the lace, and then looked up at her. " Oh, be quick — cut it again ! Don't be afmid." He cut it again ; and, without takmg hold of the foot, gently pulled out the ends of the lace. She again leaned forward, aud tried to take off the boot ^ but the pain was too great, and she sank back, and put her hand up to her flushed face. " May I try 1 — perhaps I could do it." " Yes, pray do. Oh, I can't bear the pain ! " she added, next moment ; and Tom felt ready to hang himself for haviiig bjen the cause of it. MHAEN AFAN 377 " You must cut the boot oif, please." " But perhaps I may cut you. Do you really mean it ?" " Yes, really. There, take care. How your haud shakes. You will uever do for a doctor." His hand did shake, certainly. He had cut a little hole in the stocking ; but, under the circumsUinces, we need not wondier — the situation was new and trying. Urged on by her, he cut and cut away, and, at last, otf Ciime the boot, and her beautiful little foot lay on the green turf. She was much relieved at once, but still in great pain ; and now he began to recover his head. " The ankle should be bound up ; may I try 1 " " Oh, yes ; but what with ? " Tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and produced one of the large, many-coloured neck-wrappers which were fashionable at Oxford in those days. " How lucky ! " he said, as he tore it into strips. " I think this will do. ISow, you'll stop me, Avon't you, if I hurt, or don't do it right ? " " Do]i't be afraid , I'm mtich better. Bind it tight — tighter than that." He Avound the strips as tenderly as he could round her foot and anlile, with hands all alive with nerves, and wondering more and more at her courage as she kept urging him to draw the bandage tighter yet. Then, still under her direc- tion, he fastened and i)inned down the ends ; and as he was rather neat with his fingers, from the practice of tying llies and splicing rods and bats, produced, on the whole, a cre- ditable sort of bandage. Then he looked up at her, the perspiration standing on his foi^^^^^ad, as if he had been pulling a race, and said : " Will that do 1 I'm afraid it's very aAvkward." " Oh, no ; thank you so much ! But I'm so sorry you have torn your handkerchief Tom made no answer to this remaik, except by a look. What could he say, but that he would gladly have torn his skin off for the same purpose, if it would have been of any use. But this speech did not seem quite the thing for the moment. "But how do you feel 1 Is it very painful 1" he asked. " Bather. But don't look so anxious. Indeed, it is very bearable. But what are we to do now 1 " He thought foi a moment, and said, with something like a sigh— " Shall I run home, and bring the servants and a go £9.5 or something to cai'ry you on ?" *'l!^u, I shouldn't like to be Mt here alouu" 378 TOM BROWN A.T OXFORD. His face briglitened again. " How near is the nearest cottage V she asked. " There's none nearer than the one which we passed on the road — on the other side of the wood, you know." " Then I must try to get there. You must help me up." He sprang to his feet, and stooped over her, doubting how to begin helping her. He had never felt so shy in his life. He held out his hands. " I think you must put your arm round me," she said, after looking at him for a moment. He lifted her on to her feet. "Now, let me lean on your arm. There, I daresay I shall manage to hobble along well enough ;" and she made a brave attempt to walk. But the moment the injured foot touched the ground, she stopped with a catch of her breath, and a shiver, which went through Tom like a knife ; and the flush came back into her face, and she would have fallen had lie not again put his arm round her waist, and held her up. " I am better again now," she said, after a second or two. " But Mary, dear INIary, don't try to walk again. For my sake. I can't bear it." "But what am I to do?" she said. "I must get back somehow." " Will you let me carry you 1" She looked in his face again, and then dropped her eyes, and hesitated. " I wouldn't offer, dear, if there were any other way. But you mustn't walk. Indeed, you must nut ; you may lame yourself for life." He spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, though his heart was beating so that he feared she would hear it. " Very well," she said ; "but I'm very heavy." So he lifted her gently, and stepped off down the ride, carrying his whole world in his arms, in an indescribable flutter of joy, and triumph, and fear. He had gone some forty yai'ds or so, when he staggered, and stopped for a moment. " Oh, pray put me do^vn — pray do ! You'll hurt yoursel£ I'm too heavy." For the credit of muscular Christianity, one must say that it was not her weight, but the tumult in his own inner man, which made her bearer totter. Nevertheless, if one is wholly unused to the exercise, the carrying a healthy young English girl weighing a good eight stone, is as much as most men can conveniently manage. "I'll just put you down for a moment," he said. "Now MHAEN AFAN. O llf take care of the foot ;" and he stooped, and placed her tenderly against one of the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by her side without looking at her. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then he asked, still looking away down the ride, " How is the foot 1" " Oh, pretty well," slie answered, cheerfully. " Now, leave me here, and go for help. It is absurd of me to mind being left, and you mustn't carry me any mure." He turned, and their eyes met for a moment, but that was enough. " Are you ready V he said. " Yes, but take care. Don't go far. Stop directly you feel tired." I'll en he lifted her again, and this time carried her without faltering, till they came to a hillock covered with soft grass, Here they rested again, and so by easy stages he carried her through the wood, and out into the road, to the neai'est cottage, neither of them speaking. An old woman came to the door in answer to his kick, and went off into ejaculations of pity and wonder in the broadest Berkshire, at seeing Master Tom and his burthen. But he jjushed into the house and cut her short with — " Now, Mrs. Pike, don't talk, that's a dear good woman, but bustle about, and bring that arm-chair here, and the other low one, with a pillow on it, for the young lady's foot to rest on." The old woman obeyed Ms injunctions, except as to talking ; and, while she placed the chairs and shook up the pillow, descanted on the sovereign virtues of some green oil and opodeldoc, which was as g"^"-'. as a charm for sprains and bruises. ]\Iary gave him one grateful look as he loAvered her tenderly and reluctantly into the chair, and then spoke clieerfully to Mrs. Pike, who was foraging in a clipboard, to find if there was any of her famous specific in tlie bottom of the bottle. As he stood up, and thuuglit what to do next, he heard the sound of distant wheels, and looking through the windo\v saw the carriage coming homewards. It was a sorrowful sight to him. " Now, Mrs. Pike," he said, " never mind the oik Here's the carriage coming ; just step out and stop it." The old dame scuttled out into the road. The carriage was Avithin one hundred yards. He leant over the rough arm- chair in wdiich she was leaning back, looked once more into her eyes ; and then, stooping forwards, kissed her lips, and the next moment was by the side of Mrs. Pike, signalling the coacliman to stop. 380 TOM BKOVVN AT OXFORD. In the bustle which followed he stood aside., and watched Mary with his heart in his mouth. She never looked at him, but there was no anger, but only a dreamy look in her sweet face, which seemed to him a thousand times more beoutilal than ever before. Then, to avoid inquiries, and to realize all tiiat had passed in the last wonderful thi'ee hours, he slipped away while they were getting her into the carriage, and wandered back into the wood, pausing at each of their halting places. At last he reached the scene of the accident, and here his cup of happiness was likely to brim over, for he found the mangled little boot and the cut lace, and securing the precious prize, hurried back home, to be in time for dinner. IMary did not come down ; but Katie, the only person of whom he dared to inquire, assured him that she was doing famously. The dinner was very embarrassing, and he had the greatest difficulty in answering the searching inquiries of his mother and Mrs. Porter, as to how, when, where, and in whose presence the accident had happened. As soon as the ladies rose, he left his father and Llr. Porter over their old port and politics, and went out in the twiliglit into the garden, burthened with the weight of sweet thought. He felt that he had something to do — to set himself quite riglit with Mary ; he nmst speak somehow, that niglit, if possible, or he should not be comfortable or at peace with his con- science. There were lights in her room. He guessed by the shadows that she was lying on a couch by the open window, round which the other ladies were flitting. Presently lights appeared in the drawing-room ; and, as the shutters were being closed, he saw his mother and Mrs. Porter come in, and sit down near the fire. Listening intently, he heard Katie talkuig in a low voice in the room above, and saw her head against the Ught as she sat down close to the window, jjrobably at the head of the couch where Mary was lying. Should he call to her'? K he did how could he say what he wanted to say through her] A happy thought struck him. He turned to the flower- beds, hunted about and gathered a bunch of heliotiope, nurried up to his room, took the sprig of heather out of his shooting coat, tied them together, caught up a reel and line from his table, and went into the room over Mary's. He thi-ew the window open, and, leaning out, said gently, "Katie." No answer. He repeated the name louder. No answer still, and, leaning out yet further, he saw that the window had been shut. He lowered tlie bunch of flowers, and, swinging it backwards and. ibiwarda, made it strike the window below — MHAEN ArAN. 381 once, twice ; at the third stroke he heard the wmdow open. " Katie," he whispered again, " is that you ? " '* Yes, where are you 1 What is this 1 " For her," he said, in the same wliisper. Katie untied the flowers, and he waited a few moments, and then again called her name, and she answered. " Has she the flowers 1" he asked. "Yes, and she sends you lier love, and says you are to go down to the drawing-room ;" and witli tliat the window closed, and he went down with a lightened conscience into the drawing-room and after joining in tlie talk by tlie fire for a few minutes, took a book, and sat down at the further side of the table. "Whether he ever knew what the book was may be fairly »|uestioned, but to all appearances he was deep in the perusal of it till the tea and Katie arrived, and the gentlemen from the dining-room. Then he tried to join in the conversation again ; but, on the whole, life was a burthen to him that night till he could get fairly away to his own room, and commune with himself, gazing at the yellow harvest moon, with his elbows on the windo\\'-sill. The ankle got well very quickly, and INFary was soon gomg about with a gold-headed stick which had belonged to Mr. Brown's father, and a limp which Tom thought the most beautiful movement he had ever seen. But, though she was about again, by no amount of patient vigilance could he now get the chance of speaking to her alone. But he consoled himself with the thought that she must understand him ; if he had spoken he coukln't have made himself clearer. And now the Porters' visit was all but over, and Katie and her father left for Englelmurn. The Porters were to follow the next day, and promised to drive round and stop at the Rectory for lunch. Tom petitioned for a seat in their carriage to Englebourn. He had been devoting himself to Mrs. Porter ever since the accident, and had told her a good deal about nifl own eaily life. His account of his early friendship for Betty and her son, and the renewal of it on the day he left Barton Manor, had interested her, and she was moreover not insensible to his assiduous and respectful attentions to herself, which had of late been quite marked : she was touched too at his anxiety to hear all about her boys, and how they were going on at school. So on the whole Tom was in high favour witli her, and she most graciously assented to his occupying the fourth seat in their barouche. She was not without her suspicions of the real state of the case with him ; but his behdviour had been so discreet that she had no immediate 382 TOM CliOWN AT OXFORD. fears ; and, after all, if anything should come of it some years hence her daughter might do worse. In the meantime she v/ould see plenty of society in London ; where Mr. Porter's vocations kept him during the greater part of the year. They readied Englebourn after a pleasant long morning';'? drive; and Tom stole a glance at Mary, and felt that shu understood him, as he pointed out the Hawk's Lynch and the clump of Scotch firs to her mother; and told how you might see Barton from the top of it, and how he loved the place, and the old trees, and the view. Katie was at the door ready to receive them, and carried off Mary and Mrs. Porter to her own room. Tom walked round the garden with Mr. Porter, and then s^in the draw- ing-room, and felt melancholy. He roused hiniself, however, when the ladies came down and luiichgthe Englebourn 2:)eople, and especially or^peoJi JMrs. ^ W^inrhuTn and her son, in whom she had begun to take a deep interest, perhaps from overhear- ing some of Tom's talk to her mother. So Harry's story was canvassed again, and Katie told them hoM' he had been turned out of his cottage, and how anxious she was as to what would come of it. " And is he going to marry your gardener's daughter after all 1 " asked Mrs. Porter. "I am afraid there is not much chance of it," said Katie ; "I cannot make Martha out." " Is she at home, Katie 1 " asked Mary ; " I should like to see her again. I took a great fancy to her when I was here." "Yes, she is at the lodge. We will walk there after luncheon." So it was settled that the carriage should pick them up at the lodge ; and soon after luncheon, while the horses were being put to, the whole party started for the lodge after saying good-bye to Mr. Winter, who retired to his room much fatigued by his unwonted l^jspitality. Old Simon's wife answered their knock at the lodge door, and they all entered, and Mrs. I'oiter paid her compliments on the cleanliness of the room. Then INIary said, " Is your daughter at home, Mrs. Gibbons 1 " " Ees, miss, someweres handy," replied Mrs. Gibbons , 'her hav'n't been gone out, not dree minnit." " I should like so much to say good-bye to her," said Mary. " We shall be leaving Barton soon, and I shall not see her again till next summer." "Lor bless'ee, miss, 'tis werrj good ov'ee," said tie old MHAEN AFAN. oS'6 dame, very proud ; " do'ee set down then while I goes her a call." And with that she hurried out of the door which led through the back kitchen into the little yard behind the lod^!*e, and the next moment they heard her calling out — " Patty, Piitty, wher bist got to 1 Come in and see the gentlefolk." The name which the old woman was calling out made Tom stai't. " I thought you said her name was Martha," said ]\Irs. Porter. "Patty is short for Martha in Berkshire," said Katie, laughing. " And Patty is such a pretty name. I wonder you don't call her Patty," said jNIary. " We had a housemaid of the same name a year or two ago, and it made such a confusion — and when one once gets used to a name it is so hard to change — so she has always been called Martha." " Well, I'm all for Patty ; don't you think so ? " said Mary, turning to Tom. The sudden introduction of a name which he had such reasons for remembering, the memories and fears Avhich it called up — above all, the bewilderment which he felt at hear- ing it tossed about and canvassed by Mary in his presence, as if there were nothing niore in it than in any other name — ■ confused him so that he fl(nindered and blundered in his attempt to answer, and at last gave it up altogetlier. She was surprised, and looked at him inquiringly. His eyes fell before hers, and he turned away to the window, and looked at the carriage, which had just drawn up at the lodge door. He had scarcely time to think how foolish he was to be so moved, when he heard the back-kitchen door open again, and the old woman and her daughter come in. He turned round sharply, and there on the floor of the room, curtseying to the ladies, stood the ex-barmaid of " The Chouglis." His first impulse was to hurry away — she was looking down, and he might not be recognised ; his next, to stand his ground, and take what- ever might come. Mary went up to her and took her hand, saying that she could not go away without coming to see her. Patty looked up to answer, and, glancing round the room, caught sight of him. He stepped forward, and then stopped and tried to speak, but no words would come. Patty looked at him, dropped Mary's hand, blushed up to the roots of her hair as she looked timidly round at the wondering spectators, and, putting hci hands to her face, ran out of the back door again. 384 TOM BKOWX AT OXFORD. " Lawk a Tnapsy ! what ever can ha' cum to cm pH.tty ? * said Mrs. Gibbons, following her ont. " I think we had better go," said ^Ir. Porter, giving hia arm to his daughter, and leading her to the door, '' Good-bye, Katie ; shall we see you again at Barton ? " " I don't know, uncle," Katie answered, foUo\ving with Mrs. Porter in a state of sad bewilderment Tom, with his brain s'wimming, got out a few stammering farewell words, which Mr. and Mrs. Porter received with marked coldness as they stepped into their carriage. Marj^'s face was flushed and uneasy, but at her he scarcely dared to steal a 1 jok, and to her was quite unable to speak a word. Then the carriage drove off, and he turned, and found Katie standing at his side, her eyes full of serious wonder. Kis fell before them. "My dear Tom," she said, "what is all this? I thought you had never seen Martha ? " " So I thought — I didn't know — I can't talk now — Til explain all to you — don't think veiy badly of me, Katie — God bless you ! " with which words he strode away, while she looked after him with increasing wonder, and then turned and went into the lodge. He hastened away from the Pectory and down the village street, taking the road home mechanically, but other^vise wholly unconscious of roads and men. David, who was very anxious to speak to him about Harry, stood at his door making signs to him to ?top, in vain : and then gave chase, calling out after him, till he saw that all attempts to attract his notice were useless, and so ambled back to his shop-board much troubled in mind. The fijst object which recalled Tom at all to himself was the little white cottage looking out of Engleboum copse towards the village, in which he had sat by poor Betty's death-bed. The garden was already getting wild and tangled, and the house seemed to be uninhabited. He stopped for a moment and looked at it with bitter searchings of heart. Here was the place where he had taken such a good tnrn, a? he had fondly hoped — m counexion vrith the then Inmates of which he had made the stroncrest good re?olutions he had eve'* made in his life perhaps. "What was the good of his trying to befriend anybody 1 His friendship turned to a blight ; whatever he had as yet tried to do for HaiTV had only injured him, and now how did they stand ! Could they ever be friends again after that day's discovery { To do him justice, the probable rain of all his own prospects, the sudden coldness of Mr. and Mrs. Porter's looks, and Mary's averted face, vrere MHAhN AFAN, 385 not the things he thought of first, and did not trouble him most. He thought of rlarry, and shuddered at the wrong he had done him as he looked at his deserted home. The door opened and a tigure appeared. It was Mr. "Wurley's agent, tlie lawyer who had been employed by farmer Tester in his contest with Harry and his mates about the pound. The man of law saluted him with a smirk of scarcely concealed triumi)h, and then turned into the house again and shut the door, as if he did not consider further communication nocossaiy or safe. Tom turned with a muttered imprecation on him and his master, and h\irried away along the lane which led to the heath. The Hawk's Lynch lay above him, and he^cttmbc? the side mechanically and sat himself again oaihe old spot. He sat for some time looking over the jamlscape, graven on his mind as it was by his former visit, and bitterly, oh, how bitterly ! did the remembrance of that visit, and of the exulta- tion and triumpih which then filled him, and carried him away over the heath ^^•ith a shout towards his home, come back on him. He could look out from his watch-tower no longer, and lay down with his face between his hands on the turf, and groaned as he lay. But his good angel seemed to haunt the place, and soon the cold fit began to pass away, and better and more hopeful thoughts to return. After all, what had he done since his last visit to that place to be ashamed of? Nothing. His attempts to do Harry service, xrnlucky as they had proved, had been honest. Had he become less worthy of the love which had first consciously mastered liim there some four weeks ago 1 Xo ; he felt, on the contrary, that it had already raised him, and purified him, and made a man of him. But this last discovery, how could he ever get oyer that ? Well, after all, the facts were just the same as before ; only now they had come out It was right that they should have come out ; better for him and for e\^ery one that they should he knoAvn and faced. He was ready to face them, to abide any consequences that they might now bring in their train. His heart was right towards 3Iary, towards Pattj^, towards Harry — that he felt sure of. And, if so, why shoiild he despair of either his love or his friendship coming to a good end i And so he sat up again, and looked out bravely towards Barton, and began to consider what was to be done. His eyes rested on the Rectory. That was the first place to begin with. He must set himself right with Katie — let her know the whole story. Tlirough her he could reach all the rest and do whatever must be done to clear the ground and start fre.sVi again, c c 386 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. At first he thought of returning to her at once, and rose to go down to Euglebourn. But anything hke retracing his steps was utterly distasteful to him just then. Before him ho saw light, dim enough as yet, but still a dawning ; towards that he would press, leaving everything behind him to take care of itself. So he turned northwards, and struck across the heath at his best pace. The violent exercise almost finished his cure, and his thoughts became clearer and more hopeful as he neared home. He arrived there as the house- hold were going to bed, and found a letter waiting for him. It was from Hardy, saying that Blake had left him, and he was now thinking of returning to Oxford, and Avould come for his long-talked-of visit to Berkshire, if Tom was still at home, and in the mind to receive liim. Never was a lett(,>r more opportune. Here was the tried fi-iend on whom he could rely for help and advice and sympathy — who knew all the facts too from beguining to end ! His father and mother were delighted to hear that they should now see the friend of whom he had spoken so much. So he went up stairs, and wrote an answer, which set Hardy to work packing his portmanteau in the far west, and brought hiit. speedily to the side of his friend under the lee of the Berk- shire hills. CHAPTER XXXV. SECOND YEAR. For some days after his return home — in fact, until hit, friend's arrival, Tom was thoroughly beaten down and wretched, notwitlistanding his efforts to look hopefully forward, and keep up his spirits. His usual occupations were utterly dis- tasteful to him ; and, instead of occupying himself, ho sal brooding over his late misfortune, and hopelessly puzzling his head as to what he could do to set matters right. The convic- tion in which he always landed was that there was nothing to be done, and that he was a desolate and blighted being, deserted of gods and men. Hardy's presence and company soon shook him out of this maudlin nightmare state, and he began to recover as soon as he had his old sheet-anchor friend to hold on to and consult with. Their consultations were 'isld chiefly in the intervals of woodcraft, in wliich they spent most of the hours between breakfast and dinner. Hardy did not take out a certificate, and wouldn't slioot without one j so, as i/he best autumn exercise, they selected a tough old 1 SECOND YEAR. 387 pollartl elm, infinitely ugly, with knotted and tvvisted roots, curiously difficult to get at and cut through, wliich had been loTig marked as a blot by Mr. Brown, and condemned to be felled as soon as there was nothing more pressing for his men to do. But there was always something of more importance ; so that the cross-grained old tree might have remained until this day, had not Hardy and Tom pitched on him as a foemaii worthy of their axes. They shovelled, and picked, and hewed away with great energy. The woodman who visited them occasionally, and who, on examining their first efforts, had remarked that the severed roots looked a little "as tho' the dogs had been a gnawin' at 'em," began to hold them in respect, and to tender his advice with some defert^nce. By the time the tree was felled and shrouded, Tom was in a con- valescent state. Their occupation had naturally led to discussions on the advantages of emigration, the delights of clearing one's own estate, building one's own house, and getting away from con- ventional life with a few tried friends. Of course the pic- tures which were painted included foregrounds with beautiful children playing about the clearing, and graceful women, wives of the happy squatters, flitting in and out of the log- houses and sheds, clothed and occupied after the manner of our ideal grandmothers ; with the health and strength of Amazons, the refinement ofliigh-bred ladies, and wondrous skill in all domestic works, confections, and contrivances. The log-houses would also contain fascinating select libraries, continually reinforced from home, suffi)^ient to keep all dwellers in the happy clearing in commui^ion with all the highest minds of their own and former generations. Wondrous games m the neighbouring forest, dear old home customs established and taking root in the wilderness, with ultimate dainty flower gardens, conservatories, and pianofortes — a mil- lennium on a small scale, with universal educatioin, competence, prosperity, and equal rights I Such castle-building, as an accompaniment to the hard exercise of woodcraft, worked wonders for Tom in the next week, and may be safely recom- mended to parties in like evil case with him. But more practical discussions were not neglected, and it was agreed that they should make a day at Englebourn to- gether before their return to Oxford, Hardy undertaking to invade the Rectory with the view of re-establishing his friend's character there. Tom wrote a letter to Katie to prepare her for a visit. The day after the ancient elm was fairly disposed of they started early for Englebourn, and separated at the entrance to the 388 TOM BHOWN AT OXFORD. village — Hardy proceeding to the Rectory to fulfil his mission, which he felt to be rather an erabarrasslTig one, and Tom to look after the constable, or whoever else could give him in- formation about Harry. He arrived at the "Red Lion," their appointed trysting- place, before Hardy, and spent a restless half-hour in the porch and bar waiting for his return. At last Hardy came, and Tom hurried him into the inn's best room, where bread and cheeso and ale awaited them, and, as soon as the hostess could be gut out of the room, began impatiently — " Well you have seen her 1" " Yes, I have come straight here from the Rectory." "And is it all right, eh ? Had she got m.y letter?" "Yes, she had had your letter." " And you think she is satisiied 1 " " Satisfied 1 No, you can't expect her to be satisfied." " I mean, is she satisfied that it isn't so bad after all as it looked the other day? AVhat does Katie think of mel" " 1 think she is still very fond of you, but that she has been puzzled and outraged by this discovery, and cannot get over it all at once.'' " Why didn't you tell her the whole story from beginning to end r' " I tried to do so as well as T could." " Oil, but I can see you haven't done it. She doesn't really understand how it is." " Perliaps not ; buo you must lemember it is an awkward subject to be talking about to a young woman. I would sooner stand another fellowship examination than go through it again." "Thank you, old fellow," said Tom, laying his hand on Hardy's shoulder ; " I feel that I'm unreasonable and im- patient ; but you can excuse it ; yoa know that I don't mean it." " Don't say another word ; I only wish I could have done more for you." " But what do you suppose Katie thinks of me ? " " AVhy, you see, it sums itself up in this : she sees that you have been making serious love to Patty, and have turned the poor girl's head, more or less, and that now you are in lovo with somebody else. Why, put it how we will, we can't get out of that. There are the facts, pure nnd simple, and she wouldn't be half a woman if she didn't resent it." "But it's hard lines, too, isn't it. old fellow'? No, T won't say that 1 I deserve it all, and much worse. But you think I may come round all right 1" I SECOND YEAR. 389 "Yes, all in good time. I hope lliere's no danger in any other quarter 1 " " Goodness knows ! There's the rub, you see. She will go back to town disgusted with lue. I sha'n't see lier again, and she won't hear of nie for I don't know how long ; and she will be meeting heaps of men. Has Katie been over to Barton 1 " " Yes ; she was there last week, just before they left." "AVell, what happened 1" " She wouldn't say much ; but I gathered that they are very ^velL" " Oh, yes, bother it. Of com'se, they are very well. But didn't she talk to Katie about what happened last week?" " Of course she did. What else should they taUc about 1" " Ijut you don't know what they said 1 " " No. But you may dejwnd on "it that IMiss "Winter will be your friend. My dear fellow, there is nothing for it but time." " Well, T suppose not," said Tom, with a groan. " Do you think I should call and see Katie?" " No ; I think better not." " Well, then, we may as well get back," said Tom, who was not sorry for his friend's decision. So they jiaid their bill and started for home, taking the Hawk's Lynch on the way, that Hardy might see the view. "And what did you find out about young Winburn?" he said, as they passed down the street. " Oil, no good," said Tom ; "he was turned out, as I thought, and has gone to live with an old woman up on the heath here, who is no better than she should be; and none of the farmers will employ him." " You didn't see him, I sup])ose'?" "!N'o ; he is away with some of the heath people, hawking Desoms and chairs about the country. They make them M'hen there is no harvest work, and loaf about in Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling them." " No good will come of that sort of life, I'm afraid," "No ; but what is he to dol" " I called at the lodge as I came away, and saw Patty and her mother. It's all right in that quarter. The old woman doesn't seem to think anything of it ; and Patty is a good girl, and vnll make Harry Winburn, or anybody else, a ca])ita] wife. Here are your letters." "And the locket?" " I quite forgot it. W]^j didn't you remind me of it ? You talked of nothing but the letters this morning." 390 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. " I'm glad of it. It can do no harm now, ard as it is worth something, I should have been aslianied to take it back. I ho])e she'll put Harry's hair in it soon. Did she seem to mind giving up the letters 1" " ^"ot very much. Ko, you are lucky there. She wiU get over it." " But you told her that I am her friend for life, and that she is to let me know if I can ever do anything for lier V *' Yes. And now I hope this is the last job of the kind I shall ever have to do for you." " But what bad luck it has been 1 If I had only seen her before, or known who she was, nothing of all this would have happened." To which Hardy made no reply ; and the subject was not alluded to again in their walk home. A day or two afterwards they returned to Oxford — Hardy to begin his work as fellow and assistant-tutor of the College, and Tom to see whether he could not make a better hand of his second year than he had of his first. He began with a much better chance of doing so, for he v/as thoroughly humbled. The discovery that he was not altogether such a h.'iro as he had fancied himself, had dawned upon him veiy distinctly by the end of his first year ; and the events of the lung vacation had confirmed the impression, and pretty Avell taken all the conceit out of him for the time. The impotency of his own will, even when he was bent on doing the right thing, his want of insight and foresight in whatever matter he took in hand, the unruliness of his tempers and passions just at the moments when it behoved him to have them most tlioroughly in hand and under control, were a set of dis- agreeable facts which had been driven well home to him. The results, being even such as we have seen, he did not much repine at, for he felt he had deserved them ; and there was a sort of grim satisfaction, dreary as the prospect was, in facing them, and taking his punishment like a man. This was what he had felt at the first blush on the Ha,wk's Lynch ; and, as ho thought over matters again by his fire, with his oak sported, on the first evening of term, he was still in the same mind This was clearly what he had to do now. How to do it, was the only question. At first ho was inclined to try to set himself right with tho Porters and the Englebourn circle, by writing further ex- planations and confessions to Katie. But, on trying his hand at a letter, he found that he could not trust himself. The temptation of putting everything in the best point of view for himself was too great ; so ho gave up the attempt, and I SECOND YEAR. iJ91 merely wrote a few liiicp to David, to remind liim that he was always ready and anxious to do all lie could for his friend, ]Iarry Winhurn, and to beg that he might have news of any- tliing which happened to him, and liow he was getting on. lie did not allude to what had lately happened, for he did not know whether tlie facts had bec^ome known, and v/as in no hurry to open the subject liimsclf Having finished his hotter, he turned again to his medita- tions over tlie fire, and, considering that lie had some little right to reward resolution, took off tlie safety valve, and allowed the thoughts to bubble up freely which were always untlerlj'ing all others that passed through his brain, and making constant low, delicious, liut just now somewhat melan- choly music, in his liead and heart. He gave himself up to thinking of Mary, and their walk in the wood, and the sprained ankle, and all the sayings and doings of that eventful autumn day. And then he opened liis desk, and examined certain treasures therein concealed, including a witliered rose- bud, a sjtrig of heatlier, a cut Ijoot-lace, and a scrap or two of v\Titing. Having gone through some extravagant forms of Worship, not necessary to be specified, he put them away. Would it ever all come right? He made his solitary tea, and sat down again to consider the jDoint. But the point would not be considered alone. He began to feel more strongly wliat he had had several hints of already, that there was a curiously close connexion between his own love story and that of Harry Winburn and Patty — that he couldn't separate them, even in his thoughts. Old Simon's tumble, which had recalled his daughter from Oxford at so critical a moment for him ; Mary's visit 1o linglebourn at this very time ; the curious yet natural series of little accidents nhich had kept him in ignorance of Patty's identity until the final catastrophe — then, again, the way in which Harry Wintjurn and his mother liad come .across him on the very day of his leaWng Barton ; tlie fellowship of a common mourning which had seemed to bind them together so closely ; and this last discovery, which he could not help fearing must turn Harry into a bitter enemy, when he heard the truth, as lie must, sooner or later — as all these things passed before him, he gave in to a sort of superstitious feeling that his own fate hung, in some way or another, upon that of Harry Winburn. If he helj>ed on his sui*^^, he was helping on his own; but whether he helped on his o\\'n or not, was, after all, not that which was uppermost in his thoughts. He was much changed in this respect since he last sat in those room'', just after his tirat days with her. Since then an angel had met him, and b92 TOM LltOWN AT OXFOKD. had "touched the chord of self, which, trembling," was passiiig " iu music out of sight." The thought of Hurry and his trials enabled him to indulge iu some good honest indignation, for which there was no room ill his own case. That the prospects in life of such a man should be in the power, to a great extent, of such peojile as Squire Vv^uiiey and farmer Tester ; that, because he ha]>- pened to be poor, he should be turned out of the cottage where his family had lived for a hundred years, at a week's notice, liirough the caprice of a drunken gambler; that, because he had stood wp for his rights, and had thereby offended the ■\\ urst farmer in the parish, he should be a marked man, and unable to get work — these things appeared so monstrous to Tom, and made hun so angiy, that he was obliged to get up and stamp about the room. And from the particular case he very soon got to generalizations. t^)uestions which had befoie now puzzled him gained a new signilicance every minute, and became real to him. AVhy a few men slioidd be ricii, and all the I'est i)Oor ; above all, why he should be one of the few 1 Why the mere possession of ])roperty should give a man power over all his neighbours ? A\'hy poor men who were ready and willing to work should only be allowed to work as a sort of favour, and should after all get the merest tithe of what theu' labour produced, and be tossed aside as soon as theii' work was done, or no longer required ] These, and other such problems, rose up before him, crude and sharp, aski)ig to be solved. Feeling himself quite unable to giv". any but one answer to them — viz. that he was getting out of his depth, and that the whole busincvSS was in a muddle — he had recourse to his old method when in difliculties, and putting on his cap, started ofl' to Hardy's looms to talk the matter over, and see whether he could not got some light on it from that quarter. He returned in an hour or so, somewhat less troubled in his mind, inasmuch as he had found his friend in pretty much tlie same state of mind on such topics as liimself But one etc]) he had gained. Under his arm he carried certain books from Hardy's scanty library, the }>erusal of which he hoped, at least, might enable him sooner or later to feel that he had got on to some sort of firm ground. At any rate, Haidy had advised him to read them ; so, without more ado, he drew his chair to the table and began to look into them. This gliiu])se of the manner in which Tom spent the fiist evening of his second year at Oxford, v.ill enable intelligent leaders to understand why, though he took to reading far more kindly and earnestly than he had ever done before, he SECOND YEAR. 393 Ttr nsations produced by these are the same in kind ; but Ticket, boating, getting briefs, even hunting lose their edge us time goes on. As to lady readers, it is impossible, pro- bably, to give them an idea of the sensation in question. I'ej'haps some may have experienced something of the kind at their first balls, when they heard whis[)ers and saw all eyes turning theii- way, and knew that thcii' di'esses and gloves THE RIVEK SIDE. 403 fitted perfectly. But this joy can be felt but once in a life, and the first fish couies bacli as fresh as ever, or ought to come, if all men had their rights, once in a season. So, good luck to the gentle craft, and its professors, and may the Fates send us much into their com[)any ! The trout-fishcr, like the landscape-painter, haunts the loveliest places of the earth, and haunts them alone. Solitude, nature, and his own thoughts — he must be on the best terms with all of these , and he who can take kindly the largest allowance of these is likely to be the kindliest and truest with his fellow- men. Tom had s^dendid si)ort thit summer morning. As the great sun rose higher, the light morning breeze, which had curled the M'ater, dii'd away ; the light mist drew up into light cloud, and the light cloud vanished, into cloudland, for anything I know ; and still the fish rose, strange to say, though Tom felt it was an all'air of minutes, and acted accord- ingly. At eight o'clock, he was about a Cjuarter of a mile from the house, at a point in the stream of rare charms both for the angler and the lover of gentle river beauty. The main stream was crossed by a lock, formed of a solid brick bridge with no pai'apets, under which the water rushed through four small arches, each of which could be closed in an instant by letting down a heavy wooden lock gate, fitted in grooves on the u]>per side of the bridge. Such locks are fre(|uent in the west-country streams — even at long distances I'rom mills and millers, for whose behoof they were made in old days, that the supply of water to the mill might be easily regulated. All pious anglers should bless the memories of the old builders of them, for they are the very paradises of the great trout, who frequent the old briclcAvork and timber foundations. The water in its rush through the arches, had of course worked for itself a deep hole, and then, sonie twenty yards below, spread itself out in wanton joyous ripples and eddies over a broad surface some fifty yards across, and dashed away towards a little island some two hundred yards below, or rolled itself slowly back towards the bridge again, up the backwater by the side of the bank, as if longing for another merry rush through one of those narrow arches. The island below was crowned with splendid alders, willows forty feet high, which wept into the water, and two or three poplars ; a rich mile of water meadow, with an occasional willow or alder, lay gleaming beyond ; and the view was bounded by a glorious wood, which crowned the gentle slope, at the foot of which the river ran. Another considerable body of water, which had been carried off above from the main stream to i> D 2 404 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. flusli tlie water meadows, re joined its parent at this point ; it came slowly down a broad artificial ditch running parallel with the main stream ; and the narrow strip of land which divided the two streams ended ahniptly just below the lock, forming a splendid point for bather or angler. Tom had fixed on this pool as his bonne bauche, as a child keeps its plums till the last, and stole over the bridge, stooping low to gain the point above indicated. Having gained it, he glanced round to be aware of the dwarf ash-trees and willows whicly Were scattered along the strip and might catch heedless collars and spoil sport, when, lying lozily nbuost on the sur- face where the backwater met the stream from the meadows, he beheld the great grandfather of all trcvat — a fellow two feet long and a foot in girth at the shoulders, just moving fin enough to keep him from turning over on to his back. He threw himself flat on the ground and crept away to the other side of the strip ; the king-fish had not seen him ; and the next moment Tom saw him suck in a bee, laden with his morning's load of honey, who touched the water unwarily close to his nose. With a trembling hand, Tom took off his tail fly, and, on his knees, substituted a governor ; then, shortening hie- line after wetting his mimic bee in the pool behind him, tossed it gently into the monster's very jaws. For a moment the fish seemed scared, but, the next, conscious in his strength, lifted his nose slowly to the surface and sucked in the bait. Tom struck gently, and then sprang to his feet. But the Heavens had other work for the Icing-fish, who dived swiftly under the bank ; a slight jar followed, and Tom's rod was straight over his head, the line and scarce a yard of his trusty gut collar dangling about his face. He seized this remnant with horror and unsatisfied longing, and examined it with care. Could he have overlooked any fraying which the gut might have got in the morning's work 1 No : he had gone over every inch of it not five minutes before, as he nearcd the pool. Besides, it was cut clean through, not a trace of bruise or fray about it. How could it have happened ? He went to the spot and looked into the water ; it was slightly discoloured, and he could not see the bottom. He threw his fishing coat off, rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and, lying on his side, felt about the bank and tried to reach the bottom, but couldn't. So, hearing the half-hour bell ring, he deferred further inquiry, and stripped in silent disgust for a plunge in the pool. Three times he hurled himself into the delicious rush of the cold chalk stream, with that uttei abandon in which man, whose bones are brittle, can only THE EIVEE SIDE. 405 Indulge when there are six or seven feet of water between him and mother earth ; and, letting the stream bear him away at its own sweet will to the shallows below, struck up again through the rush and the roar to his plunging place. Then, slowly and luxuriously dressing, he lit his short pipo — companion of meditation — and began to ruminate on ti.e escape of the king-fish. "What could have cut his collar 1 The more he thought the less he could make it out. When suddenly he was aware of the keeper on his wa}'' back to tho house for orders and breakfast. "What sport, sir?" " Pretty fair," said Tom, carelessly, lugging five plump speckled fellows, weighing some seven and a half pounds, out of liis creel, and laying them out for the keeper's inspec- tion. " Well, they be in prime order, sir, surely," says tho keeper, handling them ; " they alius gets mortal thick across the shoulders while the May-fly be on. Lose any sir?" " I put in some little ones up above, and lost one screamer just up the back ditch there. He must have been a four- pounder, and went off, and be hanged to him, with two yards of my collar and a couple of first-rate flies. How on earth he got off I can't tell ! " and he went on to unfold the particulars of the short struggle. The keeper could hardly keep down a grin. " Ah, sir," said he, " I thinks I knows what spwiled your sport. You owes it all to that chap as I was a-telling you of, or my name's not Wilhun Goddard ; " and then, fishing the lock- pole Avith a hook at the end of it out of the rushes, he began gi'oping under the bank, and presently haided up a sort of infernal machine, consisting of a heavy lump of wood, a yard or so long, in which were carefully inserted the blades of four or five old knives and razors, while a crop of rusty jagged nails filled up the spare space. Tom looked at it in wonder. " What devil's work have you got hold of there 1 " he said at last. " Eless you, sir," said the keeper, " 'tis only our shove-net traps as I were a-telling you of. I keeps hard upon a dozen on 'em, and shifts 'em about in the likeliest holes ; and I takes care to let the men as is about the water meadows see me a-sharpening on 'em up a bit, wi' a file, now and again. And, since master gev me orders to put 'em in, I don't thmk they tries that game on not once a montli." " Well, but where do you and your master expect to go to if you set such things as those about J" said Tom, iookij'.j^ 406 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. serious. " Why, you'll be cuttiug some fellow's hand or foot half off one of these days. Suppose I'd waded up the bank to see what had become of my cast 1 " " Lor', sir, I never thought o' that," said the keeper, look- ing sheepish, and lifting the back of his sliort hat off his head to make room for a scratch ; " but," added he, turning tlie subject, " if you wants to keep thay artful wosbirds otf the water, you must frighten 'era wi' summat out o' the way. Diattle 'em, I knows they puts me to my wit's-end ; but you'd never 'a had five such fish as them afore breakfast, sir, if we didn't stake the waters." " Well, and 1 don't want 'em, if I can't get 'em without. I'll tell you what it is, keeper, this razor lousiness is going a bit too far ; men ain't to be maimed for liking a bit of sport. You set spring-guns in the woods, and you know what that came to. Why don't you, or one of your watchers, stop out here at night, and catch the fellows, like men 1 " " Why, you see, sir, master don't allow me but one watcher, and he's uiortal feared o' the Avater, he be, specially o' nights. He'd sooner by half stop up in the woods. Dadtly Collins (that's an old woman as lives on the heath, sir. and a bad sort she be, too) well, she told he once, when he wouldn't '^ee her some bacclij^ as he'd got, and slie'd a mind to, as he'd ;l twice into the water for once as he'd get out ; and th' poor chap ever since can't think but wliat he'll be drownded. And there's queer sights and sounds by the river o' nights, too, I 'ool say, sir, let alone the white mist, as makes everything look uuket, and gives a chap the rheumatics." "Well, but you ain't afraid of ghosts and rheumatism'?'' " No, I don't know as I be, sir. But then, there's the pheasants a-breedin', and there's four brood of flappers in the withey bed, and a sight of young hares in the spmncys. I be liard put to to mind it all." " I daresay you are," said Tom, putting on his coat, and shoiildering his rod ; " I've a good mind to take a turn at it myself, to help you, if you'll only drop those razors." " I Avishes you would, sir," said the keeper, from behind ; " if genl'men 'd sometimes take a watch at nights, they'd find out as keepers hadn't all fair-weather work, I'll warrant, if they're to keep a good head o' game about a place. 'Taint all popping olf guns, and lunching under hayricks, I can tell 'em — no, nor half on it." " Where do you think, now, this fellow we were talking of sells his fish 1 " said Tom, after a minute's thought. "Mostly at Reading Market, I hears tell, sir. There's the guard of the mail, as goes by the cross-roads three days 1 THE NIGHT WATCH. 407 a week, he Avur a rare poaching cliap hisself down in the west afore he got his place along of his bngle-playini:^. They do say as he's open to any game, he is from a biK^k to a snipe, and drives a trade all down the road with the country chaps." " What day is Eeading Market 1 " "Tuesdays and Saturdays, sir." " And what time does the mail go by 1 " " Six o'clock in the morning, sir, at the cross-roads." " And they're three miles off, across the fields ? " "Thereabouts, sir. I reckons it alx)ut a forty minutes' stretch, and no time lost." "There'll be no more big fish caught on the fly to-day," said Tom, after a minute's silence, as they nearcd the house. The wind had fallen dead, and not a spot of cloud in the sky. " Not afore nightfall, I think, sir ; " and the keeper di.s- appeared towards the offices. CHAPTER XXXVIL THE NIGRT WATCH. "You ma}^ do as you please, but Tm going to see it out." " Xo, but I say, do come along ; that's a good fellow." "Not I; why, we've only just come out. Didn't you hear 1 Wurley dared me to do a night's watching, and I said I meant to do it." " Yes ; so did I, But we can change our minds. AVhat's the good of having a mind if you can't change it ! ai SevTepni TTtoc posite side of which was a rough piece of ground, half withey-bed, half copse, with a rank growth of rushes at the water's edge. These were the chosen haunts of the moor-hen and water-rat, whose tracks could be seen by dozens, like small open doorways, looking out on to the river, through which ran mysterious little paths into the rush- wilderness beyond. The sun was now going down behind the copse, through which his beams came aslant, chequered and melloAV. TliC stream ran dimpHng down by him, sleepily swaying the masses of weed, under the surface and on the surface ; and the trout rose under the banks, as some moth or gnat or gleaming beetle fell into the stream ; here and there one more frolicsome than his brethren would throw himself joyously into the air. The swifts rushed close by him, in companies of five or six, and wheeled, and screamed, and clashed away again, skimming along the water, baffling his eye as he tried to follow their flight. Two kingfishers shot suddenly up on to their supper station, on a stunted willow stump, some twenty yards below him, and sat there in the glory of their blue backs and cloudy red waistcoats, watching with long sagacious beaks pointed to the water beneath, and every now and then dropping like flashes of light into the strtiamj and rising again, with ^vh^.<,4 410 TOM BllOWN AT OXFORD, seemed one motion, to tlicir perches. A heron or two were fisliing about the meadows ; and he watched them stalking abont in their sober quaker coats, or rising on slow heavy wing, and lumbering away home with a weird cry. lie heard the strong pinions of the wood pigeon in the air, and then from the trees above his head came the soft call, "Take-two- cow-Taffy, take-two-cow-TafTy," with which that fair and false bird is said to have beguiled the hapless Welch man to the gallows. Presently, as he lay motionless, the timid and graceful little water-hens peered out from their doors in the rushes opyjosite, and, seeing no cause for fear, stepped daintily ijito the water, and were suddenly surrounded by little bundles of black soft down, which went paddling about in and out of the weeds, encouraged by the occasional sharp, clear, parental " keck — keck," and mei'iy little dabchicks poppeil up in mid- stream, and looked round, and nodded at him, pert and voice- less, and dived again ; even old cunning water-rats sat up on the bank with round black noses and gleaming eyes, or took solemn swims out, and turned up their tails and disappeareil for his anuiscment. A comfortable low came at intervals from the cattle, revelling in the abundant herbage. All living things seemed to be disporting themselves, and enjoying, after their kind, the last gleams of the sunset, which were making the whole vault of heaven glow and shimmer ; and, as he watched them, Tom blessed his stars as he conti'asted the river-side with the glare of lamps and the click of balls in the noisy pool-room. Jiefore it got dark he bethought him of making sure of his position once more ; matters might have changed since he chose it before dinner. With all that he could extract from the kee2)er, and his own experience in such matters, it liad taken him sevei'al hours' hunting up and down the river that afternoon before he had hit on a night-line. But he had persevered, knowing that this was the only safe evidence to start from, and at last had found several, so cunningly set that it was clear that it was a first-rate artist in the poaching line against whom he had pitted himself. These lines must have been laid almost under his nose on that very day, as the fresh- ness of the baits proved. The one which he had selected to watch by was under the bank, within a few j\ards of the clump of alders where he was now sitting. There was no satisfactory cover near tlie others ; so he had chosen this one, vhere he would be perfectly concealed behind the nearest iruuk from any person who might come in ilue time to take up the line. With this view, then, he got up, and, stepping carefully on the tliickest grass, where his foot would leave no mark, went to the bank, and felt with the hook of his stick I THE NIOHT WATCn. 411 after tlie line. It was all right, and be returned to his ohl scat. And then the summer twilight came on, and the birds dis- appeared, and the hush of night settled down on river, and copse, and meadow — cool and gentle summer twilight after the hot bright day. He welcomed it too, as it folded up tlie landscape, and the trees lost their outline, and settled into soft black masses rising here and there out of the white mist, wliich seemed to have crept up to within a few yards all round him unawares. There was no sound now but the yentle murmur of the water, and an occasional rustle of reeds, or of the leaves over his head, as a stray wandering putf of air passed through them on its way home to bed. Nothing to listen to, and nothing to look at ; for the moon had not risen, and the light mist hid everything except a star or two right up above him. So, the outside world having left him for the present, he was turned inwards on himself. This was all very well at first ; and he Avrapped the plaid round his shoiJders and leant against his tree, and indulged in a little self-gratulation. There was something of strangeness and adventure in his solitary night-watch, which had its charm for a youngster of twenty-one ; and the consciousness of not running from his word, of doing what he had said he would do, while others shirked and brolce down, was decidedly pleasant. 15ut this satisfaction did not last very long, and the night began to get a little wearisome, and too cool to be quite com- foi'table. By degrees doubts as to the wisdom of his self- imposetl task crept into his liead. He dismissed them for a time by turning his thouglits to other matters. The ncigh- bourliood of Englebourn, some two miles up above him, reminded hira of the previous summer ; and he wondered how he should get on with his cousin wlieii they met. He should probably see her the next day, for he woiild lose no time in calling. "Would she receive him well ? AV^ould she have much to tell him about jNIary 1 He had been more hojieful on this subject of late, but the loneliness, the utter solitude and silence of his position, as lie sal there in the misty night, away from all human habitations, was not favourable somehow to hopefulness. He fouml him- self getting dreary and sombre in heart — more and more so as the minutes rolled on, and the silence and loneliness pressed on him more and more lieavily. He was surprised at his own down-heartedncss, and tried to remember how he had spent former nights so pleasantly out of doors. Ah, he had alwaya had a companion witliin call, and something to do — cray 412 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. fishing, bat fowling, or something of the kmd ! Sitting there doing nothing, he fancied, must make it so heavy to-uight. liy a strong effort of will he shook oif the oppression. Ha moved, and hummed a tune to bl^»ak the silence ; he got up and -walked up and down, lest it should again master him. If wmd, storm, pouring rain, anything to make sound or move- ment, would but come ! Eut neither of them came, and there was little help in sound or movement made by himself. Besides, it occurred to him that much walking up and down might defeat the object of his watch. No one would come near while he was on the move ; and he was probably making marks already which might catch the eye of the setter of the night-lines at some distance, if that cunning party waited for the morning light, and might keep him away from the place altogether. So he sat down again on his old seat, and leant hard against the alder trunk, as though to steady himself, and keep all troublesome thoughts well in front of him. In this attitude of defence he reasoned with himself on the absurdity of allowing himself to be depressed by the mere accidents of place, and darkness, and silence ; but all the reasoning at his command didn't alter the fact. He felt the enemy advancing again, and, casting about for help, fell back on the thought that lie was going through a task, holding to his word, doing what he had said he would do ] and this brought him some relief for the moment. He fixed his mind steadily on this task of his ; but alas, here again, in his very last stronghold, the enemy began to turn his liank, and the position every minute became more and more untenable. He had of late tallen into a pestilent habit of cross-ques- tioning himself on anything which he was about — setting up himself like a cock at Shrovetide, and pelting himself with inexorable "whys?" and "wherefores'?" A pestilent habit truly he had found it, and one which left a man no peace of his life — a relentless, sleepless habit, always ready to take advantage of him, but never so viciously alert, that he re- membered, as on this night. And so this questionuig self, which would never be denied for long, began to examine him as to his proposed night's work. This precious task which he was so proud of going through with, on the score of which he had been in his heart crowing over others, because they had not taken it on them, or had let it drop, what then was the meaning of it ] " ^V^:lat was he out there for 1 What had he come out to do 1 " They were awkward questions. He tried several 'answers, ai\d was driven from one to another till lie wi:s THE NIGHT WATCH. 413 bound to admit that he was out there that night partly out of pique, and partly out of pride : and that his object (next to earning the pleasure of thinking himself a better man than his neiglibours) was, if so be, to catch a poacher. " To catch a poacher 1 What business had he to be catching poachers 1 If all poachers were to be caught, he would have to be caught himself." He had just had an unpleasant reminder of this fact from him of the heather mixtures — a Parthian remark which he had thrown over his shoulder as he went off, and which had stucK. " But then," Tom argued, " it was a very diiferent thing, his ponching — going out for a day's lark after game, Avliich he didn't care a straw for, but only for the sport — and that of men making a trade of it, like the man the keeper spoke of." " Why 1 How different ? H there Avere any difference, was it one in his favour 1 " Avoid- ing this suggestion, he took up new ground. " Poachers were alwnys the greatest blackguards in their neighbourhoods, pests of society, and ought to be put down." " Possibly — at any rate he had been one of the fraternity in his time, and was scarcely tlie man to be casting stones at them." '■ Put his poaching had always been done thoughtlessly." " How did he know that others had worse motives 1 " And so he went on, tossing the matter backwards arid forAvards in his mind, and getting more and more uncomfort- able, and luiable to answer to his own satisfaction the simple question, " What right have you to be out here on this errand 1 " He got up a second time and walked up and down, but with no better success than before. The change of position, and exercise, did not help him out of his difficulties. And now he got a step further. If he had no right to be there, liadn't he better go up to the house and say so, and go to bed like the rest ] No, his pride couhln't stand that. But, if ho couldn't go in, he might turn into a barn or outhouse ; nobody would be any the wiser then, and after all he was not pledged to stop on one spot all night 1 It was a tempting suggestion, and he was very near yieldmg to it at once. AVhile he wavered, a new set of thoughts came up to back it. How, if he stayed there, and a gang of night-poachers came 1 He knew that many of them were desperate men. He had no arms ; what could he do against them ? Nothing ; but he might be maimed for life in a night row which he had no business to be in — nuirdered, perhaps. He stood still and listened long and painfully. Every moment, as he listened, the silence mastered him more and more, and his reason became more and n.'ore power- 414 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. less. It was such a silence — a great illimitable, vague silence ! The silence of a deserted house, where he could at least have felt that he was bounded somewhere, by wall, and tioor, and roof — where men must have lived and worked once, though tliey might be there no longer — would have been nothing ; but this silence of the huge, wide out-of-doors world, where there was notliing but air and space around and above him, and the ground beneath, it was getting irksome, intolerable, awful ! The gi-eat silence seemed to be saying to him, " You are alone, alone, alone ! " and he had never known before what horror lurked in that thought. Every moment that he stood still the spell grew stronger on him, and yet he dared not move ; and a strange, wild feeling of fear — unrnistakeable jtliysical fear, which made his heart beat and his limbs tremble — seized on him. lie was ready to cry out, to fall down, to run, and yet there he stood listening, still and motionless. The critical moment in all panics must come at last. A wild and grewsome hissing and snoring, which seemed to come from the air just over his head, made him start and spring forward, and gave him the use of his limbs again at any rate, though they would not have been Avorth much to lum had the ghost or hobgoblin a|)pearcd whom he half expected to see the next moment. Then came a screech, which seemed to fiit along tlie rough meadow opposite, and come towards him. He drew a long bre;itli, for he knew that sound well enough ; it was nothing after all but the owls. The mere realized consciousness of the presence of some living creatures, were they only owls, brought him to his senses. And now the moon was well up, and the wayward mist had cleared away, and he could catch glimpses of the solemn birds every now and then, beating over the rough meadow backwards and forwards, and over the shallow water, as regularly as trained pointers. He threw himself down again under his tree, and now bethought himself of his pipe. Here was a companion which, wcjuderful to say, he had not thought of before since the night set in. He pulled it out, but paused before lighting. [Nothing was so likely to betray his whereabouts as tobacco. True, but anything was better than such another fright as he had had, " so here goes," he thuught, " if I keep off all the poachers in Berkshire ; " and he accordingly lighted up, and, with the help of his pipe, once more debated with himself the question of beating a retreat. After a sharj) inward struggle, he concluded to stay and see it out He should despise himself, more than he cared i TUE NlGiiT WATCH. 415 to face, if lie gave hi now. If lie left that spot before moi'n- ing, the motive would be sheer cowardice. There might be fifty other good reasons for going ; but, if he went, his reason ■would be fear and nothing else. It might have been wrong anil foolish to come out ; it must be to go in now. " Fear never made a man do a right action," he summed up to himself ; " so here I stop, come what may of it. 1 think I've seen tlie worst of it now. I was in a real blue findv, and no mistake. Let's see, wasn't I laughing tliis morning at the watcher wlio diihi't like passing a niglit by tlie river? Well, lie has got the laugh of me now, if he only knew it. I've learnt one lesson to-night at any rate ; I don't think I shall ever be very \iard on cowards again." By the time he had finished his pipe, he was a man again, and, moreover, notwithstanding the damp, began .to feel sleepy, now that his mind was thoroughly made up, and his nerves were quiet. So he made the best of his plaid, and picked a softish place, and went oil" into a sort of dog-sleep, which lasted at intervals through the short summer night. A j)oor thin sort of sleep it was, in which he never altogether lost his consciousness, and bi'oken by short intervals of actual wakeiulness, but a blessed release from the self-tj^uestionings and panics ol' the early inght. He woke at last with a shiver. It was colder than he had yet felt it, and it seemed lighter. He stretched his half-torpid limbs, and sat up. Yes, it was ceilainly getting light, for he could just make out the figures on the face of his watch which he pulled out. The dawn was almost upon him, and his night watch was over. Nothing had come of it as yet, except his fright, at which he could now laugh comfortably enough; ])iot)ably nothing more might come of it al'ter all, but he had done the task he had set himself without flincliing, aiid that M'as a satisfaction. He wound up his watch, which he had forgotten to do the night before, and then stood up, anil threw his damp plaid aside, and swung his arms across his chest to restore circulation. The crescent moon was high up in the sky, faint and white, and he could scarcely now make out the stars, which were fading out as the glow in the north-east got stronger and broader. Forgetting for a moment the purpose of his vigil, he was tliinking of a long morning's fishing, and had turned to pick up his plaid and go off to the house for his fishing-rod, when he thought he heard the souiid of dry wood snap])ing. He listened intently ; and the next moment it came again, some way off, but plainly to be heard in the intense stillness of the morning. Some living thing was moving down the 41 G TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. stream. Another moment's listening, and lie was convinced that the sound camo from a hedge some hundred yards helow. He had noticed the hedge hefore : the keej^er had stopped up a gap in it the day before, at the place where it came down to tlie Avater, with some ohl hurdles and dry thorns. He drew himself up behind his alder, looking out from behind it cauti ously towards the point from which the sound came. He could just make out the hedge through the mist, but saw nothing. But now the crackling began again, and he was sure that a man was forcing his way over the keeper's barricade. A moment afterwards he saw a figiire drop from the hedge into the slip in which he stood. He drew back his head hastily, and his heart beat like a hammer as he waited the approach of the stranger. In a few seconds the suspense was too much for him, for again there was perfect silence. He peered out a second time cautiously round the tree, and now he could make out the figure of a man stooping by the water-side just above the hedge, and drawing in a line. This was enough, and he drew back again, and made himself small behind the tree ; now he was sure that the keeper's enemy, the man he had come out to take, was here. His next halt would be at the line which was set within a few yards of the place Avhere he stood. So the struggle which he had courted was come ! All his doubts of the night wrestled in his mind for a minute ; but, forcing them down, he strung himself up for the encounter, his whole frame trembling with excitement, and his blood tingling through his veins as though it would burst them. The next minute was as severe a trial of nerve as he had ever been put to, and the sound of a stealthy tread on the grass just below came to him as a relief. It stopped, and he heard the man stoop, tlien came a stir in the water, and the flapping as of a fish being landed. Now was his time ! He sprang from behind the tree, and, the next moment, was over the stooping figure of the poacher. Before he could seize him the n:iun spraiig up, and grappled MTth him. They had come to a tight lock at once, for the poacher had risen so close under him that he could not catch his collar and hoM him off. Too close to strike, it was a des- perate trial of strength and bottom. Tom Icnew in a moment tliat he had his work cut out for him. He felt the nervous power of the frame he had got hold of as he drove his chin into the poacher's shoulder, and arched liis back, and strained every muscle in his body to force him backwards, but in vain. It was all he could do to hold his own ; but he felt that he might hold it yet, as they staggered on the brink of the back ditch, stamping the grass i MARY IN MAYFAIR. 417 and marsh marigolds into the ground, and drawing deep breath through their set teeth. A slip, a false foot-hold, a failing muscle, and it would be over ; down they must go — who would be uppermost ? The poacher trod on a soft place and Tom felt it, and, throwing himseK forward, was reckoning on victory, but reckoning without his host. For, recovering himself with a twist of the body which brought them still closer together, the poacher locked his leg behind Tom's, in a crook which brought the wrestlings of his boyhood into his head with a flash, aa they tottered for another moment, and then losing balance went headlong over with a heavy plunge and splash into the deep back ditch, locked tight in each other's arms. The cold water closed over them, and for a moment Tom held as tight as ever. Under or above the surface it was all the same, he couldn't give in first. But a gulp of water, and the singing in his ears, and a feeling of choking, brought hun to his senses, helped, too, by the thought of his mother, and INIary, and love of the pleasant world up above. The folly and uselessness of being drowned in a ditch on a point of honour stood out before him as clearly as if he had beei; thinking of nothing else all his life ; and he let go his hold — much relieved to find that his companion of the bath seemed equally willing to be quit of him. — and struggled to the surface, and seized the bank, gasping and exhausted. His first thought was to turn round and look for his ad- versary. The poacher was by the bank too, a few feet from him. His cap had fallen oif in the struggle, and, all chance of concealment being over, he too had turned to face the matter out, and their eyes met. " Good God ! Harry ! is it you V Harry Winburn answered nothing ; and the two dragged their feet out of the soft muddy bottom, and scrambled on to the bank, and then with a sort of common instinct sat down, dripping and foolish, each on the place he had reached, and looked at one another. Probably two more thoroughly bewildered lieges of her INfajesty were not at that moment facing one another in any corner of the United Kingdom. CHAPTER XXXVIIL MARY IN MAYFAIR. On the night which our hero spent by the side of the river, with the results detailed in the last chapter, there was a great E K 418 TOM BEOWN AT OXi'OllI). ball in Brook-street, Mayfair. It was the height of the season, and, of course, balls, concerts, and parties ot all kinds were going on in aU parts of the Great Babylon, but the entertain, uient in question was tlce event of that evening. Persons behind the scenes would have told you at once, had you happened to meet them, and eiuiuire on the subject during tlie previous ten days, that Brook-street was the place in which everybody who went anywhere ought to spend some hours between eleven and three on this [)articular evening. If you did not happen to be going there, you had better stay quietly at your club, or yoiu- home, and not speak of your engagements for that night. A great awning had sprung up in the course of the day over the pavement in front of the door, and as the evening closed in, tired lawyers and merchants, on their return from the City, and the riders and drivers on their way home from the Park, might have seen Holland's men laying red drugget over the pavement, and Gunter's carts coming and going, and the police " moving on " the street-boys and servant- maids, and other curious members of the masses, who paused to stare at the preparations. Then came the lighting up of the rooms, and the blaze of pure white light from the uncurtained ballroom windows spread into the street, and the nmsicians passed in with their instruments. Then, after a short ])ause, the carriages of a few intimate friends, who came early at the hostess's express desire, began to drive up, and the Hansom cabs of the con- temporaries of the eldest son, from which issued guardsmen and Poreign-office men, and other dancing-youth of the most approved description. Then the crowd collected again round the door — a sadder crowd now to the eye of any one who has time to look at it ; with sallow, haggard-looking men here and there on the skirts of it, and tawdry women joking and pushing to the front, through the powdered footmen, and linkmen in red waistcoats, aheady clamorous and redolent of gin and beer, and scarcely kept back by the half-dozen constables of the A division, told off for the special duty of attending and keeping order on so important an occasion. Then comes a rush of carriages, and by eleven o'clock the Ime stretches away half round Grosvenor S([uare, and moves at a foot's-pace towards the lights, and the music, and the shouting street. In the middle of the line is the comfortable chariot of our friend Mr. Porter — the corners occupied by himself and his wife, while Miss Mary sits well forward between them, her white muslin dress loopf-d up with sprigs of heather spread delicately on either side over their knees, MARY IN MAY FAIR. 419 and herself in a pleasant tremor of impatience and excite- ment. " How very slow Eobert is to-day, mamma ! we shall never get to the house." " He cannot get on faster, my dear. The carriages in front of us must set down, you know." " But I wish they would be quicker. I wonder whether we shall know many people? Do you think I shall get partners ] " Not waiting for her mother's reply, she went on to name some of lier acquaintance who she knew woidd be there, and bewailing the hard fate which was keeping her out of tlie first dances. Mary's excitement and imj)atience were natural enough. The ball was -not like most bulls. It was a great battle in the midst of the skirmishes of the season, and she felt the greatness of the occasion. Mr. and Mi-s. Porter had for years past dropped into a quiet sort of dinner-giving life, in which they saw few but their own friends and contemporaries. They generally left London before the season was at its height, and had altogether fallen out of the ball-giving and party-going world. Mary's coming out had changed their way of life. For her sake they hud spent the winter at Rome, and, now that they were at home again, were picking up the threads of old acquaint- ance, and encountering the disagreeables of a return into habits long disused and almost forgotten. The giver of the ball was a stirring man in political life, rich, clever, well- connected, and much sought after. He was an old school- fellow of Mr. Porter's, and their intimacy had never been wholly laid aside, no withstanding the severance of their paths in Life. Now that Mary must be taken out, the Brook- street house was one of the first to wluch the Porters turnedj and the invitation to this ball was one of the first conse. quences. K the truth must be told, neither her father or mother were in sympathy with Mary as they gradually neared the place of setting down, and would far rather have been going to a much less imposing place, where they could have driven up at once to the door, and would not have been made un- comfortable by the shoutings of their names from servant to servant. However, after the first plunge, when they had made their bows to their kind and smiling hostess, and had passed on into the already well-filled roonis, their shyness began to wear off, and they could in some sort enjoy the beauty of the sight from a quiet corner. They were not long troubled with Miss Mary. Slie had not been in the ball- I£ K 2 420 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. room two minutes before tlie eldest son of the house had found her out and engaged her for the next waltz. They had met several times already, and were on the best terms ; and the freshness md brightness of her look and manner, and the evident enjoyment of her partner, as they laughed and talked together in the intervals of the dance, soon at- tracted the attention of the young men, who began to ask one another, " Who is Norman dancing with?" and to ejacu- late with various strength, according to their several tempera- ments, as to her face, and figure, and dress. As they were returning towards Mrs. Porter, Norman was pulled by the sleeve more than once, and begged to be allowed to introduce first one and then another of his friends. Mary gave herself up to the fascination of the scene. She had never been in rooms so perfectly lighted, with such a floor, such exquisite music, and sc many pretty and well-bred looking people, and she gave herself up to enjoy it with all her heart and soul, and danced and laughed and talked her- self into the good graces of partner after partner, till she began to attract the notice of some of the ill-natured people who are to be found in every room, and who cannot pardon the pure, and buoyant, and unsuspecting mhth which carries away all but themselves in its bright stream. So Mary passed on from one partner to another, with whom we have no concern, until at last a young lieutenant in the guards, who had just finished his second dance with her, led up a friend whom he bogged to introduce. " Miss Porter — Mr. St. Cloud;" and then, after the usual preliminaries, Mary left her mother's side again and stood up by the side of her new partner. " It is your first season I believe, Miss Porter ?" " Yes, my first in London." *' I thought so ; and you have only just come to town V " We came back from Rome six weeks ago, and have been in town ever since." " But I am sure I have not seen you anywhere this season until to-night. You have not been out much yef?" " Yes, indeed. Papa and mamma are very good-natured, and go whenever we are asked to a ball, as I am fond of dancing." " How very odd ! and yet I am quite sure I should have remembered it if we had met before in town this year." " Is it so very odd 1 " asked Mary, laughing : " London is a very large place. It seems very natural that two people should be able to live in it for a long time without meeting." " Indeed, you are quite mistaken. You will find out very MARY IN MAYFAIR. 421 soon hoyi sniall London is — at least how small society is ; and you will get to know every face quite well — I mean the face of every one in society." "You must have a wonderful memory !" "Yes, 1 have a good memory for faces, and, by the way, I am sure I have seen you before ; but not in town, and I cannot remember Avhere. But it is not at all necessary to have a memory to know everybody in society by sight ; you meet every night almost ; and altogether there are only two or three hundred faces to remember. And then there is some- thing in the look of people, and the way they come into a loom or stand about, which tells you at once whether tliey are amongst those whom you need trouble yourself about." ** Well, I cannot understand it. I seem to be in a whirl of faces, and can hardly ever remember any of them." " You will soon get used to it. By the end of the season you will see that I am right. And you ought to make a study of it, or you will never feel at hom.e in London." " I must make good use of my time then. I suppose I ought to know everybody here, for instance 1 " " Almost everybody." " And I really do not know the names of a dozen people." " Will you let me give you a lesson ?" " Oh, yes ; I shall be much obliged." " Then let us stand here, and we will take them as they pass to the supper-room." So they stood near the door-way of the ball-room, and he ran on, exchanging constant nods and remarks with the passers-by, as the stream flowed to and from the ices and cup, and then rattling on to his partner with the names and short sketches of the characters and peculiarities of his large acquaintance. Mary was very much amused, and had no time to notice the ill-nature of most of his remarks ; and he had the wit to keep within what he considered the most inno- cent bounds. " There, you know him of course," he said, as an elderly soldier-like looking man with a star passed them. " Yes ; at least, I mean I know him by sight. I saw him at the Commemoration at Oxford last year. They gave him an honorary degree on his return from India." " At Oxford ! Were you at the Grand Commemoration, then ?" " Yes. The Commemoration Ball was the first public ball I was ever at." " Ah ! that explains it all. I must have seen you there. I told you we had met before. I was perfectly sure of it." 422 TOM BROWN AT OXFOI^^i " What ! were yon there, tl)en 1" " Yes. I had the honour of being present at your first ball, you see." " But how curious that you should remember me !" " Do you really tliiidt so 1 Surelj' there are some faces which, once seen, one can never forget." " T am so glad that you know dear Oxford." " I know it too well, perhaps, to share your enthusiasm." " How do you mean ?" " I spent nearly three years there." "What, were you at Oxford last year?" "Yes. I left before Conimrmoration : hut T went up for the gaieties, and I am glad of it, as I shall have one pleasant memory of the place now." " Oh, I wonder you dou't love it ! But what college were you of ? " "Why, you talk like a graduate. I was of St. Airibrose." " St. Ambrose ! That is my college !" " Indeed ! I wish we had been in residence at the same time." " I mean that we almost lived tliere at the Commemora- tion." " Have you any relation fcherCj then V " No, not a relation, only a distant connexion," "May I ask his namer' " Brown. Did you know him ?" "Yes. We were not in the same set. He was a boating man, I think?" She felt that he was watching her narrowly now, and had great difficulty in keeping herself reasonalily composed. As it was she could not help showing a little that she felt em- barrassed, and looked down ; and changed colour slightly, busying herself with her bouquet. She longed to continue the conversation, but somehow the manner of her partner ke|)t her from doing so. She resolved to recur to the su1>joct carelessly, if they met again, when she knew him better. The fact of his having been at St. Ambrose made her wish to know hiin better, and gave him a good start in lier favour. But for the moment she felt that she must change the siibject; fco, looking up, she fixed on the first people who happened to be passing, and asked who they were. " Oh, nobody, constituents probably, or something of that sort." " I don't understand." "Why, 3'ou see, we are in a political house to-night. So you may set down the people whom nobody knows, as trouble- I MARY IN MAYFATll. 423 Fome ten-pounders, or that kind of thing, who wonhl be dis- agi'eeable at the next election, if tliey were not asked." "Then you do not include them in society ?" " By no manner of means." " And I need not take the trouble to remember their faces?" " Of course not. There is a sediment of rubbish at almost every house. At the jiarties here it is political rubljish. To- morrow night, at Lady Aubrey's — you will be there, I hope?" "No, we do not know her." "I am sorry for that. Well, there we shall have the scientific rubbish ; and at other houses you see queer artists, and writing people. In fact, it is the rarest thing in the world to get a party where there is nothing of the kind, and, after all, it is rather amusing to watch the habits of the different species." "\Vell, to me the rubbish, as you call it, seems much like the rest. I am sure those people were ladies and gentlemen." "Very likely," he said, lifting his eyebrows; "but you may see at a glance that they have not the air of society. Here again, look yourself. You can see that these are con- stituents." To the horror of St. Cloud, the advancing constituents made straight for his partner. "Mary, my dear!" exclaimed the lady, "where have you been 1 We have lost you ever since the last dance." " I have been standing here, mamma," she said ; and then, slipping from her late partner's arm, she made a demure little bow, and passed into the ball-room with her father and mother. St. Cloud bit his lip, and swore at himself under his breatli as he looked after them. "What an infernal idiot I must liave been not to know that her people would be sure to tuiii out something of that sort !" thought he. " By Jove, I'll go after them, and set myself right before the little minx has time to think it over !" He took a step or two towards the Itall- roora, but then thought better of it, or his courage failed him. At any rate, he turned I'ound again, and sought the refreshment-room, where he joined a knot of young gentlemen indulging in delicate little raised pies and salads, and liberal potations of iced claret or champagne cup. Amongst them was the guardsman who had introduced him to Mary, and who received him, as he came up, Avith — " Well, St. Cloud, I hope you are alive to your obligations to me." " For shiaiting your late partner on to me 1 Yes, quite." 424 TOxM BKOWN AT OXFORD. "You be hanged!" replied the guardsman; * you may pretend what you please now, but you wouldn't let me alone till I had introduced you." " Are you talking about the girl in white muslin with fern leaves in her hair 1" asked another. "Yes, what do you think of her?" " Devilish taking, I think. 1 say, can't you introduce me 1 They say she has tin." " I can't say I think much of her looks," said St. Cloud, acting up to his principle of telling a lie sooner than let his real thoughts be seen. "Don't you?" said the guardsman, "Well, I like her form better than anything out this year. Such a clean stepper ! You should just dance with her." And so they went on criticizing Mary and others of their partners, exactly as they would have talked of a stud of racers, till they found themselves sufficiently refreshed to encounter new labours, and broke up returning in twos and tlirees to- wards the baU-room. St. Cloud attached himself to the guardsman, and returned to the charge. " You seem hit by that girl," he began ;— r" have you known her long?" " About a week — I met her once before to-night." " Do you know her people 1 Who is her father 1 " " A plain-headed old party — you wouldn't think it to look at her — but I hear he is very solvent." "Any sons'?" " Don't know. I like yoiir talking of my being hit, St. Cloud. There she is ; I shall go and try for another waltz." The guardsman was successfid, and carried ofi" Mary from her father and mother, who were standing together watching the dancing. St. Cloud, after looking them well over, sought out the hostess, and begged to be introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Porter, gleaning, at the same time, some particulars of who they were. The introduction was effected in a minute, the lady of the house being glad to get any one to talk to the Porters, who were almost strangers amongst her other guests. She managed, before leaving them, to whisper to Mrs. Porter that he was a young man of excellent connexions. St. Cloud made the most of his time. He exerted himself to the utmost to please, and, being fluent of speech, and thoroughly satisfied with himself, had no shyness or awkward- ness to get over, and jumped at once into the good graces of Mary's parents. When she returned after the waltz, she found him, to her nu small astonishment, deep in conversu- MARY m MAYFAIE. 425 tion witli her mother, who was listening with a pleased exj ires- sion to his small talk. He pretended not to see her at hrst, and then begged Mrs. Porter to introduce liim formally to her daughter, though he had already had the honour of dancing with her. Maiy put on her shortest and coldest manner, and thought she had never heard of such impertinence. That he should be there talking so familiarly to her mother after the slip he had made to her was almost too much '^•ven for her temper. But she went off for another dance, ar.l .ifc,h'n returned and found him still there ; this time entertaining Mr. Porter with pohtical gossip. The unfavourable impression began to wear oif, and she soon resolved not to make up her mind about him without some further knowledge. In due course he asked her to dance again, and they stood up in a quadrille. She stood by him looking straight before her, and perfectly silent, wondering how he would open the conversation. He did not leave her long in suspense. " What charming people your father and mother are, Miss Porter ! " he said ; " I am so glad to have been introduced to them." " Indeed ! You are very kind. We ought to be flattered by your study of us, and I am sure I hope you will hnd it amusing." St. Cloud was a little embarrassed by the rejoinder, and was not sorry at the moment to find himself called upon to perform the second figure. By the time he was at her side again he had recovered himself. " You can't understand what a pleasure it is to meet some one with a little freshness" — he paused to think how he should end his sentence. " "Wlio has not the air of society," she suggested. Yes, I quite understand." " Indeed, you quite mistake me. Surely, you have not taken seriously the nonsense I was talking just now ?" " I am a constituent, you know — I don't understand how to take the talk of society." " Oh, I see, then, that you are angry at my joke, and will not believe that I knew your father perfectly by sight. You really cannot seriously fancy that I was alluding to any one connected with you ; " and then he proceeded to retail the particulars he had picked up from the lady of thb house, as if they had been familiar to him for years, and to launch out again into praises of her father and mother. Mary looked straight up in his face, and, though he did not meet her eye, his manrer was so composed, that she began to doubt her 42(5 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. own senses, and then he suddenly changed the snhjcct to Oxford and the Commemoration, and by the end of the set conld flatter himself that he had quite dispelled the cloud which had looked so threatening, Mary had a great success that evening. She danced every dance, and might have had two or three partners at once, if they would have been of any use to her. When, at last, !RIr. Porter insisted that he would keep his horses no longer, St. Cloud and the guardsman accompanied her to the dooi', and were assiduous in the cloak-room. Young men are pretty much like a drove of sheep; any one who takes a decided line on certain matters, is sure to lead all the rest. The guardsman left the ball in the firm belief, as he himself ex- pressed it, that Mary "had done his business for life;" and, being quite above concealment, persisted in singing her praises over his cigar at the club, to which many of the dancers adjourned ; and from that night she became the fashion with the set in whi(^h St. Cloud lived. The more enterjirising of them, he amongst the foremost, were soon intimate in Mr. Porter's house, and spoke well of his dinners. Mr. Porter changed his hour of riding in the park at their suggestion, and now he and his daughter were always sure of companions. Invitations multiplied, for Mary's success was so decided, that she floated her astonished parents into a whirl of balls and breakfasts. Mr. Porter and his wife were flattered themselves, and pleased to see their daughter admired and enjoying herself; and in the next six weeks IVIary had the opportunity of getting all the good and the bad which a girl of eighteen can extract from a London season. The test was a severe one. Two months of constant ex- citement, of pleasure-seeking pure and simple, M'ill not leave people just as they found them ; and IVIary's habits, and thoughts, and ways of looking at and judging of people and things, were much changed by the time that the gay world melted away from Mayfair and Belgravia, and it was time for all respectable people to pull down the blinds and shut the shutters of their town houses. CHAPTER XXXTX. WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT-WATCH. The last knot of the dancers came out of the club, and were strolling up St. James's Street, and stopping to chaff the itinerant coffee vendor, who was preparing his stand at the WHAT CAI^rE OF THE NTGFT-WATCH. 427 corner of Piccadilly for his early ciiFtomers, just about the time that Tom was beginning to rouse himself under tlie alder-tree, and stretch his sti Honed limbs, and sniff the morn- ing air. By the time the guai'dsman had let himself into his lodgings in !Mount Street, our hero had undergone his ~unlonked for bath, and was sitting in a state of i;tter be- wilderment as to Avhat was next to be said or done, drijiping and disconcerted, opposite to the equally dripping, and, to all appearance, equallj' disconcerted, poaclier. At first he did not look higher than his antagonist's boots and gaiters, and spent a few seconds by the way in consider- ing whether the arrangement of nails on the bottom of Harry's boots was better than his own. He settled that it must be better for wading on slippery stones, and that he would adopt it, and then passed on to wonder whether Harry's boots were as full of water as his own, and whether corduroys, wet through, must not be very uncomfortable so early in the morning, and congratulated himself on being in flannels. And so he hung back for second after second, playing with any absurd little thought that would come into his head and give him ever so brief a respite from the effort of facing the situation, and hoping that Harry might do or say something to open the ball. This did not happen. He felt that the longer he waited the harder it Avould be. He must begin himself. So he raised his head gently, and took a sidelong look at Harry's face, to see whether he could not get some hint for starting, from it. But scarcely had he brought his eyes to bear, when they met Harry's, peering dolefully up from under his eyebrows, on which the water was standing unAvijjed, while a piece of green weed, which he did not seem to have presence of mind enough to remove, trailed over his dripping locks. There was something in the sight which tickled Tom's sense of humour. He had been prepared for sullen black looks and fierce words ; instead of which he was irresistibly reminded of schoolboys caught by their master using a crib, or in other like flagrant delict. Harry lowered his eyes at once, but lifted them the next moment with a look of surprise, as he heard Tom burst into a hearty fit of laughter. After a short struggle to keep serious, he joined in it himself. " By Jove, though, Harry, it's no laughing matter," Tom said at last, getting on to his legs, and giving himself a shake, Harry only replied by looking most doleful again, and picking the weed out of his hair, as he too got up. " Wliat in the world's to be done ? " 423 TOM CEOWN AT OXFORD. " I'm sure I don't know, Master Toln.' " I'm very much surprised to find you at this woik, Harry." " I'm sure, so be I, to find you, blaster Tom." Tom was not prepared for this line of rejoinder. It seemed to be made with perfect innocence, and yet it put him in a corner at once. He did not care to inquire into the reason of Harry's surprise, or to what work he alluded ; so he went off on another tack. " Let us walk up and down a bit to dry ourselves. Now, Harry, you'll speak to me openly, man to man, as an old friend should — won't you 1 " "Ay, Master Tom, and glad to do it." " How long have you taken to poaching 1 " " Since last Micliaelmas, when they turned me out o' our cottage, and tuk away my bit o' land, and did aU as they could to break me down." " "VVho do you mean ? " " Why, Squire Wurley as was then — not this one, but the last — and his lawyer, and Farmer Tester." " Then it was through spite to them that you took to it?" " Nay, 'twarn't altogether spite, tho' I won't say but what I might ha' thought o' bein' upsides wi' them," "What was it then besides spite?" " Want o' work. I haven't had no more 'n a matter o' six weeks' reg'lar work ever since last fall." " How's that 1 Have you tried for it 1 " " Well, Master Tom, I won't teU a lie about it. I don't see as I wur bound to go round wi' my cap m my hand a beggin' for a day's work to the likes o' them. They knowed well enough as I wur there, ready and willing to work, and they knowed as I wur able to ilo as good a day's work as e'er a man in the parish ; and ther's been plenty o' work goin'. But they thought as I should starve, and have to come and beg for't from one or to'tlier on 'em. They would ha' liked to ha' seen me clean broke down, that's wut they would, and in the house," and he paused as if his thoughts were getting a little unmanageable. "But you might have gone to look for work else- where." " I can't see as I had any call to leave the place where I wur bred up. Master Tom. That wur just wut they wanted. Why should I let 'em drive m'out 1 " " Well, Harry, I'm not going to blame you. I only want to know more about what has been happening to you, that I WHAT CA]ME OF THE NIGHT-WATCH. 429 iraT be able tc advise and help you. Did you ever try for ■work, or go and tell your story, at the Rectory ? " " Try for work there ! No, I never went arter work there." Tom went on without noticing the change in Harry's tone tind manner — "Then I think you ought to have gone. I know my cousin, Miss Winter, is so anxious to help any man out of work, and particularly you ; for — " The whole story of Patty flashed into his mind, and made him stop short, and stammer, and look anywhere except at Harry. How he could have forgotten it for a moment in that company was a wonder. All his questioning and patronizing powers went out of him, and he felt that their positions were changed, and that he was the culprit. It was clear that Harry knew nothing yet of his own relations with Patty. Did he even suspect them ? It must all come out now at any rate, for both their sakes, however it might end. So he turned again, and met Harry's eye, which was now cold and keen, and suspicious. " You knows all about it, then 1 " " Yes ; I know that you have been attached to Simon's daughter for a long time, and that he is against it I wish I could help you, with all my heart. In fact, I did feel my way towards speaking to him about it last year, when I was in hopes of getting you the gardener's place there. But I could see that I should do no good." " I've heard say as you was acquainted with lier, when she was away 1 " " Yes, I was, when she was with her aunt in Oxford. What then?" " 'Twas there as she larnt her bad ways." " Bad ways ! What do you mean 1 " ** I means as she larnt to dress fine, and to gee herself airs to them as she'd known from a child, and as'd ha' gone through fire to please her." " I never saw anything of the kind in her. She was a pleasant, lively girl, and dressed neatly, but never above lier station. And I'm sure she has too good a heart to hurt an old friend." '* Wut made her keep shut up in the house when she cum back 1 ah, for days and weeks ; — and arter that, wut made her so flighty and fickle 1 carryin' of herself as proud as a lady, a mincin' and a trapesrn' along, wi' all the young farmers a follerin' her, like a fine gentleman's miss." " Come, Harry, I won't listen to that. You don't believe wliat you're saying, you know her better." 430 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " You knows her well enough by all seeming." " I know her too well to believe any harm of her." " What call have you and the likes o' you wi' her 1 'Tia no good comes o' such company keepin'." " I tell you again, no harm has come of it to her." " Whose hair doe^s she carry about then in that gold thing as she hangs round her neck i " Tom blushed scarlet, and lowered his eyes without answer- ing. "Dost know] 'Tis thine, by ." The words came hissing out between his set teeth. Tom put his hands behind him, expecting to be struck, as he lifted his eyes, and said, — " Yes, it is mine ; and, I tell you again, no harm has come of it." " 'Tis a lie. I knowed how 'twas, and 'tis thou hast done it." Tom's blood tingled in his veins, and wild words rushed to his tongue, as he stood opposite the man who had just given him the lie, and who waited his reply with clenched hands, and labouring breast, and fierce eye. But the disci- pline of the last year stood him in good stead. He stood for a moment or two crushing his hands together behind his back, drew a long breath, and answered, — " Will you believe my oath then 1 I stood by your side at your mother's grave. A man who did that won't lie to you, Harry. I swear to you there's no wrong between me and her. There never was fault on her side. I sought her. She never cared for me, she doesn't care for me. As for that locket, I forced it on her. I own I have wronged her, and wronged you. I have repented it bitterly. I ask your for- giveness, Harry ; for the sake of old times, for the sake of your mother ! " He spoke from the heart, and saw that his words went home. " Come, Harry," he went on, " you won't turn from an old playfellow, who owns the wrong he has done, and will do all he can to make up for it. You'll shake hands, and say you forgive me." Tom paused, and held out his hand. The poacher's face worked violently for a moment or two, and he seemed to stx'Uggle once or twice to get liis hand out in vain. At last he struck it suddenly into Tom's, turning his head away at the same time. " 'Tis what mother would ha' done," he said, " thou cassn't say more. There 'tis then, though I never thought to do't." The curious and unexpected explanation, brought thus to a happy issue, put Tom into high spirits, and at once roused ' Tis a lie. I knnved how 'i2vas, ana 'iis thou hast done it." P. 430. WHAT C.VjVIE of THE NIGHT-WATCH. 4:31 the oastle-building power within him, which was always ready enough to wake up. His first care was to persuade Harry that he had better give up poacliing, and in this he had much less difficulty than he expected. Harry owned himself sick of the life he was leading already. He admitted that some of the men with whom he had been associating more or less for the last year were the greatest blackguards in the neighbourhood. He asked nothing better than to get out of it. But how 1 This was all Tom wanted. He would see to that; nothing could be easier. " I shall go with you back to Englebourn this morning. I'll just leave a note for Wurley to say that I'll be back some time in the day to explain matters to him, and then we will be off at once. We shall be at the rectory by breakfast time. Ah, I forgot ; — well, you can stop at David's while I go and speak to my uncle and to Miss Winter." Harry didn't seem to see what would be the good of this ; and David, he said, was not so friendly to him as he had been. " Then you must wait at the Eed Lion. Don't see the good of it ! Why, of course, the good of it is that you must be set right with the Englebourn people — that's the first thing to do. I shall explain how the case stands to my uncle, and I know that I can get him to let you have your land again if you stay in the parish, even if he can't give you Avork himself. But what he must do is, to take you up, to show people that he is your friend, Harry. Well then, if you can get good work — mind it must be real, good, regular work — at farmer Grove's, or one of the best farmers, stop here by all means, and I will take myseK the first cottage which falls vacant and let you have it, and meantime you must lodge with old David. Oh, I'll go and talk him round, never fear. But if you can't get regular work here, why you go ofi" with flying colours ; no sneaking ofi" under a cloud and leaving no address. You'll go ofi" with me, as my servant, if you like. But just as you please about that. At any rate, you'll go with me, and I'll take care that it shall be known that I consider you as an old fricnil. My father has always got plenty of work and will take you on. And then, Harry, after a bit you may be siue all will go right, and I shall be your best man, and dance at your wedding before a year's out." There is something in this kind of thing which is contagi- ous and irresistible. Tom thoroughly believed all that he was saying ; and faith, even of such a ^or kind as believing 4?.2 TOM BKOWN AT OXTOED. in one's own oastlos, has its reward. Coinmon sense in vain suggested to Harry that all the clouds which had heen gather- ing round him for a year were not likely to melt away in a morning. Prudence suggested that the sooner he got away the better ; which suggestion, indeed, he handed on for what it was worth. But Tom treated prudence with sublime contempt. They would go together, he said, as soon as any one was up at the house, just to let him in to change his things and write a note. Harry needn't fear any unpleasant consequences. Wurley wasn't an ill-natured fellow at bottom, and wouldn't mind a few iish. Talking of fish, where was the one he had heard kicking just now as Harry hauled in the line. They went to the place, and, looking in the long grass, soon found the dead trout, still on the night-line, of which the other end remained in the water. Tom seized hold of it, and pulling it carefully in, landed another fine trout, while Harry stood by, looking rather sheepish. Tom inspected the method of the hues, which was simple but awfully de- structive. The line was long enough to reach across the stream. At one end was a heavy stone, at the other a short stake cut sharp, and driven into the bank well under the water. At intervals of four feet along the line short pieces of fine gimp were fastened, ending in hooks baited alternately with lob-worms and gudgeon. Tom complimented his com- panion on the killing nature of his cross-Hne. " Where are your other lines, Harry 1 " he asked ; " we may as well go and take them up." "A bit higher up stream,' Master Tom;" and so they walked up stream and took up the other lines. " They'll have the finest dish of fish they've seen this long time at the house to-day," said Tom, as each line came out with two or three fijie tliick-shouldered fish on it ; " I'll tell you what, Harry, they're deuced well set, these lines of yours, and do you credit. They do ; I'm not complimenting you." " I should rather Like to be off. Master Tom, if you don't object. The mornin's gettin' on, and the men'll be about. 'Twould be unked for I to be caught." " Well, Harry, if you're so set on it off with you, but " — " 'Tis too late now ; here's keeper." Tom turned sharp round, and, sure enough, there was the keeper coming down the bank towards them, and not a couple of hundred yards off. " So it is," said Tom ; " well, only hold your tongue, and do just what I tell you." The keeper came up quickly, and touching his hat to Tom, looked inquiringly at him, and then at Harry. Tom nodded WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT-WATCH. 433 U) liim, as if everything were just as it should he. Ho Avas tnking a two-pound fish off the last line ; having finislicd which feat he threw it on the ground by the rest. " There keeper," he said, " there's a fine dish of fish. Now, pick 'era up and come along." Never was keeper more puzzled. He looked from one to the other, lifting the little short hat from the back of his head, and scratching that somewhat thick skull of his, as his habit was when engaged in what he called thinking, conscious that somebody ought to be tackled, and that he, the keejicr, was being mystified, but quite at sea as to how he was to set himself straight. " Wet, hain't 'ee, sir 1 " he .said at last, nodding at Tom's clothes. " Dampish, keeper," answered Tom ; " T may as well go and change, the servants will be up at the house by this time. ]''ick up the fish and come along. You do up the lines, Harry." The keeper and H'ari-y performed their tasks, looking at one another out of the corners of their eyes, like the terriers of rival butchers when the carts happen to stop suddenly in the street close to one another. Tom watched them, mischiev- ously delighted Mdth the fun, and then led the way up to tlie house. AVhen they came to the stable-yard he turned to Harry, and said, "Stop here; I shan't be ten minutes;" adding, in an under tone, " Hold your tongue now ; " and then vanished through the back dnor, and, hurrjdng up to his room, changed as quickly as he could. He was within the ten minutes, but, as he descended the back stairs in his dry things, became aware that his stay had been +00 long. Noise and laughter came up from the stable- yard, and shouts of, "Go it, keeper," "Keeper's down," "No he hain't," greeted his astonished ears. He sprang down the fast steps and rushed into the stable-yard, where he found Harry at his second wrestling match for the day, Avhile two or tliree stablemen, and a footman, and the gardener, looked on and cheered the combatants with the remarks he had heard on his way down. Tom made straight to them, and tapjjing Harry on the shoulder, said — " Now then, come along, I'm ready." Whereupon the keei:)er and Harry disengaged, and the latter picked up his cap. " You hain't goin', sir 1 " said the keeper. "Yes, keeper." "Not along wi' he 1 " 431 'lOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. " Yes, keeper," " What, bain't I to take un 1 " " Take him ! No, what for 1 " " For night poachiii', look at all them fish," said the keeper indignantly, pointing to the shining heap. "No, no, keeper, you've nothing to do with it. You may give him the lines though, Harry. I've left a note for your master on my dressmg-table," Tom said, turning to the footman, "let him have it at breakfast. I'm responsible for him," nodding at Harry. " I shall be back in a few hours, and now come along." ibid, to the keeper's astonishment, Tom left the stable-yard, accon)panied by Harry. They were scarcely out of hearing before the stable-yard broke out into uproarious laughter at the keeper's expense, and much rude banter was inHicted on 1dm for letting the poacher go. But the keeper's mind for the moment was full of other things. Disregarding their remarks, he went on scratching his head, and burst out at last with, "Dang un ; I knows I should ha' drowed un." " Drow your grandmother," politely remarked one of the stablemen, an acquaintance of Harry Winburn, who knew his repute as a wrestler. " I ghould, I tell 'ee," paid the keeper as he stooped to gather up the fish, "and to tliink as he should ha' gone off. Master '11 be lilce any wild beast when he hears on't. How- s'uiever, 'tis Mr. Brown's doin's. 'Tis a queer start for a gen'l'man like he to be goin' off wi' a poacher chap, and callin' of un Harry. 'Tis past me altogether. But I s'pose ho bain't right in 's 'ead j" and, so soliloquizing, he carried off the fish to the kitchen. Meantime, on their walk to Englebourn, Harry, in answer to Tom's inquiries, explained that in his absence the stable- man, his acquaintance, had come up and begun to talk. The keeper had joined in and accused hini point blank of being the man who had thrown him uito the furze bush. The story of the keeper's discomfiture on tliat occasion being well known, a laugh had been raised in which Harry had joined. This brought on a challenge to try a fall then and there, which Harry had accepted, notwithstanding his long morning's work and the ducking he had had. They laughed over the story, though Harry could not help expressing his fears as to how it might all end. They reached Englebourn in time for breakfast. Tom appeared at the rectory, and soon he anti Katie were on their old terms. She was delighted to fijid that he had had an explanation with Ilarr}- Winburn, and WHAT CAIIE OF THE NIGHT-WATCH. 435 that there was some cliance of bringing that sturdy offeiiJer once more back into decent ways ; — more deliglited perhaps to hear the way in which he spoke of Patty, to whom after breakfast she paid a visit, and returned in due time with the unfortunate locket. Tom felt as if another coil of the chain he had tied about himself had fallen off. He went out into the village, con- sulted again with Harry, and returned to the rectory to con- sider what steps were to be taken to get him work. Katie entered into the matter heartily, though foreseeing the diffi- culties of the case. At luncheon the rector was to be sounded on the subject of the allotments. But in the middle of their pl.ans they were startled by the news that a magistrate's warrant had arrived in the village for the arrest of Harry as a night poacher. Tom returned to the Grange furious, and before night had had a worse quarrel with young Wuiley than with his uncle before him. Had duelling been in fashion still in England they would probably have fought in a quiet corner of the park before night. As it was they only said bitter things, and parted, agreeing not to know one another in future. Three days afterwards, at petty sessions, where Tom brought upon himself the severe censure of the bench for his conduct on the trial, Harry Winburu was committed to Eeading gaol f'^r three months. Headers who will take the trouble ^.o remember the picture of our hero's mental growth during ti.e past year, attempted to be given in a late chapter, and the state of restless dis- satisfaction into which his experiences and thoughts and readings had thrown him by the time long vacation had come round again, will perhaps be prepared for the catastrophe which ensued on the conviction and sentence of Harry Winburn at petty sessions. Hitherto, notwithstanding the strength of the new and revolutionary forces whicli were mustering round it, there had always been a citadel holding out in his mind, garrisoned by all that was best in the toryism in which he had been brouglit up — by loyalty, reverence for established order and established institutions ; by family traditions, and the pride of an in- herited good name. But now the walls of that citadel went down with a crash, the garrison being put to the sword, or making away, to hide in out of the way corners, and wait for reaction. It was much easier for a youngster, whose attention was once turned to such subjects as had been occupying Tom, to get hold of wild and violent beliefs and notions in those days F F 2 436 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. than now. The state of Europe generally was far more dead and hopeless. There Avere no wars, certainly, and no expecta- tions of wars. But there was a dull, beaten-down, pent-up feeling abroad, as if the lid were screwed dovm. on the nations, and the thing which had been, however cruel and heavy and mean, was that A\hich was to remain to the end. England was better ofi' than her neighbours, but yet in bad case. In the south and west particulaily, several causes had combined to sjjread a very bitter feeling abroad amongst the agricultural poor. Eirst among these stood the new poor law, the pro- visions of which were rigorously carried out in most districts. The i:)oor had as yet felt the liarshness only of the new system. Then the laud was in many places in the hands of men on their last legs, the old sporting farmers, who had begun business as young men while the great war was going on, had made money liand over hand for a few years out of the war prices, and had tried to go on living with greyhounds and yeomam-y uniforms — "horse to ride and weapon to wear" — through the hard years which had followed. These were bad masters in every way, unthrifty, jjrofligate, needy, and narrow- minded. The younger men who were supplanting them were introducing machinery, threshing machines and winnowing machines, to take the little bread which a poor man was still able to earn out of the mouths of his wife and children — so at least the jDOor tliought and muttered to one another ; and the mutterings broke out every now and then in the long nights of the winter months in blazing ricks and broken machines. Game preserving was on the increase. Australia and America had not yet become familiar words in every English village, and the labour market was everywhere over- stocked ; and last, but not least, the corn laws were still in force, and the bitter and exasperating strife in which they went out was at its height. And while Swing and his m}T- midons were abroad in the counties, and could scarcely be kept down by yeomanry and poor law guardians, the great towns were in almost worse case. Here too emigration had not yet set in to thin the labour market ; wages were falling, and prices rising ; the corn-law struggle was better understood and far keener than in the country; and Chartism was gaining force every day, and rising into a huge tlu-eatening giant, waiting to put forth his strength, and eager for the occasion wliich seemed at hand. You generation of young Englishmen, who were too young then to be troubled with such matters, and have groA\'n into manhood since, you little know — may j'ou never know ! — what it is to be living the citizens of a divided and distracted HUE AND CRY. ' 4?>7 nation. For the time that daiigor is past. In a happy liour, and so far as man can judge, in time, and only just in time, came the repeal of the corn laws, and the gieat cause of strife and the sense of injustice passed away out of men's minds. The nation was roused by the Irish fomine, and the fearful distress in other parts of the country, to begin looking steadily and seriously at some of the sores which were festering in its body, and undermining health and life. And so tlie tide had turned, and England had already passed the critical point, when 1848 came upon Christendom, and the whole of Europe leapt up into a wild blaze of revolution. Is any one still inclined to make light of the danger that threatened England in that year, to sneer at the 10th of April, and the monster petition, and the mon.ster meetings on Kennington and other commons 1 Well, if there be such persons amongst my readers, I can only say that they can have known nothing of what was going on around them and below them, at that time, and I earnestly hope that their vision has become clearer since then, and that tliey are not looking with the same eyes that see notliing, at the signs of to-day. For that there are (]^uestions still to be solved by us in England, in this current half-century, quite as lilvcly to tear the nation in pieces as the corn laws, no man with half an eye in his head can doubt. They may seem little clouds like a man's hand on the horizon just now, but they will darken the whole heaven before long, unless we can find wisdom enough amongst us to take the little clouds in hand in time, and make them descend in soft rain. But such matters need not be spoken of here. All I want to do is to put my younger readers in a position to understand how it was that our hero fell away into beliefs and notions, at which Mrs. Grundy and all decent people could only lift up eyes and hands in pious and respectable horror, and became, soon after the incarceration of his friend for night poaching, little better than a physical force Chartist at the age of twenty-one. CHAPTER XL. HUE AND CRY. At the end of a gusty wild October afternoon, a man leading two horses was marching up and down the little plot of short tjirf at the top of the Hawk's Lynch. Every now and then he would stop on the brow of the hiU to look ovt;r 438 TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD. the village, and seemed to be waiting for somebody from that quarter. After being well blown he would turn to hia promenade again, or go in under the clump of firs, through which the rising south-west wind, rushing up from the valo below, was beginning to make a moan ; and, hitching the hordes to some stump or bush, and patting and coaxing them to induce them, if so might be, to stand quiet for a while, would try to settle himself to leeward of one of the larger trees. But the fates were against all attempts at repose. He had scarcely time to produce a cheroot from his case and light it under many difficulties, when the horses would begin fidget- ing, and pulling at their bridles, and shifting round to get their tails to the wind. They clearly did not understand the necessity of the position, and were inclined to be moving stablewards. So he had to get up again, sling the bridles over his arm, and take to his march up and down the plot of turf ; now stopping for a moment or two to try to get his cheroot to burn straight, and pishing and pshamng over its perverseness ; now going again and again to the brow, and looldng along the road which led to the village, holding his hat on tight with one hand — for by this time it was blowing half a gale of wind. Though it was not yet quite the hour for his setting, the sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of wicked slate- coloured cloud, which looked as though it were rising straight up into the western heavens, while the wind whirled along and twisted into quaint shapes a ragged rift of light vapour, which went hurrying by, almost touching the tops of the moaning firs. Altogether an uncanny evening to be keeping tryst at the top of a wild knoll ; and so thought our friend with the horses, and showed it, too, clearly enough, had any one been there to put a construction on his impatient move- ments. There was no one nearer than the village, of which the nearest house was half-a-mile and more away ; so, by way of passing the time, we must exercise our privilege of put- ting into words what he is half thinlcing, half muttering to himself: — " A pleasant night I call this, to be oiit on a wild goose chase. If ever I saw a screaming storm brewing, there it comes. I'll be hanged if T stop up here to be caught in it for all the crack-brained friends I ever had in the world ; and I seem to have a faculty for picking up none but crack-brained ones. I wonder what the plague can keep him so long ; he must have been gone an hour. There steady, steady, old HUE AND C1?Y. 439 hirse. Confound this weed ! What rascals tobacconists are ! Vou never can get a cheroot now worth smoking. Every one of them goes spluttering up the side, or chaning up the middle, and tasting like tow soaked in saltjietre and tobacco juice. Well, I suppose I shall get the real thing in India. " India ! In a month from to-day we shall be off. To hear our senior major talk, one might as well be going to the bottomless pit at once. Well, he'll sell out, that's a comfort. Gives us a step, and gets rid of an old ruffian. I don't seem to care much what the place is like if we only get some work ; and there will be some work there before long, by all accounts. ' No more garrison-towTi life, at any rate. And if I have any luck — a man may get a chance there. " "UTiat the deuce can he be about 1 This all comes of sentiment, now. Why couldn't I go quietly off to India without bothering up to Oxford to see him ? Not but what it's a pleasant place enough. I've enjoyed mj' three days there uncommonly. Food and drink all that can be wished, and plenty of good fellows and fun. The look of the place, too, makes one feel respectable. But, by George, if their divinity is at all like their politics, they must turn out a queer set of parsons — at least if Brown picked up his precious notions at Oxford. He always was a headstrong beggar. What was it he was holding forth about last night 1 Let's see. 'The sacred right of insurrection.' Yes, that was it, and he talked as if he believed it all too ; and, if there should be a row, which don't seem unlikely, by Jove I think he'd act. on it in the sort of temper he's in. How about the sacred right of getting hung or transported 1 I shouldn't wonder to hear of that some day. Gad ! suppose he should be in for an instalment of his sacred right to-night. He's capable of it, and of lugging me in with him. What did he say we were come here for 1 To get some fellow out of a scrape, he said — some sort of poaching radical foster-brother of his, who had been in gaol, and deserved it too, I'll be bound. And we couldn't go down quietly into the village and put up at the public, where I might have sat in the tap, and not run the chaiice of having my skin bloA\'Ti over my ears, and my teeth down my throat, on this cursed look-out place, because he's too well knoivn there. What does that mean ? Upon my soul it looks bad. They may be lynching a J. P. down there, or making a spread eagle of the parish- constable at this minute, for anything I know, and as sure as fate if they are I shall get my foot in it. " It will read sweetly in the naval and military intelligence — 'A court-martial was held this day at Chatham, president, 440 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOED. Colonel Smith, of Her Majesty's 101st Kegimeut, to try HeD"y East, a lieutenant in the same distinguished corps, wlio has been under arrest since the 10th ult, for aiding and abetting the escape of a convict, and taking part in a riot in the village of Englebourn, m the county of Berks. The defence of the accused was that he had a sentimental friend- ship for a certain Thomas Brown, an undergraduate of St. i^mbrose College, Oxford, &c. &c. ; and the sentence of the Court — ' " Hang it ! It's no laughing matter. Many a fellow has been broken for not making half such a fool of himself as I have done, coming out here on this errand. I'll tell T. B. a bit of my mind as sure as " Hullo ! didn't I hear a shout 1 Only the wind, I believe. How it does blow ! One of these firs will be down, I expect, just now. The storm wiU burst in a quarter of an hour. Here goes ! I shall ride down into the village, let what will come of it. Steady now, steady. Stand still, you old fool ; can't you 'i " There, now I'm all right. Solomon said something about a beggar on horseback. Was it Solomon, though 1 Never mmd. He couldn't ride. Never had a horse till he was grown up. But he said some uncommon wise things about having nothing to do with such fi'iends as T. B. So, Harry East, if you please, no more tomfoolery after to-day. You've got a whole skin, and a lieutenant's commission to make your way in the world with, and are troubled with no particular crotchets yourself that need ever get you into trouble. So just you keep clear of otlier people's. And it' your friends must be mending the world, and poor man's plastering, and running their heads against stone walls, why, just you let go of theii" coat tails." So muttering and meditating, Harry East paused a moment after mounting, to tirrn up the coUar of the rough shooting- coat which he was wearing, and button it up to the chin, before rieluig dovr-n the hiU, when, in the hurly-burly of the wind, a shout came spimiing past his ears, plain enough tliis time ; he heard the gate at the end of Englebouru-lane down below him slrut with a clang, and saw two men running at full speed towards him, straight up the hiU. " Oh ! here you are at last," he said, as he watched them. " Well, you don't lose your time now. Somebody must be after them, ^^^lat's he shouting and waving his hand for ? Oh, I'm to bring the cavalry supports down the slope, I sup- pose. Well, here goes : he has brought off his pal the convict I see — HUE AND CUY. 441 Says he, )'ou've 'scaped fruui transportation All upon the briny main ; So never give way to no temptation, And don't get drank nor prig again ! There goes the gate again. By Jove, what's that 1 Dragoons, art I'm a sinner ! There's going to be the d st bear- Saying which, Harry East dug his heels into his horse's sides, holding him up sharply with the curb at the same time, and in another moment was at the bottom of the solitary mound on which he had been perched for the last hour, and on the brow of the line of hill out of whicli il rose so abruptly, just at the point for which the two runners Were making. He had only time to glance at the pursuers, and saw that one or two rode sti'aight on the track of tlie fugitives, while the rest skirted away along a parish road which led up the hill side by an easier ascent, when Tom and his companion were by his side. Tom seized the bridle of the led horse, and was in the saddle with one spring. " Jump up behind," he shouted ; " now then, come along." " Who are they ? " roared East — in that wind nothing but a shout could be heard — pointing over his shoulder with his thumb as they turned to the heath. " Yeomanry." " After you 1 " Tom nodded, as they broke into a gallop, making straight across the heath towards the Oxford road. They were some quarter of a mile in advance before any of theu' pm-suers showed over the brow of the hill behind them. It was already getting dusk, and the great bank of cloud was by tliis time all but upon them, making the atmosphere denser and darker every second. Then, iirst one of the men appeared wlio had ridden straight up the hill under the Hawk's Lynch, and, pulling up for a moment, caught siglit of them and gave ciiase. Half a minute later, and several of those who had kept to the road were also in sight, some distance away on the left, but still near enough to be unpleasant ; and they too, after a moment's pause, were in full pursuit. At iii"st the fugitives held their own, and the distance between them and their pursuers was not lessened, but it was clear that tliis could not last. Anything that horse-flesh is capable of, a real good Oxford hack, such as they rode, will do ; but to carry two full-grown me)i at the end of a pretty long day, away from fresh horses and moderate weights, is too much to exjx^ct even of Oxford horae-Hesh j and the gallant beast which Tom 442 TOM BROWJS AT OXFOKD. rude was beginning to show signs of distress wlien they struck into the road. There was a slight dip in the ground at this place, and a little further on the heath rose suddenly again, and the road ran between high banks for a short distance. As they reached this point they disappeared for the moment from the yeomanry, and the force of the wind was broken by the banks, so that they could breathe more easily, and hear one another's voices. Tom looked anxiously round at the lieutenant, who shrugged bis shoulders in answer to the look, as he bent forward to ease his own horse, and said — " Can't last another mile." "What's to be done?" East again shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. " I know, Master Tom," said Harry Winburn. "^Vliat?" " Pall up a bit, sir." Tom pulled up, and his horse fell into a walk willingly enough, while East passed on a few strides ahead. Harry "Winburn sprang off. " You ride on, now, ^Master Tom," he said, " I knows the heath well ; you let me bide." " No, no, Harry, not I. I won't leave you now ; so let them come, and be hanged." East had pulled up, and listened to their talk. " Look here, now," he said to Hai'ry ; " put your arm over the hind part of his saddle, and run by the side ; you'll find you can go as fast as the horse. Now, you two push on, and strike across the heath. I'll keep the road, and take off this joker behind, who is the only dangerous customer." " That's like you, old boy," said Tom, " then we'll meet at the first public beyond the heath ; " and they passed ahead in their turn, and turned on to tlie heath, Harry running by the side, as the lieutenant had advised. East looked after them, and then put his horse into a steady trot, muttering — " Like me ! yes, devilish like me ; I know that well enough. Didn't I always play cat's-paw to his monkey at school ] but that convict don't seem such a bad lot, aftei all." Meantime Tom and Harry struck away over the heath, as the darkness closed in, and the storm drove down. They stumbled on over the charred furze roots, and splashed through the sloppy peat cuttings, casting anxious, hasty looks over their shoulders as they fled, straiiung every nerve to get on, and longing for night and the storm. HUE AND CRY. 443 "Hark, wasn't that a piatol-shot 1" said Tom, as tliey floun- fiered on. The sound came from the road they had left. " Look ! here's some on 'em, then," said Harry ; and Tom was aAvare of two horsemen coming over the brow of the hill on their left, some three hundred yards to the rear. At the same instant his horse stumbled, and came down on his nose and knees. Tom went off over his shoulder, tumbling against Harry, and sending him headlong to the ground, but keeping hold of the bridle ; they were up again in a moment. "Are von hurt r' " Come along, then," and Tom was in the saddle again, when the pursuers raised a shout. They had caught sight of them now, and spurred down the slope towards them. Tom Avas turning his horse's head straight away, but Hai-ry shouted, — " Keep to the left, Master Tom, to the left, right on." It seemed like running into the lion's jaws, but he yielded, and they pushed on doAATi the slope on which they were. Another shout of triumph rose on the howling wind ; Tom's heart sank within him. The enemy was closing on them at every stride ; another hundred yards, and they must meet at the bottom of the slope. What could Harry be dreaming of? The thought had scarcely time to cross his brain, when down went the two yeomen, horse and man, floundering in a bog above their horses' girths. At the same moment the storm burst on them, the driving mist and pelting rain. The chase was over. They could not have seen a regiment of men at fifty yards' distance. " You let me lead the horse, Master Tom," shouted Harry Winburn ; " I knowed where they was going ; 'twill take they the best part o' the night to get out o' that, I knows." "All right, let's get back to the road, then, as soon as we can," said Tom, surrendering his horse's head to Harry, and turning up his collar, to meet the pitiless deluge which was driving on their flanks. They were drenched to the skin in two minutes ; Tom jumped oflF, and plodded along on the opposite side of his horse to Harry. They did not speak ; there was very little to be said under the circumstances, and a great deal to be thought about. Harry Winburn probably knew the heath as well as any man living, but even he had much difficulty in finding his way back to the road through that storm. However, after some half-hour, spent in beating about, they reached it, and turned their faces northwards towards Oxford. By this time night had come on ; but the fury of the storm had passed 444 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. over tliem, and the moon began to show every now and then tlirough the driving clouds. At hist Tom roused himself out of the brown study in which he had been hitherto plodding along, and turned down his coat collar, and shook himself, and looked up at the sky, and across at his companion, who was still leading the horse along mechanically. It was too dark to see his face, but his walk and general look were listless and dogged ; at last Tom broke silence. " You promised not to do anything, after you came out, without speaking to me." Harry made no reply ; so presently he went on : — " I didn't think you'd have gone in for such a business as that to-night. I shouldn't have minded so much if it had only been machine-breaking ; but robbing the cellar and staving in ale casks and maiming cattle — " " I'd no hand in that," interrupted Harry. "I'm glad to hear it. You were certainly leaning against the gate when I came up, and taking no part in it ; but you were one of the leaders of the riot." " He brought it on hisself," said Harry, doggedly. " Tester is a bad man, I know that ; and the people have much to complain of : but nothing can justify what was done to-nigiit." Hurry made no answer. " You're known, and they'll be after you the first thing in the morning. I don't know what's to be done." "'Tis very little odds what happens to me." " You've no right to say that, Harry. Your friends — " " I ain't got no friends." "Well, Harry, I don't think you ought to say that after what has happened to-night. I don't mean to say that my friendship has done you much good yet ; but I've done what 1 could, and " " So you hev', Master Tom, so you liev'." " And I'll stick by you through thick and thin, Harry. But you must take heart and stick by yourself, or we shall never pull you through." Harry groaned, and then, turning at once to what was always uppermost in his mind ; said, — " 'Tis no good now I've been in gaol. Her father wur alius agin me. And now, how be I ever to hold up my head at whoam 1 I seen her once arter I came out." "Well, and what happened?" said Tom, after waiting a moment or two. " She just turned red and pale, and was all flustered like, and made as though she'd have held out her hand : and then tuk and hui'ried off like a frighted hare, as though she heerd Bomebody a comin'. Ah ! 'tis no good ! 'tis no good ! " HUE AND CRY. 445 " T don't see anything very hopeless in that," said Tom. " I've knowed lier since she wur that high," went on Harrj'', holding out his hand about as high as the bottom of his waistcoat, without noticing the interruption, "when her and I went a gleanin together. 'Tis what I've thought on, and lived for, 'Tis four year and better since she and I broke a sixpence auver't. And at times it sim'd as tho' 'twould all cum right, when my poor mother wur livin', — tho' her never tuk to it kindly, mother didn't. But 'tis all gone now ! and I be that mad wi' myself, and mammered, and down, I be ready to hang myself, Master Tom ; and if they just teks and transpworts me " " Oh, nonsense, Harry ! You must keep out of that. "VVe shall think of some way to get you out of tJiat before morning. And you must get clear away, and go to work on the railways or somewhere. Tliere's nothing to be downhearted about as far as Patty is concerned." " Ah ! 'tis they as wears it as knows where the shoe pinches. You'd say dili'erent if 'twas you, Master Tom." "Should I ?" said Tom ; and, after pausing a moment or two, he went on. " AVhat I'm going to say is in confidence. I've never told it to any man yet, and only one has found it out. Now, Harry, I'm much worse off than you at this minute. Don't I know where the shoe pinches ! Why I haven't seen — I've scarcely heard of — of — well, of my sweetheart — there, you'll understand that — for this year and more. I don't know when I may see her again. I don't know that she hasn't clean forgotten me. I don't know that she ever cared a straw for me. Now, you know quite well that you are better off than that." " I bean't so sure o' that, Master Tom. But I be terrible vexed to liear about you." " Never mind about me. You say you'ie not sure, Harry. Come, now, you said, not two minutes ago, that you two had broken a sixpence over it. What does that mean, now ]" " Ah ! but 'tis four years gone. Her's bin a leadin' o' me up and down, and a dancin' o' me round and round purty nigh ever since, let alone the time as she wur at Oxford, when " " Well, we won't talk of that, Harry. Come, will yesterday do for you ? If you thought she was all right yesterday, would that satisfy you 1" " Ees ; and summat to spare." " You don't believe it, I see. Well, why do you think I came after you to-night ? How did I know what was going on I" 446 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " That's just what I've been a axm' o' myself as we cum along." "Well, then, I'll tell you. I came because I got a note from her yesterday at Oxford." Tom paused, for he heard a muttered growl from the other side of the horse's head, and could see, even in the fitful moonlight, the angry toss of the head with which his news was received. " I didn't expect this, Harry," he went on presently, "after what I told you just now about myself. It was a hard matter to tell it at all ; but, after telling you, I didn't think you'd susj)ect me any more. However, perhaps I've deserved it. So, to go on with what I was saying, two years ago, when I came to my senses about her, and before I cared for any one else, I told her to write if ever I could do her a service. Anything that a man could do for his sister I was boimd to do for her, and I told her so. She never answered till yesterday, when I got this note," and he dived into the inner breast pocket of his shooting-coat. " If it isn't soaked to pulp, it's in my pocket now. Yes, here it is," and he produced a dirty piece of paper, and handed it across to his companion. " When there's light enough to read it, you'll see plain enough what she means, though your name is not mentioned." Having finished his statement, Tom retired into himself, and walked along watching the hunying clouds. After they had gone some hundred yards, Harry cleared his throat once or twice, and at last brought out, — " Master Tom." " Well." "You bean't offended wi' me, sir, I hopes?" " No, why should I be offended ?" "'Cause I knows I be so all-fired jealous, I can't abear to hear o' her talkin', let alone writin' to " " Out with it. To me, you were going to say." " Nay, 'tis mwore nor that." " All right, Harry, if you only lump me with the rest of mankind, I don't care. But you needn't be jealous of me, and you musn't be jealous of me, or I shan't he able to help you as I want to do. I'll give you hand and word on it, as man to man, there's no thought in my heart towards her that you mightn't see this minute. Do you believe me?" "Ees, and you'll forgie " " There's nothing to forgive, Harry. But now you'll allow your case isn't such a bad one. She must keep a good look- out after you to know what you were likely to be about to-day. And if she didn't care for you she woiddn't have written to me. That's good sense, I think." THE lieutenant's SENTIMENTS AND PEOBLEMS. 447 Harry assented, and then Tom went into a consideration of "what was to be done, and, as usual, fair castles began to rise in the air. Harry was to start down the line at once, and take work on the railway. In a few weeks he would be captain of a gang, and then what was to hinder his becoming a con- tractor, and making his fortune, and buying a farm of his own at Englebourn 1 To all which Harry listened with open ears till they got off the heath, and came upon a small hamlet of some half-dozen cottages scattered along the road. "There's a public here, I suppose," said Tom, returning to the damp realities of life. Harry indicated the humble place of entertainment for man and horse. " That's all right. I hope we shall find my friend here ;" and they went towards the light which was shining tempt- ingly through the latticed window of the road-side inn. CHAPTEE XLI. THE lieutenant's SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS. " Stop ! It looks so bright that there must be something going on. Surely the yeomanry can never have come on here already 1" Tom laid his hand on the bridle, and they halted on the road opposite the public-house, which lay a little back, with an open space of ground before it. The sign-post, and a long water-trough for the horses of guests to drink at, were pushed forward to the side of the road to ultimate the whereabouts of the house, and the hack which Harry led was already drinking eagerly. ^ " Stay here for a minute, ana I'll go to the window, and see what's up inside. It's very unluclme with us to Steventon station, and take the night train to Lon. " Yon long for the rule of the ablest man, everywhere, at all times 1 To find your ablest man, and then give him power, and obey him — that you hold to be about the highest act of wisdom which a nation can be capable of?" " Yes ; and you know you believe that too, Hardy, just a.? firmly as I do." " I hope so. But then, how about our universal democracy and every man having a share in the government of his country 1 " Tom felt that his flank was turned ; in fact, the contrast of his two beliefs had never struck him vividly before, and he was consequently much confused. But Hardy went on tapi)ing a big coal gently with the poker, and gave him time to recover himself and collect liis thoughts. " I don't mean, of course, that every man is to have an actual share in the goverimient," he said at last. " But every man is somehow to have a share ; and, if not an actual one, I can't see what the proposition conies to." " I call it having a share in the government when a man has share in saying who shall govern him." " Well, you'll own that's a very different thing. But, let's see ; will that find our wisest governor for us — letting all the foolishest men in the nation have a say as to who he is to be ?" "Come now, Hardy, I've heard you say that you are for manhood suffrage." " That's another question ; you let in another idea there. At present we are considering whether the vox pnpuli is the best test for finding your best man. I'm afraid all history is against you." " That's a good joke. Now, there T defy you. Hardy." " Begin at the beginning, then, and let us see." " I suppose you'll say, then, that the Egyptian and Baby- lonian empires were better than the little Jewish republic." " Republic ! well, let that pass. But T never heard that the Jews elected Moses, or any of the judges." " Well, never mind the Jews ; they're an exceptional case : you can't argue from them." " I don't admit that. I believe just the contrary. But go on." "Well, then, what do you say to the glorious Greek re^ publics, \vith Athens at the head of them ?" " I say that no nation ever treated their best men so badly. I see I must put on a lecture in Aristophanes for your special benefit. Vain, irritable, slialjow, suspicious old D(>mns, with bis two oboli in his cheek, and doutiting only between Cleon and the sausage-seller, which he shall choose for h\s wisest THIRD YEAR. 4G3 man — not to govern, but to serve his whims and caprices You must call another witness, I think." " But that's a caricature." " Take the picture, then, out of Thucydides, Plato, Xeno- plion, how you \vill — you won't mend the matter much. You ^shouldn't go so fast, Brown ; you won't mind my saying so, I know. You don't get clear in your own mind before you piich into every one who comes across you, and so do your own side (which I admit is mostly the right one) more harm than good." Tom couldn't stand beii^.g put do^\^l so summarily, and fought over the ground from one country to another, from Home to the United States, with all the arguments he could muster, but with little success. That unfortunate first admission of liis, he felt it throughout, like a mill-stone round his neck, and could not help admitting to himself, when he left, that there was a good deal in Hardy's concluding remark, — " You'll find it rather a tough business to get your ' univei-sal demo- cracy,' and ' government by the wisest,' to pull together in one coach." Notwithstanding all such occasional reverses and cold baths, however, Tom went on strengthening himself in his new opinions, and maintaining them with all the zeal of a convert. The shelves of his bookcase, and the walls of his rooms, soon began to show signs of the change which was taking place in his ways of looking at men and things. Hitherto a framed engraving of George ITT. had hung over his mantel-piece ; but early in this, his third year, the frame had disappeared for a few days, and when it reappeared, the solemn face of John Milton looked oiit from it, while the honest monarch had retired uito a portfolio. A facsimile of ^lagna Charta soon displaced a large coloured print of "A Day with the Pyche- ley;" and soon afterwards the death-warrant of Charles I. with its grim and resolute rows of signatures and seals, ap- I^eared on the wall in a place of honour, in the neighbourhood of Milton. Squire Brown was passing through Oxford, and paid his son a visit soon after this last an-angcment had been com pleted. He dined in hall, at the high table, being still a inember of the coUege, and afterwards came with Hanly to Tom's rooms to have a quiet glass of wine, and spend the evening with his son and a few of liis friends, who had been asked to meet " the governor." Tom had a struggle with himself whether ho should not remove the death warrant into his bedroom for the evening, and had actually taken it dowu with this view ; but in the 4G4 TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD. euJ he could not stomach such a backsliding, and so restored it to its place. " I have never concealed my opinions from my father," he thought, " though I don't think he quite knows what they are. But if he doesn't, he ought, and the sooner the better. I should be a sneak to try to hide them. I know he won't like it, but he is always just and fair, and will make allowances. At any rate, up it goes again." And so he re-hung the death-warrant, but with the devout secret hope that his fatlier might not see it. The wine-party went off admirably. The men were nice, gentlemaidy, intelligent fellows ; and the squire, who had been carefully planted by Tom with his back to the death- warrant, enjoyed himself very mucL At last they all went, except Hardy ; and now the nervous time approached. For a short time longer the three sat at the wine-table, while the squire enlarged upon the groat improvement in young men, and the habits of the University, especially in the matter of drinkuig. Tom had only opened three bottles of port. In his time the men would have drunk certainly not less than a bottle a man ; and other like remarks he made, as he sipped his coffee, and then, pushing back his chair, said, " Well, Tom, hadn't your servant better clear away, and then we can draw round the fire, and have a talk." " Wouldn't you like to take a turn while he is clearing ? There's the Martyrs' Memorial you haven't seen." " No, thank you. I know the place well enough, I don't come to walk about in the dark. We sha'n't be in your man's way." And so Tom's scout came in to clear away, took out the extra leaves of his table, put on the cloth, and laid tea. Dur- ing these operations Mr. Brown was stauduig with his back to the fire, looking about him as he talked ; when there was more space to move in, he began to walk up and down, and very soon took to remarking the furniture and arrangements of the room. One after another the pictures came under his notice, — most of them escaped without comment, the squire siuiply pausing a moment, and then taking up his walk again. IVIagna Charta drew forth his hearty approval. It was a capital notion U> hang such things on your walls, instead of bad prints of steeple-chases, or trash of that sort. "All, here's something else of the same kind. Why, Tom, what's this 1" said the squire, as he paused before the death-warrant. There was a moment or two of dead silence, while the srjuire's eye ran down the names, from Jo : Bradshaw to Miles Corbet ; and then he turned, and came and sat down opposite to his son. Ton: cx^pected hii, father to be vexed, but was not the THIRD YEAR. 4G5 least prepared for the tone of pain, and sorrow, and anger, in wlticli lie tirst inquired, and then remonstrated. For some time past the squire and his son had not felt so comfortable together as of old. Mr. Brown had been annoyed by much that Tom had done in the case of Harry Winburn, though he did not know all. There had sprung up a barrier somehow or other between them, neither of them knew how. They had often felt embarrassed at being left alone together during the last year, and found that there were certain topics which they could not talk upon, which they avoided by mutual consent. Every now and then the constraint and embarrass- ment fell off for a short time, for at bottom they loved and appreciated one another heartily ; but the divergences in their thoughts and habits had become very serious, and seemed likely to increase rather than not. They felt keenly the chasm between the two generations ; as tliey looked at one another from the opposite banks, each in his secret heart blamed the other in great measure for that which was the faidt of neither. Mixed with the longings which each felt for a better under- standing was enough of reserve and indignation to prevent them from coming to it. The discovery of their differences was too recent, and they were too much alike m character and temper, for either to make large enough allowances for, or to be really tolerant of the other. This was the first occasion on which they had come to out- spoken and serious difference ; and, though the collision had been exceedingly painful to both, yet, when they parted for the night, it was with a feeling of relief that the ice had been thoroughly broken. Before his father left the room, Tom had torn the facsimile of the death-warrant out of its frame, and put it in the fire, protesting, however, at th-e same time, that, though " he did this out of deference to his father, and was deeply grieved at having given him pain, he could not and would not give up his honest convictions, or pretend that they were 'changed, or even shaken." The squire walked back to his hotel deeply moved. Who can wonder 1 He was a man full of living and vehement convictions. One of his early recollections had been the arrival in England of the news of the beheading of Louis XVI. and the doings of the reign of terror. He had been bred in the times when it was held impossible for a gentleman or a Christian to hold such views as his son had been main- taining, and, like many of the noblest Englishmen of his time ha.d gone with and accepted the creed of the day. Tom remained behind, dejected and melanclioly ; now ac- cusing his father of injustice and bigotry, now longing to ^o n a 4GG TOM BROTVN AT OXFOKD. after him, and give up everything. What were all his opinions and convictions compared with his father's conhdence and love 1 At breakfast the next morning, however, after each of them had had time for thinking over what had passed, they met with a cordiality wliich was as pleasant to each as it waa unlooked for ; and from this visit of his father to him at Oxford Tom dated a new and more satisfactory epoch in their intercourse. The fact had begun to dawn on the squu-e that the world had changed a good deal since his time. He saw that young men were much improved in some ways, and acknowledged the fact heartily ; on the other hand, they had taken up with a lot of new notions which he could not understand, and thought mischievous and bad. Perhujis Tom might get over them as he got to be older and wiser, and in the meantime he must take the evil with the good. At any rate he was too fair a man to try to dragoon his son out of anything which he really believed. Tom on his part gratefully accepted the change in his father's manner, and took all means of showing Ids gratitude by consulting and talking freely to him on such subjects as they could agree upon, which were numerous, keeping in the back-ground the questions which had provoked painful discussions between them. By degrees these even could be tenderly approached ; and, now that they were ap- proached in a different spirit, the honest beliefs of the father and son no longer looked so monstrous to one another, the hard and sharp outlines began to wear olf, and the views of each of them to be modified. Tims, bit by bit, by a slow but sure process, a better understanding than ever was re-established between them. This beginning of a better state of things in his relations with his fatlier consoled Tom for many other matters that seemed to go wrong with him, and was a constant bit of bright sky to turn to when the rest of his horizon looked dark and dreary, as it did often enough. For it proved a very trying j'ear to him, this his third and last year at the University ; a year full of large dreams and small performances, of unfulfilled hopes, and struggles to set himself right, ending ever more surely in failure and dis- appointment. The common pursuits of the place had lost their freshness, and with it much of their charm. He was beginning to feel himself in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it. Often, in spite of all his natural hopefulness, his heart seemed to sicken and turn cold, without any apparent reason ; his oM pursuits palled on him, and he scarcely cared to turn THIKD YEAR. 407 to new ones. Wliat was it that made life so Llank to him at these times? How was it that he could not keep the spirit within him alive and warm ? It was easier to ask siich questions than to get an answer. Was it not this place he was living in, and the ways of it 1 No, for the place and its ways were the same as ever, and his own way of life in it better than ever before. Was it the want of sight or tidings of Mary 1 Sometimes he thought so. and then cast the thought away as treason. His love for her was ever sinking deeper into him, and raising and purifying liim. Light and strength and life came from that source ; craven weariness and coldness of heart, come from whence they might, were not from that quarter. But precious as his love was to him, and deeply as it affected his whole life, he felt that there must be something beyond it — that its full satisfaction would not be enough for him. Tlie bed was too narrow for a man to stretch himself on. Wbat he was in search of must underlie and embrace his human love, and support it. Beyond and above all private and personal desires and hopes and longings, he was conscious of a restless crav- ing and feeling about after something which he could not grasp, and yet which was not avoiding him, which seemed to be mysteriously laying hold of him and surrounding him. The routine of chapels, and lectures, and reading for degree, boating, cricketing, Union-debating — all well enough in their way — left this vacuum unfilled. There was a great outer visible world, the problems and puzzles of which were rising before him and haunting liim more and more ; and a great inner and invisible world opening round him in awful depth. He seemed to be standing on the brink of each — now, shiver- ing and helpless, feeling like an atom about to be whirled into the great flood and carried he knew not where — now, ready to plunge in and take his part, full of hope and belief that he was meant to buffet in the strength of a man with the seen and the unseen, and to be subdued by neither. In such a j'ear as this a bit of steady, bright blue sky was a boon beyond all price, and so he felt it to be. And it was not only with his father that Tom regained lost ground in this year. He was in a state of mind in which he could not bear to neglect or lose any particle of human sympathy, and so he turned to old friendships, and revived the correspondence with several of his old school-fellows, and particularly with Arthur, to the great delight of the latter, wlio had mourned bitterly orer the few half-yearly lines, all he had got from Tom of late, in answer to his own letters, which had themselves, under H H 2 4G8 TOM BROWK AT OXFOKD. the weight of neglect, gradually dwindled down to mere fornial matters. A specimen of the later correspondence may fitly close the chapter : — "St. Ambrose. " Dear Geordie, — I can hardly pardon you for having gone to Cambridge, though you have got a Trinity scholar- ship — which I suppose is, on the whole, quite as good a thing as anything of the sort you could have got up here. I had so looked forward to having you here though, and now I feel that we shall probably scarcely ever meet. You will go your way and I mine ; and one alters so quickly, and gets into such strange new grooves, that unless one sees a man about once a week at least, you may be just like strangers when you are thrown together again. If you had come up here it would have been ail right, and we should have gone on all through life as we were when I left school, and as I know we should be again in no time if yon had come here. But now, who can tein " What makes me think so much of this is a visit of a few days that East paid me just before his regiment went to India. T feel that if he hadn't done it, and we had not met till he came back — years hence perhaps — we should never have been to one another what we shall be now. The break would have been too great. Now it's all right. You would have so liked to see the old fellow grown into a man, but not a bit altered — just the quiet, old way, pooh-poohing you, and pretending to care for nothing, but ready to cut the nose off his face, or go through fire and water for you at a pinch, if you'll only let him go his own way about it, and have his grumble, and say that he does it all from the worst possible motives. " But we must try not to lose hold of one another, Geordie. It would be a bitter day to me if 1 thought anything of the kind could ever happen again. We must write more to one another. I've been awfully lazy, I know, about it for this last year and more ; but then I always thought you would be coming up here, and so that it didn't matter much. But now I will turn over a new leaf, and write to you about ' my sc^cret thoughts, my works and ways ; ' and you must do it too. If we can only tide over the next year or two we shall get mto plain sailing, and I suppose it will all go right then. At least, I can't believe that one is likely to have many such up- and-down years in one's life as the last two. If one is, good- ness knows where I shall end. You know the outline of what has happened to me from my letters, and the talks we have hid in uiy Hying visits to the old school; but you haven't f I THTl^n '\T.AR. 4ri9 notion of the troubles of mind I've been in, and the c]iaii,L,'C3 I've gone through. I can hardly believe it mj'self when I look back. However, I'm quite sure I have got on; tliat's my great comfort. It is a strange blind sort of world, that's a fact, with lots of blind alleys, down which you go blundering in the fog after some seedy gas-light, which you take for the sun till you run against the wall at the end, and find out that the light is a gas-light, and that there's no thoroughfare. Ihit for all that one does get on. You get to know the sun's light better and better, and to keep out of the blind alleys ; and I am surer and surer every day, that tliere's always sunlight enough for every honest fellow — though I didn't think so a few months back — and a good sound road under his feet, if he will only step out on it. "Talking of blind alleys puts me in mind of your last. Aren't you going doA\Ti a blind alley, or something worse ? There's no wall to bring you up, that I can see, down the turn you've taken ; and then, what's the practical use of it all 1 What good would you do to yourself, or any one else, if you could get to the end of it ? I can't for the life of me flincy, 1 confess, what you think will come of speculating about necessity and free will. I only know tliat I can hold out my hand before me, and can move it to the right or left, despite of all powers in heaven or earth. As I sit liere writing to you I can let into my heart, and give the reins to, all sorts of devils" passions, or to the Spirit of God. Well, that's euough for me. I hiov) it of myself, and I believe you know it of yourself, and everybody knows it of themselves or himself; and why you can't be satisfied with that, passes my compre- heusion. As if one hasn't got puzzles enough, and bothers enough, imder one's nose, without going a-field after a lot of metaphysical quibbles, ^o, I'm wrong, — not going a-field, — anything one has to go a-field for is all right. What a fellow meets outside himself he isn't responsible for, and must do the best he can with. But to go on for ever looking inside of one self, and groping about amongst one's OAvn sensations, aud ideas, and whimsies of one kind and another, I can't conceive a poorer line of business than that. Don't you get into it now, that's a dear boy. " Very likely you'll tell me you can't help it ; that every one has his own difficulties, and must fight them out, and that mine are one sort, and yours another. Well, perhaps you may be right. I hope I'm getting to know that my ])lummet isn't to measure all tlie world. But it does seem a pity that men shouldn't be tlunking about how to cure some of the wrongs which poor dear old England is pretty near dying of^ 470 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. instead of taking the edge off tlieir brains, and spending all their steam m speculating about all kinds of things, which wouldn't make any poor man in the world — or rich one either, for that matter — a bit better off, if they were all found out, and settled to-morrow. But here I am at the end of my paper. Don't be angry at my jobation ; but write me a long answer of your own free will, and believe me ever affectionately yours, " T. B." CHAPTER XLIII. AFTERNOON VISITORS. !R[iss Mart Porter was sitting alone in the front drawing- room of her father's house, in Bclgravia, on the afternoon of a summer's day in this same year. Two years and more have passed over her head since we first met her, and she may be a thought more sedate and better dressed, but there is no other change to be noticed in her. The room was for the most part much like other rooms in that quarter of the world. There were few luxuries in the way of furniture which fallen man can desire which were not to be found there ; but, over and above this, there Avas an elegance in the arrangement of all the nic-nacs and ornaments, and an appropriateness and good taste in the placing of every piece of furniture and vase of flowers, which showed that a higher order of mind than the upholsterer's or housemaid's was constantly overlooking and working there. Everything seemed to be in its exact place, in the best place which could have been thought of for it, and to be the best thing which could have been thought of for the place. And yet this perfection did not strike you particularly at first, or surprise you in any way, but sank into you gradu- ally, so that, until you forced yourself to consider the matter, you could not in the least say why the room had such a very pleasant effect on you. The young lady to whom this charm was chiefly owing was sitting by a buhl work-table, on Avhich lay her embroidery and a book. She was reading a letter, which seemed deeply to interest her ; for she did not hear the voice of the butler, who had just opened the door and disturbed her solitude, until he had repeated for the second time, "Mr. Smith." Then Mary jumped up, and, hastily folding her letter, put it into her pocket. She was rather provoked at having allowed herself to be caught there alone by afternoon visitors, and with the servants for having let any one in ; nevertheless, AFTERNOON VISITOIJS. 471 e\\ii welcomed Mr. Smith with a cordiality of manner which perhaps rather more than represented her real feelings, and, with a "let mamma know," to the butler, set to work to entertain her visitor. She would have had no difficidly iu doing this under owlinary ciixium stances, as all that l^Ir. Smith wanted was a good listener. He was a somewhat heavy and garrulous old gentleman, with many imaginary, and a few real troubles, the constant contemiilatiou of which served to occupy the whole of his own time, and as much of his friends' as he could get them to give him. But scarcely had he settled himself comfortjibly in an easy chair opposite to his victim, when the butler entered again, and announced, " ISlr. St. Cloud." Mary was now no longer at her ease. Her manner of receiving her new visitor was constrained ; and yet it was clear that he was on easy terms in the house. She asked the butler where his mistress was, and heard with vexation that she had gone out, but was expected home almost imme- diately. Charging him to let her mother know the moment she returned, Mary turned to her unwelcome task, and sat herself down again with such resignation as she was capable of at the moment. The conduct of her visitors was by no means calculated to restore her composure, or make her comfortable between them. She w^as sure that they knew one another ; but neither of them would speak to the other. There the two sat on, each resolutely bent on tiring the other out ; the elder crooning on to her in an undertone, and ignoring the younger, who in his turn put on an air of serene uncon- sciousness of the presence of his senior, and gazed about tho room, and watched l^fary, making occasional remarks to her as if no one else were piesent. On aud on they sat, her only comfort being the hope that neither of them would have tho conscience to staj' on after the departure of the other. Between them Mary was driven to her wits' end, and looked for her mother or for some new visitor to come to her help, as Wellington locked for the Prussians on the afternoon of June 1 8th. At last youth and insolence prevailed, and Mr. Smith rose t^ go. Mary got up too, and after his departure remained standing, in hopes that her other visitor would take the hint and follow the good example. But St. Cloud had not the least intention of moving. " Really your goofl-nature is quite astonishing, Miss Porter," he said, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, and following the pattern of one of the flowers on the carpet with his cane, which gave him the opportunity of showing his delicately gloved hand to advantage. 472 TOM BROWN AT OXFOKD. " Indeed, wliy do yon think so 1 " she aslced, taking np he? embroidery, and pretendii g io bcgii) working. " Have I not good reason, after sitting this half hour and seeing you enduring okl Suiit]) — tlie greatest bore in London 1 1 don't believe there are three houses where the servants dare let him in. It would be as niucli as their places are worth. No porter could hope for a character who let him in twice in the season." " Poor Mr. Smith," said Mary, smiling. " But yon know we have no porter, and," she suddenly checked herself, and added gravely, " he is an old friend, and papa and luamuia like him." " But the wearisomeneps of his grievances ! Those thret sons in the Plungers, and their eternal scrapes ! How you could manage to keep a civil face ! It was a masterpiece of polite patience." " Indeed, I am very sorry for his troubles. I wonder where mamma can be ? We are going to drive. Shall you be in the Park ? I think it must be time for me to dress." " I hope not. It is so seldom that I see you except in crowded rooms. Can you wonder that I should value sucli a chance as this ? " "Were you at the new opera last night?" asked Mary, carefully avoiding his eye, and sticking to her work, but scarcely able to conceal her nervousness and discomfort. " Yes, I was there ; but " " Oh, do tell me about it, then ; I hear it was a great success." " Another time. We can talk of the opera anywhere. Let me speak now of something else. You must have seen, Miss Porter " " How can you think I will talk of anything till you have told me about the opera 1 " interrupted Mary, rapidly and ner- vously. " Was Grisi very fine 1 The chief part was composed for her, was it not ? and dear old Lablache " " I will tell you all about it presently, if you will let me, in five minutes' tiuie — I oidy ask for five minutes " " Five minutes ! Oh, no, not five seconds. I must hear about the new opera before I will listen to a word of any- thing else." " Indeed, Miss Porter, yon must pardon me for disobey- ing. Bui I may not have such a chance as this again for months." With which prelude he drew his chair towards hers, and Mary was just trying to make up her mind to jumj) up ami run right out of the room, when the dour opened, and tho AFTERNOON VISITORS. 473 butler walked in with a card ou a Avaiter. IMary had never felt so relieved in her life, and could have hugged the solemn old domestic Avhen he said, presenting the card to her, " The gentleman asked if Mrs. or you were in, ]\Iiss, and told me to bring it up, and find whether you would see him on particular business. He's waiting in the hall." " Oh yes, I know. Of course. Yes, say I will see him directly. I mean, ask him to come up now." " Shall I show him into the library. Miss 1 " " No, no ; in here ; do you understand 1 " " Yes, Miss," replied the butler, with a deprecatory look at St. Cloud, as much as to say, " You see I can't help it," in answer to his impatient telegraphic signals. St. Cloud hud been very liberal to the Porters' servants. Mary's confidence had all come back. Relief Avas at hand. She could trust herself to hold St. Cloud at bay now, as it could not be for more than a few minutes. When she turned to him the nervousness had quite gone out of her manner, and she spoke in her old tone again, as she laid her embroi- dery aside. " How lucky that you should be here. Look ; I think yon must be acquainted," she said, holding out the card which the butler had given her to St. Cloud. He took it mechanically, and looked at it, and then crushed it in his hand, and was going to speak. She pre- vented him. " I was right, I'm sure. You do know him 1 " " I didn't see the name," he said, almost fiercely. "The name on the card which I gave you just now? — Mr. Grey. He is curate in one of the poor Westminster districts. You must remember him, for he was of your college. He was at Oxford with you. I made his acquaintance at the Com- memoration. He will be so glad to meet an old friend." St. Cloud was too much provoked to answer ; and the next moment the door opened, and the butler announced Mr. Grey. Grey came into the room timidly, carrying his head a little down as usual, and glancing uncomfortably about in the manner wliich used to make Drysdale say that he always looked as though he had just been robbing a hen-roost. Mary went forward to meet him, holding out her hand cordially. *' 1 am so glad to see you," she said. " How kind of you to call when you are so busy ! Mamma will be here directly. I think you must remember Mr. St. Cloud — Mr. Grey." St. Cloud's patience was now quite gone. He drew hirji- self up, making the slightest possible inclination towai'ds 474 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Grey, and then, without taking any further notice of him, turned to Mary with a look vvhicli he meant to be full of pitying admiration for her, and contempt of her visitor ; but, as she would not look at him, it was thrown away. So he made his bow and stalked out of the room, angrily debating with himself, as he went down the stairs, whether she eould have understood him. He was so fully convinced of the sacrifice which a man in his position was making in paying serious attentions to a girl with little fortune and no con- nexion, that he soon consoled himself in the belief that her embarrassment only arose from shyness, and that the moment he could explain himself she would be his obedient Lud grateful servant. Meantime Mary sat down opposite to the curate, and listened to him as he unfolded his errand awkwardly enough. An execution was threatened in the house of a poor struggling widow, whom ]\Irs. Porter had employed to do needlework occasionally, and who was behind with her rent through sickness. He was afraid that her things v/ould bo taken and sold in the morning, unless slie could borrow two sovereigns. He had so many claims on him that he could not lend her the money himself, and so had come out to see what he could do amongst those who knew her. By the time Grey bad arrived at the end of his story, Mary had made up her mind — not without a little struggle — to sacrifice the greater part of what was left of her quarter's allowance. After all, it would only be wearing cleaned gloves instead of new ones, and giving up her new riding-hat till next quarter. So she jumped up, and said gaily, " Is that all, Mr. Grey ? I have the money, and I will lend it her with pleasure. I will fetch it directly." She tripped off to her room, and soon came back with the money; and just then the butler came in with tea, and Mary asked Mr. Grey to take some. He looked tired, she said, and, if he would wait a little time, he would see her mother, who would be sure to do something more for the poor woman. Grey had risen to leave, and was standing, hat in hand, ready to go. He was in the habit of reckoning with him- self strictly fur every minute of his day, and was never quite satisfied with himself unless he was doing the most disagree- able thing which circumstances for the time being allowed him to do. But greater and stronger men than Grey, from Adam downwards, have yielded to the temptation before which he now succumbed. He looked out of the corners of his eyes ; and there was something so fresh and bright in the picture of the daiut}- little tea-service and the young lady behind it, the t'ia which ihn was beginning to pour out jjmelt so refreshing, AFTERNOON VISITORS. 475 and her haiul and liifure looked so [)ietty in the operation, that, with a sigh of departing resohitioii, lie gave in, put his hat on the floor, aiul sat down opposite to the tempter. Grey took a cup of tea, and then another. He thought he had never tasted anything so good. The delicious rich cream, and the tempting phite of bread and butter, were too much for htm. lie fairly gave way, and resigned himself to physical enjoyment, and sipped liis tea, ami looked over his cup at !Mary, sitting there bright and kind, and ready to go on pouring out for him to any extent. It seemed to him as if uu atmosphere of light and joy surrounded her, within tho circle of which he was sitting and absorbing. Tea was the only stimulant that Grey ever took, and he had more need of it tlian usual, for he had given away the chop, which was his ordinaiy dinner, to a starving woman. He was faint with fasting and the bad air of the hovels in which he had been spending his morning. The elegance of the room, the smell of the flowers, the charm of companionship with a young woman of his own rank, and the contrast of the whole to his common way of life, carried him away, and hopes and thoughts began to creep into his head to which he had long been a stranger. Mary did her very best to make his visit pleasant to him. She had a great respect for the 3elf-denyiiig life which she knew he was leading; and the nei'vousness and shyness of his manners were of a kind, which, instead of infecting her, gave her confidence, and made her feel quite at her ease with hini. She was so grateful to him for having delivered her out of her recent embarrassment, that she was more than usually kind in her manner. She saw how he was enjoying himself, and thought what good it must d(j him to foiget his usual occupations for a short time. So she talked positive gossip to him, asked his opinion on riding-habits, and very soon was telling him the plot of a new novel which she had jodt been reading, with an animation and playfulness which would have warmed the heart of an anchorite. For a short quarter of an hour Grey resigned himself; but at the end of that time he becanie suddenly and painfully conscious of what he was doing, and stopped himself short in the middle of an altogether worldly compliment, which he detected himself in the act of paying to his too fascinating young hostess. He felt that retreat was liis only chance, and so grasped his hat again, and rose with a deep sigh, and a sudden change of manner which alarmed Mary. " I ht>pe you are not ill, Mr. Grey ? " she said, anxiously, "iSo, not the least, thank you. I>ut — bat — in short, 1 476 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. must go to my ■vvork. I ought to apologize, indeed, for having stayed so loTig." "Oh, you uHve ii-H been here moi'e than twenty minutes. Pray stay, and see I'laoima; she must be in directly." " Thank you ; yoi* are very kind. 1 should like it very nmch, but indeed T cannot." Mary felt that it would be no kindness to press it further, and so rose herself, and held out her hand. Grey took it, and it is not qiute certain to this day whether he did not press it in that farewell shake more than was absolutely necessary. If he did, we may be quite sure that he administered exem- plary punisliment to himself afterwards for so doing. He would gladly have left now, but his over sensitive conscience forbade it. He had forgotten his office, he thought, hitherto, but there was time yet not to be altogether false to it. So he looked grave and shy again, and said, — " You will not be olfended with me, Miss Porter, if I speak to you as a clergyman 1 " Mary was a little disconcerted, but answered almost imme- diately, — " Oh, no. Pray say anything which you think you ought to say." "I am afraid there must be a great temptation in living always in beautiful rooms like this, with no one but jjrosperous people. Do you not think so 1 " " But one cannot help it. Surely, Mr. Grey, you do not tliink it can be wrong?'' " No, not 'd^rong. But it must be very trying. It must be very necessa y to do someLhing to kssen the temptation of such a life." '* I do not understand you. "What could one do ? " " ISright you not take up some work which would not be pleasant, such as visiting the pour 1 " " 1 should be very glad ; but we do not know any poor people in London." " There are very miserable districts near here." "Yes, and papa and mamma are very kind, I know, in helping whenever they can hear of a proper case. But it is so dilfereut from the country. There it is so easy and pleasant CO go into the cottages where every one knows you, and most of the people work for papa, and one is sure of being welcomed, and that nobody will be rude. But here I should be afraid. It would seem so impertinent to go to people's houses of whom one knows nothing. I should never know what to say." " It is not easy or pleasant duty which is the best for u-s. AFTERNOON VISITORS. 477 Great cities conld never he evangelized, Miss Porter, if all luclies thouglit as yon do." ** I think, Mr. Grey," said Marj', rather nettled, " that every one has not the gift of lecturing tlie poor, and setting them right ; and, if they have not, they had better not try to do it. And as for all tlie rest, there is plenty of the same kmd of work to be done, I believe, amongst the people of one's own "Jass." " You are joking. Miss Porter." " !No, I am not joking at all. I believe that rich people are quite as unhappy as poor. Their troubles are not the same, of course, and are generally of theii- own making. But troubles of the mind are worse, surely, than troubles of the body 1 " " Certainly ; and it is the highest work of the ministry to deal with spiritual trials. But, you will pardon me for saying that I cannot think this is the proper work for — for — " " For me, you would say. We must be speaking of quite different things, I am sure. I only mean that I can listen to the troubles and gi'ievances of any one who likes to talk of them to me, and try to comfort them a little, and to make things look brighter, and to keep cheerful. It is not easy always even to do this." " It is not, indeed. But would it not be easier if you could do as I suggest? Going out of one's own class, and trying to care for and to help the poor, braces the mind more than any- thing else." " You ought to know my cousin Katie," said IMary, glad to make a diversion ; " that is just what she would say. Indeed, I think you must have seen her at Oxford ; did you not 1 " " I believe I had the honour of mooting her at the rooms of a friend. I think he said she was also a cousin of his." "Mr. Brown, you mean? Yes ; did you know him?" " Oh, yes. You will think it strange, as we are so very unlike ; but I knew him better than I knew almost any one." " Poor Katie is verj'- anxious about hhn. I hope you thought well of him. You do not think he is likely to go very wrong ? " " No, indeed. T could wish he Avere sounder on Church questions, but that may come. Do you know that he is in London ? " " I had heard so." " He has been several times to my schools. He used t( help me at Oxford, and has a capital way with the boys." At this moment the clock on the mantel-])iece struck a quarter. The sound touched some chord in Grey whicli made 478 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD him grnsp his hat again, and prepare for another attempt to get away. " I liope yon will pardon — " He pulled himself up short, in the fear lest he were going again to be false (as he deemed it) to his calling, and stood the picture of nervous discomfort. Mary came to his relief. " T am sorry you must go, Mr. Grey," she said ; " I should so like to have talked to 3'ou more about Oxford. You will call again soon, T hope ? " At which last speech Grey, casting an imploring glance at her, muttered something which she could not catch, and fled from the room. Mary stood looking dreamily out of the window for a few minutes, till the entrance of her mother roused her, and she turned to pour out a cup of tea for her. " It is cold, mamma dear ; do let me make some fresh." " No, thank you, dear ; this will do very well," said Mrs. Porter ; and she took off her bonnet and sipped the cold tea. Mary watched her silently for a minute, and then, taking the letter she had been reading, out of her pocket, said, " I have a letter from Katie, mamma." Mrs. Porter took the letter ami read it ; and, as Mary still watched, she saw a puzzled look coming over her mother's face. Mrs. Porter finished the letter, and then looked stealthily at Afary, who on her side was now busily engaged in putting uj) the tea-things. " It is veiy embarrassing," said Mrs. Porter. " AVhat, mamma 1 " "Oh, of course, my dear, T mean Katie's telling us of her cousin's being in London, and sending us his address — " and then she paused. " Why, mamma ? " "Your papa will have to make up bis mind whether he will ask him to the house. Katie would surely never have told him that she has \vritten." "Mr. and Mrs. IJrown were so very kind. It would seem so strange, so ungrateful, not even to ask him." " I am afraid he is not the sort of young man — in short, I must speak to your pajia." Mrs. Porter looked hard at her daughtf r, who was still busied with the tea-things. She bad risen, bonnet in hand, to leave the room ; but now changed her mind, and, crossing to her daughter, put her arm round her neck. Mary looked up steadily into her eyes, then blushed slightly, and said quietly, " No, mamma ; indeed, it, i« not as you think." ATTEENOON "SISITORS. 479 Her TnotheT stooped and kissed her, and left the room, telling her to get dressed, as the carriage would be round in a few minutes. Her trials for the day were not over. She could see by their manner at dinner that her father and mother had been talking about her. Her fatlier took her to a ball in tlie evening, where they met St. Cloud, who fastened himself to them. She was dancing a quadrille, and her father stood near her, talking conlidentially to St. Cloud. In the intervals of the dance scraps of their conversation reached her. " You knew him, then, at Oxford 1 " "Yes, very sliglitly." " I should like to ask you now, as a friend — " Here Mary's partner reminded her that she ought to be dancing. When she had returned to her place again she heard — " You think, then, that it was a bad business 1 " " It Avas notorious in the college. We never had any doubt on the subject." " My niece has told Mrs. Porter that there really was nothing wrong in it." " Indeed ? I am happy to hear it." "I should like to think Avell of him, as he is a connexion of my wife. In other respects now — " Here again she was carried away by the dance, and, when she returned, caught the end of a sentence of St. Cloud's, " You will consider what I have said in confidence 1 " " Certainly," answered Mr. Porter ; " and I am exceedingly obliged to you ; " and then the dance was over, and Mary returned to her father's side. She had never enjoyed a ball less than this, and persuaded her father to leave early, which he was delighted to do. When she reached her own room Mary took off her wreath and ornaments, and then sat down and fell into a brown study, which lasted for some time. At last she roused herself with a sigh, and thought she had never had so tiring a day, though she could hardly tell why, and felt half inclined to have a good cry, if she could only have made up her mind what about. However, being a sensible young woman, she resisted the temptation, and, hardly taking the trouble to roll up her hair, went to bed and slept soundly. Mr. Porter found his wife sitting up for him ; they were evidently both full of the same subject. " Well, dear 1 " she said, as he entered the room. Mr. Porter put down his candle, and shook his head. " You don't think Katie can be right then 1 She must have capital opportunities of judging, you know, dj.'ar." 480 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. " But she is no judge. What can a girl like Katie knn-w about such things ? " "Well, dear, do you know I really cannot think there waa anything very wrong, though I did think so at first, I own." " But I find that his character was bad — decidedly bad — always. Young St. Cloud didn't like to say much to me ; which was natural, of course. Young men never like to betray one another ; but I could see what he thought. He is a right-minded young man, and very agreeable." " 1 do not take to him very much." "His connexions and prospects, too, are capital. I some- times think he has a fancy for Mary. Haven't you remarked itr "Yes, dear. But as to the other matter 1 Shall you ask him here 1 " " Well, dear, T do not think there is any need. He is only in town, I suppose, for a short time, and it is not at all likely that we should know where he is, you see." " But if he should call 1 " " Of course then we must be civil. We can consider then wliat is to be done." CHAPTER XLIV. THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAa. " Dear Katie, — At home, you see, without having an- swereil your last kind letter of counsel and sympathy. But I couldn't write in town, I was in such a queer state all the time. I enjoyed nothing, not even the match at Lord's, or the race ; only walking at night in the square, and watching her window, and seeing her at a distance in Rotten Row. " I followed your advice at last, though it went against the grain uncommonly. It did seem so unlike what I had a right to expect from them — after all the kindness my father and mother had shown them when they came into our neighbour- hood, and after I had been so intimate there, running in and out just like a son of their own — that they shouldn't take the slightest notice of me all the time I was in London. I shouldn't have wondered if you hadn't explained ; but after that, and after you had told them my direction, and when they knew that I was within five minutes' walk of their house constantly (for they knew all about Grey's schools, and that I was there three or four times a-week), 1 do think it was too ^d. However, as I was going to tell you, 1 went at last, for THE INTERCt'.FrED LETTEK-BAG. 481 T couldn't leave town without trying to see her ; and I believe I have finished it all off. I don't know. I'm very low about it, at any rate, and want to tell you all that passed, and to hear what you tliink. I have no one to consult but you, Katie. What should I do without you 1 But you were born to help and comfort all the world. I shan't rest till I knov what you think about this last crisis in my history. " I put off going till my last day in town, and then called twice. The first time, * not at home.' But I was determined now to see somebody and make out something ; so I left my card, and a message that, as I was leaving town next day, I would call again. Wlien I called again at about six o'clock, I was shown into the library, and presently your uncle came in. I felt very uncomfortable, and I think he did too ; but he shook hands cordially enough, asked why I had not called before, and said he was sorry to hear I was going out of town so soon. Do you believe he meant it 1 I didn't. But it put me out, because it made it look as if it had been my fault that I hadn't been there before. I said I didn't know that he would have liked me to call, but I felt that he had got the best of the start. *' Then he asked after all at home, and talked of his boys, and how they were getting on at school. By this time I had got my head again ; so I went back to my calling, and said that 1 had felt I could never come to their house as a common acquaintance, and, as I did not know whether they would ever let me come in any other capacity, I had kept away till now. " Your uncle didn't like it, I know ; for he got up and walked about, and then said he didn't understand me. Well, I was quite reckless by this time. It was my last chance, I felt ; so I looked hard into my hat, and said that I had been over head and ears in love with Mary for two years. Of course there was no getting out of the business after that. I kept on staring into my hat ; so 1 don't know how he took it ; but the first thing he said was that he had had some sus- picions of this, and now my confession gave him a right to ask me several questions. In the first place. Had I ever si)oken to her] No ; never directly. What did I mean by directly 1 I meant that I had never either spoken or written to her on the subject — in fact, I hadn't seen her except at a distance for the last two years — but I coidd not say that she might not have found it out from my manner. Had 1 ever told any one else ? No. And this was quite true, Katie, for both you and Hardy found it out. " He took a good many turns ])(.'fore speaking again. Th'^u I i 482 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. he said I had acted as a geutleman hitherto, and he slioiiM be very plain with me. Of course I must see that, looking at my prospects and his daughter s it could not be an engagement which he could look on with much favour from a worldly point of view. Nevertheless, he had the highest respect and regard for my family, so that, if in some years' time I was in a position to marry, he should not object on this score ; but there were other matters which were in his eyes of more im- portance. He had heard (who could have told him 1) that I had taken up very violent opinions — opinions which, to say nothing more of them, would very much damage my prospects of success in life ; and that I was in the habit of associating with the advocates of such opinions — persons who, he must say, were not fit companions for a gentleman — and of writing violent articles in low revolutionary newspapers, such as the Wessex Freeman. Yes, I confessed I had vratten. Would I give up these things 1 I had a gi-eat mind to say flat, No, and I believe I ought to have ; but as his tone was kind, I couldn't help trying to meet him. So I said I would give up writing or speaking publicly about such matters, but I couldn't pretend not to believe what I did believe. Perhaps, as my opinions had altered so much aiieady, very likely they might again. " He seemed to be rather amused at that, and said he sin- cerely hoped they might. But now came the most serious point : he had heard very bad stories of me at Oxford, but he would not press me vnth them. There were too few young men whose Uves would bear looking into for him to insist much on such matters, and he was ready to let bygones be bygones. But I must remember that he had himself seen me in one very awkward position. I broke ui, and said I had hoped that had been exj)lained to him. I could not defend my Oxford life ; I could not defend myself as to this par- ticular case at one time ; but there had been nothing Ln it that I was ashamed of since before the time I knew his daughter. " On my honour had T absolutely and entirely broken off all relations with her ? He had been told that I still kept up a correspondence with her. " Yes, I still wrote to her, and saw her occasionally ; but it was only to give her news of a young man from her village, who was now serving in India. He had no other way of communicating with her. " It was a most curious arrangement ; did I mean that this young man was going to be married to her ] " I hoped 30. TTIE INTERCEPTED LETTEE-BAG. 483 " Why should he not write to her at once, if they were engaged to be married ? "They were not exactly engaged; it was rather hard to explain. Here your uncle seemed to lose patience, for he in- terrupted me and said, ' Really it must be clear to me, as a reasonable man, that, if this connexion were not absolutely broken off, there must be an end of everything, so far as his daughter was concerned. Would T give my word of honour to break it off at once, and completely?' I tried to explain again ; but he would have nothing but * yes ' or ' no.' Dear Katie, what could I do ? I have -svritten to Patty that, till I die, she may always reckon on me as on a brother; and I have promised Harry never to lose sight of her, and to let her know everything that happens to him. Your uncle would not hear nie ; so I said, No. And he said, 'Then our interview had better end,' and rang the bell. Somebody, I'm sure, has been slandering me to him ; who can it be ? " I didn't say another word, or offer to shake hands, but got up and walked out of the room, as it was no good waiting for the servant to come. When I got into the hall the front door was open, and I heard her voice. I stopped dead short. She was saying something to some people who had been riding with her. The next moment the door shut, and she tripped in in her riding-habit, and grey gloves, and hat, with the dearest little grey plume in it. She went humming along, and up six or eight steps, without seeing me. Then I moved a step, and she stopped and looked, and gave a start. I don't know whether my face was awfully miserable, but, when our eyes met, hers seemed to fill with pity, and uneasiness, and in(|uiry, and the bright look to melt away altogether; and then she blushed, and ran down stairs again, and held out her hand, saying, ' I am so glad to see you, after all this long time.' I pressed it, but 1 don't think I said anything. I forget ; the butler came into the hall, and stood by the door. She paused another moment, looked confused, and then, as the library door opened, went away up stairs, with a kind 'good-bye.' She dropped a little bunch of violets, which she had worn in the breast of her habit, as she went away. I went and picked them up, although your uncle had now come out of the library, and then made the be.-^t of my way into the street. " Tliere, Katie, I have told you everything, exactly as it happened. Do write to me, dear, and tell me, now, what you think. Is it all over 1 Wliat can I do 1 Can you do any- thing for me? I feel it is better in one resrsect. Her father can never say now that I didn't tell him all about it. But what is to happen ? I am so restless. I can settle to nothing, II 2 484 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. and do nothing, but fish. I moon away all my tiiue hy the water-side, dreaming. But I don't mean to let it beat me much longer. Here's the fourth day since I saw her. I came away the next morning. I shall give myself a week ; and, dear, do write me a long letter at once, and interpret it all to me. A woman knows so wonderfully what things mean. But don't make it out better than you really think. Nobody can stop my going on loving her, that's a comfort ; and while I can do that, and don't know that she loves anybody else, I ought to be happier than any other man in the world. Yes, I ought to be, but I ain't. I will be, though ; see if I won't. Ileigho ! Do write directly, my dear counsellor, to your affectionate cousin, T. B. "P.S. — I had almost forgotten my usual budget. I enclose my last from India. You will sue by it that Harry is getting on famously. I am more glad than I can tell you that my friend East has taken him as his servant. He couldn't be under a better master. Poor Harry ! I sometimes think his case is more hopeless than my own. How is it to come right] or mine % " " Englebottbn. "Dear Cousin, — You will believe how I devoured your letter ; though, when I had read the first few lines and saw what was coming, it made me stop and tremble. At first I could have cried over it for vexation ; but, now I have thought about it a little, I really do not see any reason to be dis- couraged. At any rate. Uncle Robert now knows all about it, and will get used to the idea, and Mary seems to have received you just as you ought to have wished that she should. I am thankful that you have left off pressing me to write to her about you, for I am sure that would not be honourable ; and, to reward you, I enclose a letter of hers, which came yesterday. You will see that she speaks with such pleasure of having just caught a glimpse of you that you need not regret the shortness of the interview. You could not expect her to say more, because, after all, she can only guess ; and I cannot do more than answer as if I were quite innocent too. I am sure you will be very thankful to me some day for not having been your mouthpiece, as I was so very near being. You need not return the letter. I suppose I am getting more hopeful as I grow older — indeed, I am sure I am ; for three or four years ago I should have been in despair about you, and now I am nearly sure that all will come right. " But, indeed, cousin Tom, you cannot, or ought not to wonder at Uncle Robert's objecting to your opinions. And THE INTEKCEPTED LETTER-BAG. 485 then T am so surprised to find you saying tliat you tliink you niuy very likely change them. Because, if that is the case, it would be so much better if you would not write and talk about them. Unless you are quite convinced of such things as you write in that dreadful paper, you really ought not to go on writing them so very much as if you believed them. " And now I am speaking to you about this, which I have often had on my mind to speak to you about, I must ask you not to send me that Wessex Freeman any more. I am always delighted to hear what you think ; and there is a great deal in the articles you mark for me which seems very fine ; and I dare say you quite believe it all when you write it. Only 1 am quite afraid lest papa or any one of the servants should open the papers, or get hold of them after I have opened them ; for 1 am sure there are a great many wicked things in the other parts of the paper. So, please do not send it me, but write and tell me yourself anything that you wish me to know of what you are thinking about and doing. As I did not like to burn the papers, and was afraid to keep them here, I have generally sent them on to your friend Mr. Hardy. He does not know who sends them ; and now you might send them yourself straight to him, as I do not know his address in the country. As you are going up again to keep a term, I wish you would taUi them over with him, and see what he thinks about them. You will think this very odd of me, but you know you have always said how much you rely on his judgment, and that you have learnt so much from him. So I am sure you would wish to consult him ; and, if he thinks that you ought to go on writing, it will be a great help to you to know it. " I am so very glad to be able to tell you how well Martha is going on. I have always read to her the extracts from the letters from India which you have sent me, and she is very much obliged to you for sending them. I think there is no doubt that she is, and always has been, attached to poor widow Winburn's son, and, now that he is behaving so well, I can see that it gives her gj'eat pleasure to hear about him. Only, I hope he will be able to come back before very long, because she is very much admired, and is likely to have so many chances of settling in life, that it is a great chance whether attachment to him will be strong enough to keep her single if he should be absent for many years. "Do you know I have a sort of superstition, that your fate hangs upon theirs in seme curious maxuior — the tivn 4So TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. Stories liave been so interwoven — and that tliey will both be settled happily much sooner than we dare to hope even just now. " Don't think, my dear cousin, that this letter is cold, or that I do not take the very deepest interest in all that concerns you. You and Mary are always in my thoughts, and there is nothing in the world I would not do lor you both which I thought would help you. I am sure it would do you harm if I were only a go-between. Papa is much as u.sual. He gets out a good deal in his chair in the sun this fine weather. He desii-es me to say how glad he should be if you will come over soon and pay us a visit. I hope you will come very soon. " Ever believe me, dear Tom, " Your affectionate cousin, " Katie." " November. "Dear Tom, — I hear that what you in England call a mail is to leave camp this evening ; so, that you may have no excuse for not writing to me constantly, I am sitting down to spin you such a yarn as I can under the dis- advantageous circumstances in which this will leave me. "This time last year, or somewhere thereabouts, I was enjoying academic life with you at Oxford ; and now here I am, encamped at some unpronounceable place beyond Unibala. You won't be much the wiser for that. What do you know about Umbala? I didn't myself know that there was such a place till a month ago, when we were ordered to march up here. But one lives and learns. Marching over India has its disagreeables, of which dysentery and dust are about the worst. A lot of our fellows are down Avith the former ; amongst others my captain ; so I'm in command of the company. If it were not for the glorious privilege of grumbling, I tliink we shoidd all own that we liked the life. Moving about, though one does get frozen and broiled regularly once in twenty-four hours, suits me ; besides, they talk of matters commg to a crisis, and no end of fighting to be done directly. You'll know more about what's going on from the papers than we do, but here they say the ball may begin any day ; so we are making forced marches to be up in time. I wonder how I shaU like it. Perhaps, in my next, I may tell you how a bullet sounds when it comes at you. If there is any fighting I expect our regiment will make their mark. We are in tip-top order ; the "'J I on el is a grand fellow, and the regiment feels his hand THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG. 487 down to tlie youngest drummer bo3^ Wliat a deal of good I will do when I'm a colonel ! " I duly delivered the enclosure in your last to your con- vict, who is rapidly ascending the ladder of promotion. I am disgusted at this myself, for I have had to give him up, and there never was such a jewel of a servant ; but, of course, it's a great thing for him. He is covering sergeant of my company, and the smartest coverer we have too. I have got a regular broth of a boy, an Irishman, in his place, who leads me a dog of a life. I took him chiefly because he very nearly beat me in a foot-race. Our senior major is a Pat himself, and, it seems, knew something of Larry's powers. So, one day at mess, he offered to back him against any one in the regiment for 200 yards. My captain took him and named me, and it came off next day ; and a precious narrow thing it was, but I managed to win by a neck for the honour of the old school. He is a lazy scatter-brained creature, utterly indif- ferent to fact, and I am obliged to keep the brandy flask under lock and key ; but the humour and absolute good- temper of the animal impose upon me, and I really think he is attached to me. So I keep him on, grumbling horribly at the change from that orderly, punctual, clean, accurate convict. Depend upon it, that fellow will do. He makes his way everywhere, with officers and men. He is a gentle- man at heart, and, by the way, you would be surprised at the improvement in his manners and speech. Tliore is hardly a taste of Berkshire left in his deecdect. He has read all the books I could lend him, or borrow for him, and is fast picking up Hindustanee. So 3'ou see, after all, I am come round to your opinion that we did a good afternoon's work on that precious stormy common, when we carried off the convict from the authorities of his native land, and I was first under fire. As you are a performer in that line, couldn't you carry off his sweetheart, and send her out here 1 After the sea voyage there isn't much above 1,000 miles to come by dauk ; and tell her, with my compliments, he is well worth coming twice the distance for. Poor fellow, it is a bad look- out for him I'm afraid, as he may not get home this ten years ; and, though he isn't a kind to be easily killed, there are serious odds against him, even if he keeps all right. I almost wish you had never told me his story. " We are going into cantonments as soon as this expedition is over, in a splendid pig district, and 1 look forward to some real sport. All the men who have had any tell me it b(>ats the best fox-hunt all to fits for excitement. I have got my eye on a famous native horse, who is to be had oheap. Tlie 488 TOM BROWN A'i OXFORD. brute is in the habit of kneeling on his masters, and tearing them with his teeth when he gets them off, but nothing can touch him while you keep on his back. ' Howsumdever,' as your countrymen say, I shall have a shy at him, if I can get him at my price. " I've nothing more to say. There's nobody you know here, except the convict sergeant, and it's awfully hard to fill a letter home unless you've somebody to talk about. Yes, by the way, there is one little fellow, an ensign, just joined, who says he remembers us at school. He can't be more than eigliteen or nineteen, and was an urcliin in the lower school, I suppose, when we were leaving. I don't remember his face, but it's a very good one, and he is a bright gentlemanly youngster as you would wish to see. His name is Jones. Do you remember him ? He will be a godsend to me. I have him to chum with me on this march. " Keep up your letters as you love me. You at home little know wliat it is to enjoy a letter. Never mind what you put in it ; anything will do from home, and I've nobody else much to write to me. " There goes the ' assembly.' T\Tiy, I can't think, seeing we have done our day's march. However, I must turn out and see what's up. " December, "I have just fallen on this letter, which I had quite forgotten, or, rather, had fancied I had sent off to you three weeks and more ago. My baggage has just come to hand, and the scrawl turned up in my paper case. Well, I have plenty to tell you now, at any rate, if I have time to tell it. That 'assembly' which stojiped me short sounded in consequence of the arrival of one of the commander-in-chief's aides in our camp with the news that the enemy was over the Sutlej. We were to march at once, with two six-pounders and a squadron of cavalry, on a fort occupied by an out-lying lot of them, which commanded a ford, and was to be taken and destroyed, and the rascals who held it dispersed ; after which we were to join the main army. Our colonel had the command ; so we were on the route within an hour, leaving a company and the baggage to follow as it could ; and from that time to this, forced marching and hard fighting have been the order of the day. " We drew first blood next morning. The enemy were in some force outside the fort, and showed fight in very rough ground covered with bushes ; out of which we had to drive tiiem — which we did after a sharp struggle, and the main body THE INTERCEPTED LETTEB-BAG. 489 drew off altogether. Then the fort had to he taken. Our two guns worked away at it till dark. In the night two of the gunners, who volunteered for the service, crept close up to the place, and reported that there was nothing to hinder our running right into it. Accordingly the colonel resolved to rush it at daybreak, and my company was told olf to lead. The captain being absent, I had to command. I was with the dear old chief the last thing at night, getting his instruc- tions : ten minutes with him before going iBto action would make a hare fight. " There was cover to within one hundred and fifty yards of the place ; and there I, and poor little Jones, and the men, spent the night in a dry ditch. An hour before daybreak we were on the alert, and served out rations, and then they began plapng tricks on one another as if we were out for a junketing. I sat with my watch in my hand, feeling queer, and wondering whether I was a greater coward than the rest. Then came a streak of light. I put up my watch, formed the men ; up went a rocket, my signal, and out into the open we went at the double. We hadn't got over a thii-d of the ground when bang went the fort guns, and the grape-shot were whistling about our ears ; so I shouted ' Forward ! ' and away we went as hard as we could go. I was obliged to go ahead, you see, because every man of them knew I had beaten Larry, their best runner, when he had no gun to carry ; but I didn't half like it, and should have blessed any hole or bramble which would have sent me over and given them time to catch me. But the ground was provokingly level ; and so I was at the first mound and over it several lengths in front of the men, and among a lot of black fellows serving the guns. They came at me like wild cats, and how I got ofT is a mystery. I parried a cut from one fellow, and dodged a second ; a third rushed at my left side. I just caught the flash of his tulwar, and thought it was all up, when he jumped into the air, shot through the heart by Sergeant Winburn ; and the next moment Master Larry rushed by me and plunged his bayonet into my friend in front. It turned me as sick as a dog. I can't fancy anything more disagreeable than seeing the operation for the first time, except being struck oneself. The supporting companies were in in another minute, with the dear old chief himself, who came up and shook hands with me, and said I had done credit to the regiment. Then I began to look about, ind missed poor little Jones. "We found him about twenty yards from the place, with two grape-shot through him, stone dead, and smiling like a child asleep. We buried him in the fort. I cut ofi" some of his hair, and sent it home to his 400 rOM BROAA'N AT OXFORD. mother. Her last letter was in his breast pocket, and a loi.k oi' bright brown hair of some one's. I sent them back, too, and his sword. " Since then we have been with the army, and had three or four general actions ; about which I can tell you nothing, except that we have lost about a third of the regiment, and Lave always been told we have won. Steps go fast enough ; my captain died of wounds and dysentery a week ago ; so I have the company in earnest. How long I shall hold it ig another question ; for, though there's a slack, we haven't done with sharp work yet, I can see. " How often we've talked, years ago, of what it must feel like going into battle ! Well, the chief thing I felt when the grape came down pretty thick for the first time, as we were advancing, was a sort of gripes in the stomach which made me want to go forward stooping. But I didn't give in to it ; the chief was riding close behind us, joking the youngsters who were ducking their heads, and so cheery and cool, that he made old soldiers of us at once. What with smoke, and dust, and excitement, you know scarcely anything of what is going on. The finest sight I have seen is the artillery going into action. Nothing stops those fellows. Places you would crane at out hunting they go right over, guns, carriages, men, and all, leaving any cavalry we've got out here well behind. Do you know what a nullah is ? Well, it's a great gap, like a huge dry canal, fifteen or twenty feet deep. We were halted behind one in the last great fight, waiting the order to advance, when a battery came up at full gallop. We all made sure they must be pulled up by the nullah. They never pulled bridle. 'Leading gun, right turn !' sang out the subaltern ; and down they went sideways into the nullah. Then, ' Left turn ; ' up the other bank, one gun after another, the horses scrambling like cats up and down places that my men had to use their hands to scramble up, and away on the other side to within 200 yards of the enemy ; and then, round like light- ning, and look out in front. " Altogether it's sickening work, though there's a grand sort of feeling of carrying your life in your hand. They say the Sepoy regiments have behaved shamefully. There is no sign of anything like funk amongst our fellows that I have seen. Sergeant Winburn has distinguished himself every- where. He is like my shadow, and I can see tries to watch over my precious carcase, and get between me and danger. He would be a deal more missed in the world than L Except you, old friend, I don't know who would care much if I were knocked over to-morrow. Aunts and cousins are my nearest THE INTERCErTED LETTER-BAG. 491 relations. You know I never was a snuffler ; but this sort of life makes one serious, if one has any reverence at all in one. You'll be glad to have this line, if you don't hear from me again. I've often thought in the last month that we shall never see one another again in this world. But, whether in this world or any other, you know I am and always shall be your affectionate friend, " H. East." ■'Camp on the Sutlej, ''January. " Dear Master Tom, — The captain's last words was, if anything happened I was to be sure to write and tell you. And so I take up my pen, though you will know as I am not used to writing, to tell you the misfortune as has happened to our regiment. Because, if you was to ask any man in our regiment, let it be avIio it would, he would say as the captain was the best officer as ever led men. Not but what there's a many of them as will go to the front as brave as lions, and don't value shot no more than if it was rotten apples ; and men as is men will go after such. But 'tis the captain's manner and ways, with a kind word for any poor fellow as is hiirt, or sick and tired, and making no account of hisself, and, as you may say, no bounce with him ; that's what makes the difference. " As it might be last Saturday, we came upon the enemy where he was posted very strong, with guns all along his front, and served till we got right up to them, the gunners being cut down and bayoneted when we got right up amongst them, and no quarter given ; and there was great banks of earth, too, to clamber over, and more guns behind ; so, with the marching up in front and losing so many officers and men, our regiment was that wild when we got amongst them 'twas awful to see,' and, if there was any prisoners taken, it was more by mistake than not. " Me and three or four more settled, when the word came to prepare for action, to keep with the ca])tain, because 'twas known to every one as no odds would stop him, and he would never mina iiisself. The dust and smoke and noise was that thick you couldn't see nor hear anything after our regiment was in action ; but, so far as I seen, when we was wheeled Into line, and got the word to advance, there was as it might be as far as from our old cottage to the Hawk's Lynch to go over before we got to the guns, which was plaj'ing into us all the way. Our line went up very steady, only where men was knocked down ; and, when we come to within a matter of sixty yards, the officers jumped out and waved their swords, 402 TOM BTIOWN AT OXFOl^D. for 'twas no use to give words, and the ranks was broken hj reason of the running up to take the guns from the enemy. Me and the rest went after the captain ; but he, being so light of foot, was first, by may be ten yards or so, at the mound, and so up before we was by him. But, though they was all round him lil^e bees when we got to him, 'twas not then as ha was hit. There was more guns further on, and we and they drove on all together ; and, though they was beaten, being fine tall men and desperate, there was many of them fighting hard, and, as you might say, a man scarcely knowed how he got hit. I kept to the captain as close as ever I could, but there was times when I bad to mind myself Just as we come to the last guns, Larry, that's the captain's servant, wa3 trying by hisself to turn one of them round, so as to fire on the enemy as they took the river to the back of their linea all in a huddle. So I turned to lend him a hand ; and, when I looked round next moment, there was the captain a stag- gering like a drunken man, and he so strong and lissom up to then, and never had a scratch since the war begun, and this the last minute of it pretty nigh, for the enemy was all cut to pieces and drowned that day. I got to him before he fell, and we laid him down gently, and did the best we could for him. But he was bleeding dreadful with a great gash in his side, and his arm broke, and two gunshot wounds. Our surgeon was killed, and 'twas hours before his wounds was dressed, and 'twill be God's mercy if ever he gets round ; though they do say, if the fever and dysentery keeps off, and he can get out of this country and home, there's no knowing but he may get the better of it all, but not to serve with the regiment again for years to come. " I hope. Master Tom, as I've told you all the captain would like as you should know ; only, not being much used to writing, I hope you will excuse mistakes. And, if so be that it won't be too much troubling of you, and the captain should go home, and you could write to say how things was going on at home as before, wnich the captain always gave to me to read when the mail come in, it would be a great help towards keeping up of a good heart in a foreign land, which is hard at times to do. There is some things which I make bold to send by a comrade going home sick. I don't know as they will seem much, but I hope as you will accept of the sword, which belonged to one of their officers, and the rest to her. Also, on account of what was in the last piece as you forwarded, I send a letter to go along with the things, if Miss Winter, who have been so kind, or you, would deliver the same. To whom I make bold to send my respects as wuil THE INTERCEPTED LETTEE-BAG. 493 Bs to yourself, and hoping this will find you well and aU liiends, and " From your respecful, "Henry Winburn, " Colour-sergeant, lOlst Regimeut. " '^ March. " My Dear Tom, — I begin to think I may see you again yet, but it has been a near shave. I hope Sergeant Winburn's letter, and the returns, in which I see I was put down " dangerously wounded," will not have frightened you very much. The war is over ; and, if I live to get down to Cal- cutta you will see me in the summer, please God. The end was like the beginning — going right up to guns. Our regiment is frightfully cut up ; there are only 300 men left under arms — the rest dead or in hospital. I am sick at heart at it, and weak in body, and can only wi-ite a few lines at a time, but will get on with this as I can, in time for next mail. • * » * * "Since beginning this letter I have had another relapse. So, in case I should never finish it, I will say at once what I most want to say. Winburn has saved my life more than once, and is besides one of the noblest and bravest fellows in the world ; so I mean to provide for him in case anytliing should happen to me. I have made a will, and appointed you my executor, and left him a legacy. You must buy hia discharge, and get him home and married to the Englebourn beauty as soon as possible. But what I want you to under- stand is, that if the legacy isn't enough to do this, and make all straight with her old curmudgeon of a father, it is my first wish that whatevev will do it should be made up to him. He has been in hospital with a bad flesh wound, and has let out to me the whole of his story, of which you had oidy given me the heads. If that young woman does not wait for him, and book him, I shall give up all faith in petticoats. Now that's done I feel more at ease. " Let me see. I haven't written for six weeks and more, just before our last great fight. You'll know all about it from the papers long before you get this — a bloody business — I am loath to think of it. I was knocked over in the last of their entrenchments, and should then and there have bled to death had it not been for Winburn. He never left me, though the killing, and plundering, and roystering afterwards, was going on all around, and strong temptation to a fellow when his blood is up, and he sees his comrades at it, after ptich work as we had had. What's more, he caught my Irish fellow and made him stay by me too, and between them they 4ii4 TOM BllOWN AT OXFORD. managed to prop me up and stop the bleediug, though it was touch and go. I uever thought they would manage it. You can't think what a curious feeling it is, the life going out of you. I WU3 perfectly conscious, and knew all tliey were dohig and saying, and thought quite clearly, though in a sort of dreamy way, about you, and a whole jumble of people and things at home. It was the most curious painless mixture of dream and life, getting more dreamy every minute. I don't suppose I could have opened my eyes or spoken ; at any rate I had no wish to do so, and didn't try. Several times the thought of death came close, to me ; and, whether it was the odd state I was in, or what else I don't know, but the only feeling I had, was one of iuteuoe curiosity. I sliould think I must have lain there, with Wiuburn supporting my head, and moistening my Ups with rum-and- water, for four or five hours, before a doctor could be got. He had managed to drive Larry about till he had found, or borrowed, or stolen the drink, and then kept him making short cruises in search of help in the shape of hospital-staff, ambulances, or doctors, from which Master Larry always came back without the eliglitest success. My belief is, he employed those pre^^ious minutes, when he was from under his Serjeant's eye, in looting. At last, AVinburn got impatient, and I heard him telling Larry what he was to do while he was gone himself to find a doctor ; and then I was moved as gently as if I had been a sick girl. I heard him go off with a limp, but did not know till long after of his wound. " Larry had made such a wailing and to-do when they first found me, that a natural reaction now set in, and he began gently and tenderly to run over in his mind what could be made out of 'the captin,' and what would become of his things. I found out this, partly thi'ough his habit of talking to himself, and })artly from the precaution which he took of ascertaining where my watch and purse were, and what else T had upon me. It tickkd me immensely to hear him. Presently T found he was examining my boots, which he pronounced 'iligant entirely,' and wondered whether he coxild get them on. The ' serjint ' would never want them. And he then proceeded to assei"t» while he actually began unlacing them, that the ' captin ' would never have ' bet him ' but for the boots, which ' was wf.rth ten feet in a furlong to any man.' ' Shure 'tis too late now ; but wouldn't I like to run him agin with the bare /eet ? ' I couldn't stand that, and just opened my eyes a little, and moved my hand, and said, ' Done.' I wanted to add, 'you rascal,' but that was too much for me, Larry's fai-** nf horror, which I just caught thi-ough master's term. 495 my half-opened eyes, wonM have made me roar, if I had had strength for it. I helieve the resolution I made that he should never go about in my boots liclped me to pull through ; but, as soon as Winburn came back with the doctor. Master Larry departed, and I much doubt whether I shall ever set eyes on hiin again in the flesh. Not if he can help it, certainly. The regiment, what's left of it, is away in the Punjaub, and he with it. Winburn, as I told you, is hard hit, but no danger. 1 have great hopes that he will be invalidetl. You may depend upon it he will escort me home, if any interest of mine can manage it ; and the dear old chief is so kind to me that I think he will arrange it somehow. " 1 must be wonderfully better to have spun such a yarn. Writing those first ten lines nearly finished me, a week ago, and now I am scarcely tired after all this scrawl. If that rascal, Larry, escapes hanging another year, and comes back home, I will run him yet, and thrash his head off. " There is something marvellously life-giving in the idea of sailing for old England again ; and I mean to make a strong fight for seeing you again, old boy. God bless you. Write again for the chance, directing to my agents at Calcutta, as before. Ever your half-alive, but whole-hearted and afi'ec- tionate fricntl, " H. East." CHAPTER XLV. master's term. One more look into the old college where we have spent so much time already, not, I hope, altogether unpleasantly. Our hero is up in the summer term, keeping his three weeks' residence, the necessary preliminary to an M.A. degree. We find him sitting in Hardy's rooms ; tea is over, scouts out of colhige, candles lighted, and silence reigning, except when distant sounds of mirth come from some undergraduates' rooms on the opjjosite side of quad, through the open windows. Hardy is deep in the budget of Indian letters, some of which we have read in the last chapter ; and Tom reads them over again as his friend finishes them, and then care- fully folds them up and puts them back in their places in a large pocket-case. Except an occasional explanatory remark, or exclamation of interest, no word passes until Hardy finishes the last letter. Then he breaks out into praises of the two Harrys, which gladden Tom's heart as he fastens the case, and puts it back in his pocket, saying, "Yes, you won't find two finer fellows in a long summer's day ; no, nor in twenty." 49G TOM BROWTS AT OXFORD. " And you expect them home, then, in a week or two ? " " Yes, I think so. Just about the time I shall be going down." " Don't talk about going down. You haven't been here a week." " Just a week. One out of three. Three weeks wasted in keeping one's Master's term ! Why can't you give a fellow his degree quietly, without making him come and kick his heels here for three weeks 1 " " You ungrateful dog ! Do you mean to say you haven't enjoyed coming back, and sitting in dignity in the bachelors' seats in chapel, and at the bachelors' table in hall, and thinking how much wiser you are than the undergraduates 1 Besides, your old friends want to see you, and you ought to want to see them." " Well, I'm very glad to see something of you again, old fellow. I don't find that a year's absence has made any change in you. But who else is there that I care to see 1 ^ly old friends are gone, and the year has made a great gap between me and the youngsters. They look on me as a sort of don." " Of course they do. Why, you are a sort of don. You will be an M.A. in a fortnight, and a member of Convoca- tion." " Very likely ; but I don't appreciate the dignity. I can tell you being up here now is anything but enjoyable. You have never broken with the place. And then, you always did your duty, and have done the college credit. You can't enter into the feelings of a fellow whose connexion with Oxford has been quite broken off, and who wasted three parts of his time here, when he comes back to keep his ]M aster's." " Come, come, Tom. You might have read more, certainly, with benefit to yourself and the college, and taken a higher degree. But, after all, didn't the place do you a great deal of good 1 and you didn't do it much harm. I don't like to see you in this sort of gloomy state ; it isn't natural to you." " It is becoming natural You haven't seen much of me during the last year, or you would have remarked it. And then, as I tell you, Oxford, when one has nothing to do in it but to moon about, thinking over one's past follies and sins, isn't cheerful. It never was a very cheerful place to me at the best of times." " Not even at pulling times 1 " " Well, the river is the part I like best to think o£ But MASTER'S TERM. 407 pven the river makos me rather melancholy now. One feels one has done with it." " Why, Tom, I believe your melancholy comes from their not having asked you to pull in the boat." " Perhaps it does. Don't you call it degrading to he pulling in the torpid in one's old age '? " "Mortified vanity, man ! They have a capital boat. I wonder how we should have liked to have been turned out for some bachelor just because he had pulled a good oar in his day 1 " " Not at all. I don't blame the young ones, and I hope I do my duty in the torpid. By the way, they're an uncom- monly nice set of youngsters. Much better behaved in every way than we were, uidess it is that they put on their best manners before me." " No, I don't think they do. The fact is, they are really fine young fellows." " So I think. And I'll tell you what, Jack ; since we are sitting and talking our minds to one another at last, lilie old times, somebody has made the most wonderful change in this college. I rather think it is seeing what St. Ambrose's is now, and thinking what it was in my time, and what an uncommon member of society I should have turned out if I had had the luck to have been here now instead of then, that makes me down in the mouth — more even than having to pull in the torpid instead of the racing boat." " You do think it is improved, then 1 " " Think ! Why it is a different place altogether ; and, as you are the only new tutor, it must have been your doing. Now, I want to know your secret." " I've no secret, except taking a real interest in all that the men do, and living with them as much as I can. You may fancy it isn't much of a trial to me to steer the boat down, or run on the bank and coach the crew." " Ah ! I remember ; you were beginning that before I left, in your first year. I knew that would answer." " Yes. The fact is, I find that just what I like best is the very best thing for the men. With very few exceptions they are all glad to be stirred up, and meet me nearly half-way in reading, and three-quarters in everything else. I beheve they would make me captain to-morrow." " And why don't you let them, then 1 " " No ; there's a time for everything. I go in in the scratch fours for the pewters, and — more by token — my crew won them two years rimning. Look at my trophies," and he pointed to two pewter pots, engraved with the college arms, which stood un his side-board. 498 TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD. ""Well, T dare say you're right. But what does the presi dent say 1 " " Oh, he is a convert. Didn't you see him on the bank ■when you torpids made your bump the other night 1 " " No, you don't mean it 1 Well, do you know, a sort of vision of black tights, and a broad-brimmed hat, crossed me, but I never gave it a second thought. And so the president comes out to see the St. Ambrose boat row 1 " " Seldom misses two nights running." " Then, ' carry me out, and bury me decently.' Have you seen old Tom walking round Peck water lately on his clapper, smoking a cigar with the Dean of Cliristchurch ? Don't be afraid. I am ready for anything you like to tell me. Draw any amount you like on my faith ; I shall honour the draft after that." " The president isn't a bad judge of an oar, when he sets his mind to it." " Isn't he ] But, I say, Jack — no sell — how in the world did it happen?" " I believe it happened chiefly through his talks with me. WTien I was tirst made tutor he sent for me and told nic he had heard I encouraged the young men in boating, and he must positively forbid it. 1 didn't much care about staying up ; so I was pretty plain with him, and said, ' if I was not allowed to take the line I thought best in such matters I must resign at the end of term.' He assented, but afterwards thought better of it, and sent for me again, and we had several encounters. I took my ground very civilly but firmly, and he had to give up one objection after another. I think the turning-point was when he quoted St. Paul on me, and said I was teaching boys to worship physical strength, instead of teaching them to keep under their bodies and bring them into subjection. Of course I countered him there with tremendous effect. The old boy took it very well, only saying he feared it was no use to argue further — in this matter of boat-racing he had come to a conclusion, not without serious thouglit, many years before. However, he came round quietly. And so he has on other points. In fact, lie is a wonderfully open- minded man for his age, if you only put things to him the right way." *' Has he come mund about gentlemen-commoners ? I see you've only two or three up." " Yes. We haven't given up taking them altogether. I hope that may come soon. But I and another tutor took to plucking them ruthlessly at matriculation, unless they weie quite up to the commoner standard. The consequence was, a master's term. 499 row in commoii room. We stood out, and won. Luclcily, as you know, it has always been given out here that all under- graduates, geutlemen-coumiouers and commoners, have to pass the same college examiuations, and to attend the same course.*? of lectures. You know also what a mere sham and pretence the rule had become. Well, we simply made a reality of it, and in answer to all objectors said, ' Is it our rule or not 1 If it is, we are bound to act on it. If you want to alter it, there are the regular ways of doing so.' After a little grumb- ling they let us have our way, and the consequence is, that velvet is getting scarce at St. Ambrose." " What a blessing ! What other miracles have you been performing t " " The best reform we have carried is throwing the kitchen and cellar open to the undergraduates." " W-h-e-w ! That's just the sort of reform we should have appreciated. Fancy Drysdale's lot with the key of the college cellars, at about ten o'clock on a shiny night." " You don't quite understand the refoi'm. You remember, when you were an undergraduate you couldn't give a dhiner in college, and you had to buy your wine anywhere t " " Yes. And awful firewater we used to get. The governor supplied me, like a wise man." " Well, we have placed the college in the relation of benevolent father. Every undergraduate now can give two dinners a term in his own rooms, from the kitchen ; or more, if he comes and asks, and has any reason to give. We take care that they have a good dinner at a reasonable rate, and the men are delighted with the ai-rangement. I don't believe there are three men in the college now who have hotel bills. And we let them have aU their wine out of the college cellars." "That's what I caU good common-sense. Of course it must answer ia every way. And you find they all come to you ? " "Almost all. They can't get anything like the wine we give them at the price, and they know it." " Do you make them pay ready money 1 " " The dinners and wine are charged in their battel bills ; so they have to pay once a term, just as they do for their orders at commons." " It must swell their battel bills awfully." " Yes, but battel bills always come in at the beginning of term, when they are flush of money. Besides, they all know that battel bills must be paid. In a small way it is the best thing that ever was done for St. Ambrose's. Yoi see it -^uts K K 2 500 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. 60 many ways. Keeps men in college, knocks off the most objectionable bills at inns and pastry-cooks', keeps them from being poisoned, makes them pay their bills regularly, shows them that we like them to be able to live like gentlemen — " " And lets you dons know what they are all about, and how much they spend in the way of entertaining." '' Yes ; and a very good thing for them too. They know that we shall not interfere while they behave like gentlemen." " Oh, I'm not objecthig. And was this your doing, too 1 " " 1^0 ; a joint business. We hatched it in the common room, and then the bursar spoke to the president, who was fuiious, and said we were giving the sanction of the college to disgraceful luxury and extravagance. Luckily he had not the power of stopping us, and now is convinced." " The goddess of common-sense seems to have alighted again in tlie quad of St. Ambrose. You'll never leave the place. Jack, now you're beginning to get everything your own way." "On the contrary, I don't mean to stop up more than another year at the outside. I have been tutor nearly three years now ; that's about long enough." "Do you think you're right? You seem to have hit on your line in life wonderfully. You like the work, and the work likes you. You are doing a heap of good up here. You'll be president in a year or two, depend on it. I should say you had better stick to Oxford." " No. I should be of no use in a year or two. "We want a constant current of fresh blood here." " In a geueral way. But you don't get a man every day who can throw himself into the m«n's pursuits, and can get hold of them in the right way. And then, after all, when a fellow has got such work cut out for him as you have, Oxford must be an uncommonly pleasant place to live in." " Pleasant enough in many ways. But you seem to have forgotten how you used to rail against it. " Yes. Because I never hit off the right ways of the place. But, if I had taken a fii-st and got a fellowship, I should like it well enough, I dare say." " Being a fellow, on the contrary, makes it worse. While one was an undergraduate one could feel virtuous and indig- nant at the vices of Oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money- worship which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. They become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart." " Why, Jack, we're changing characters to-night. Fancy WASTERS TERM. 501 your coming out in the abusive line ! Wliy, I never said lutrder tilings of Alma Mater myself. However, there's plenty of flunk eyism and money-worship everywhere else." " Yes ; but it is not so heartbreaking in other places. When one thinks what a great centre of learning and faitli like Oxford ought to be — that its highest educational work should just be the deliverance of us all from flunkeyism and money-worship — and then looks at matters here without rose- coloured spectacles, it ^ives one sometimes a sort of chilly leaden despondency, which is very hard to struggle against." " I am sorry to hear you talk like that, Jack, for one can't help loving the place after all." " So I do, God knows. If I didn't I shouldn't care for its shortcomings." " Well, the flunkej-ism and money- worship were bad enough, but I don't think they were the worst things — at least not in my day. Our neglects were almost worse than our worships." "You mean the want of all reverence for parents ] Well, pi^rhaps that lies at the root of the false worships. They spring up on the vacant soil." " And the want of reverence for women. Jack. The worst of all, to my mind ! " "Perhaps you are right. But we are not at the bottom yet." " How do you mean 1 " " I mean that we must worship God before we can rever- ence parents or women, or root out flunkeyism and money- worship." " Yes. But after all can we fairly lay that sin on OxfoT-d ? Surely, whatever may be growing up side by side with it, there's more Christianity here than almost anywhere else." " Plenty of common room Christianity — belief in a dead God. There, I have never said it to any one but you, but that is the slough we have to get out of. Don't think that I despair for us. We shall do it yet ; but it vrill be sore work, stripping off" the comfortable wine-party religion in which we are wrapped up — work for our strongest and our msest" " And yet you think of leaving 1 " " There are other reasons. I will tell you some day. But now, to turn to other matters, how have you been getting on this last year ? You write so seldom that I am all behind- hand." " Oh, much the same as usual." "Then you are still like one of those who went out to David 1 " " Xo, I'm not in debt." O02 TOM BROWN AT OXFOED. " But discontented 1 " "Pretty much like you there, Jack. However, content is no vii'tue, that I can see, wliile tliere's anything to mend. Who is going to be contented with game-preserving, and corn-laws, and grinding the faces of the poor t David's camp was a better place than Saul's, any day." Hardy got up, opened a drawer, and took out a bundle of papers, which Tom recognised as the Wessex Freeman. He felt rather uncomfortable, as his friend seated himself again, and began looking them over. " You see what I have here," he said. Tom nodded. " Well, there are some of the articles I should like to ask you abuut, if you don't object." "No; go on." " Here is one, then, to begin with. T won't read it all. Let me see ; here is what I was looking for," and he began reading : " One would think, to hear these landlords, our rulers, talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep woods, the everlasting hills, and the rivers that run among them, were made for the sole purpose of ministering to their greedy lusts and mean ambitions ; that they may roll out amongst unrealities their pitiful mock lives, from their silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins, studded with silver knobs, and lying coats of arms, reaping where they have not sown, and gathering where they have not strewed ; making the omer small and the ephah great, that they may sell the refuse of the wheat ' " "That'll do. Jack ; but what's the date of that paper?" " July last. Is it yours, then % " " Yes. And I allow it's too strong and one-sided. I have given up writing altogether ; will that satisfy you % I don't see my own way clear enough yet. But for all that I'm not ashamed of what I wrote in that paper." " I have nothing more to say after that, except that I'm heartily glad you have given up writing for the present." " But I say, old felluw, how did you get these papers, and know about my articles 1 " " They were sent me. Shall I burn them now, or would you like to have them ] We needn't say anything more about them." " Burn them by all means. I suppose a friend sent them to you ? " " I suppose so." Hardy went on burning the papers in silence ; and as Tom watched him, a sudden light seemed to break upon him. FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN. 503 '* T say, Jack," he said presently, " a little bird has been whispering something to me about that friend." Hardy winced a little, and redoubled his diligence in burning the papers. Tom looked on smiling, and thinking how to go on now that he had so unexpectedly turned the tables on his monitor, when the clock struck twelve. ** Hullo !" he said, getting up ; "time for me to knock out, or old Copas wiU be in bed. To go back to where we started from to-night — as soon as East and Harry Winburn get back we shall have some joUy doings at Euglebourn. Tliere'U be a wedding, I hope, and you'll come over and do parson for us, won't you 1 " " You mean for Patty ? Of course I will" " The little bird whispered to me that you wouldn't dislike visiting that part of the old county. Good-night, Jack. I wish you success, old fellow, with all my heart, and I hope after all that you may leave St. Ambrose's within the year." CHAPTER XL VI. FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN^. If a knowledge of contemporary history must be reckoned as an important element in the civilization of any people, tiien I am atraid that the good folk of Englebourn must have been content, in the days of our story, with a very low place on the ladder. How, indeed, was knowledge to percolate, so as to reach down to the foundations of Englebouruian society — the stratum upon which all others rest — the common agricultural labourer, producer of corn and other gi'ain, the caretul and stolid nurse and guardian of youthfid oxen, sheep, and pigs, many of them far better fed and housed than his own children t All- penetrating as she is, one cannot help wondering that she did not give up Englebourn altogether as a hopeless job. So far as written perio9 THE LIBRARY IB TSS UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. l^ i.i^^b^lii' ip-p'73i'offlr"^ *; 21 Sit 5 50m-3,'68(H9242s8)9482 3 1205 00088 6224 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 001 409 864 4