III.

As he rode back towards Oxford, two hours afterwards, the light was

already fading from the winter sky. Sleepily and quietly he jogged along

now, his horse tired at last after the quick gallop through grass lanes

and over the wet fields and commons. The young man, too, was tired; but

with a healthy, physical fatigue, pleasant in all his body. He felt

almost happy after the motion, the wide light, the freshness of the air.

And when he rode into the old city, walking his horse through the

darkening streets, it seemed to him as if he were riding home now, as

often he had ridden home into Oxford before, at just this hour of the

twilight. The groups in the doorways, the lighted windows in the dim

buildings, the sounds about him of bells and footsteps and friendly

voices, brought back to him confusedly, mixed with the memory of this

and that, the charm and comfort of that old life--that life of order and

disciplined ways, and high old-fashioned purposes. How quietly the days

had gone by: the mornings of work, the rides with friends, or afternoons

on the river, between the yellowing autumn willows; the evenings with

the white lamplight and pleasant talk and books. He had quarrelled with

the restraint, the subordination, sometimes; had thought it too severe,

too painful, to go out on the river in the wind and rain, to get up so

early in the cold of winter mornings. But now, after the stale

dissipation of his life, it was only the friendly warmth, the

lazily-wasted hours he remembered, the pleasant fatigue after exercise,

and the taste of the winter air when he had hurried out to chapel

through the earliest sunlight.

If he could only go back to it all; if, putting up his horse, he could

walk to his rooms through the twilight, and find his books, and the fire

burning there, and friends not far off! But things had been against him

somehow. And yet he had meant it all to be so different. And with half a

sigh he remembered the summer evenings when he and Austen had walked in

the old garden, talking of their plans in life--of all they meant to

do--together! if they could. But then, people never did remain friends

like that.

When he gave up his horse, however, he looked at his watch, and, after

standing in hesitation for a moment, he turned with a sudden impulse,

and walked quickly towards his old College.

In the porch stood a group of undergraduates, just up from the river,

and vaguely gossiping before they separated. But they were all strangers

to Arthur, and the porter, who answered his questions, was a stranger

too. Crossing the darker quadrangle, the young man went into a staircase

and up two flights of steps. Then he stopped, and stood breathing

quickly for a moment. There was the door, and the name over it, but he

had grown suddenly ashamed of his errand. Austen might have forgotten

him, or might not want to see him.... But, bah! what did he care? and

his footsteps must have been heard....

"I'm afraid you don't recognize me," Arthur said, in his assured voice,

as he went forward into the room. "I was in Oxford; I thought I'd look

you up."

Austen, who was sitting by a lamp, turned round with a puzzled

expression on his staid, pleasant face. Then, pushing aside a heap of

papers, he got up and said: "Oh, Lestrange, I didn't recognize you at

first, it's so dark there. But I'm glad to see you--do sit down; you'll

have tea, won't you?"

He was passing through Oxford, Arthur said; and having a few hours on

his hands after riding over Shotover, he had come back, and happened to

look in at the old College. The plausibility of this explanation, and

Austen's voice as he said politely, "That's right, that's right, I'm

delighted to see you again," soon overcame most of the shyness behind

Arthur's easy, unembarrassed manner. They still talked to each other

rather formally, however, as men do who have not met for years.

"It's a long time since you've been in Oxford, isn't it?" Austen asked.

"Yes, it is; I've been at home, in London. But I suppose it hasn't

changed much."

No, there wasn't much change, Austen said; old people went and new

came.

What had become of all the men who had been with them in College, Arthur

asked; he had lost sight of them somehow.

Austen said that some were at the Bar; some in the government offices;

one or two in Parliament already; the most of them seemed to be getting

on pretty well, he thought, though he had lost sight of many of them, as

one did.

"And you've been living on here ever since? I heard you had been made a

Fellow. You like it, I suppose?"

Yes, Austen said, he liked it well enough, the work was tiring

sometimes; that afternoon he had been going through papers. Arthur

noticed that he looked fatigued, and a good deal older. It was dry, hard

work no doubt, but still it was not the kind of thing that changed you.

"I say, you have jolly rooms here, Austen; I envy you living in a place

like this. Do you remember your old rooms over the garden? I think I

used to live in them almost."

As the old memories revived they seemed to grow less shy of each other.

Arthur leaned forward, talking in a vague, intermittent way as he stared

into the fire. Sometimes he would gaze at nothing, with a vacant, dazed

look, for minutes together; or he would take the fire-irons and break up

the coals. Once the tongs slipped and fell with a sudden clatter; he

started nervously.

"Well," he said at last, rousing himself from a reverie in which he

seemed conscious of nothing but the warmth and comfort and pleasant,

physical fatigue, "Well, it seems very jolly here, like old times; I

almost wish I had never gone away. But then, of course, I couldn't help

it," he added; "I wasn't asked."

"You had hard luck," Austen said; "I hope it hasn't made any

difference."

The words sounded friendly and sympathetic to Arthur. Hard luck, yes,

that was it; he had always had hard luck.

"What have you been doing since?" Austen said politely.

"What have I been doing, Charles? Oh, nothing much; seeing about things

at home a little. There were some cottages I had rebuilt. You remember

we used to talk about it. It isn't so easy though, or I suppose I'm not

so clever at it. But of course you know a great deal more about those

things."

"No, oh no! I've been so busy. That sort of thing is good in moderation,

and I'm glad you keep it up."

"Oh yes, in a way ... but no, what am I saying? I don't really keep it

up. It was all two years ago. I haven't done much of anything

since--anything good. Things, you know," he went on, as he stared into

the fire, "haven't gone just--I mean, it's been rather stupid--stupid,

and worse, I'm afraid; I don't seem good for much somehow."

The familiar Oxford room, with its order, and books, and shaded light,

seemed so shut in, so far from the friendless world in which he lived,

that for the moment Arthur almost forgot the lonely distrust, the

derision of everything, which his life had taught him. "I suppose it's

fate," he added, staring into the fire, as if he were half-ashamed of

what he was saying. "I suppose it _is_ fate--but still, I

wonder--sometimes it seems if--that if I had had a chance, if anybody--"

He waited a minute indecisively. But Austen said nothing. Arthur

glanced at him, and then, flushing slightly, he got up. "But I must be

going now," he said, with a curious change and coldness in his voice; "I

have a train to catch."

"Oh, don't go," Austen replied awkwardly, "don't go just yet. I'm sorry

to hear what you say; but don't you think, if you will allow me to say

so, don't you think it is a mistake to blame fate for such things? If

you would tell me more--"

"Oh, thanks," Arthur said, "I think I must be going."

"But you were going to say something," Austen urged, "and if you would

tell me more, I might be able to help you, or give you advice at least."

Arthur glanced at him quickly. Then suddenly the idea seemed to amuse

him, and coming back a step or two he said, with a smile, "Tell you

more, Austen? Oh, I was only going to tell you what everyone knows,

that I've turned out a bad lot, that's all."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Austen, in a rather shocked voice; "I

hope it's not so bad."

Arthur smiled pleasantly. "Oh well, you know, it _is_ pretty bad, I'm

afraid."

"But what do you mean, Lestrange?"

"What do I mean? Oh, all the usual things--bad company, gambling, and

women."

Austen looked still more shocked. "But surely you could change if you

wanted to!"

"I suppose I might, if I wanted to," Arthur said, playing with his

riding whip. "But I'm afraid I don't want to. What's the good?"

"What's the good?" Austen repeated. "I don't see how you can ask such a

question; if what you say is true, you ought to want to change."

Arthur mused a moment. Then looking up, with apparent candour, he said,

"Well, I suppose it is odd; but honestly, you know, I don't want to

change in the least. You see, your respectable people, they don't want

to have anything to do with me; and anyhow, the things they care for

bore me to death, really they do. You only have one life, so why not be

happy in your own way? that's my principle."

"But surely, Lestrange, you can't go on--"

"No, I suppose I can't for ever; but you try to enjoy it while it lasts;

and anyhow, my father, you know how he died--I suppose it's fate;

heredity you call those things, don't you?"

"Really, I'm shocked to hear you talk so recklessly, as if you didn't

care. You seem very much changed."

"Am I changed? I don't know; I suppose I am. We've both changed a

little, don't you think? At least, things seem different. I wonder where

I put my gloves,--I really must be going."

"Well, of course, I can't keep you, Lestrange; I can only give you my

advice. But I can't believe you're happy."

For a moment Arthur looked at him sullenly.

"Well, what if I ain't?" he asked. "What's that to you?"

"I was only going to say," Austen went on, "I was only going to say that

it seems to me that if you would try--"

"Try! Good Lord, I've tried enough, but what's the good?" Arthur said,

with his old calmness and indifference, as he turned away towards the

door. "I don't care, and no one else does, either. But I must be off.

Good bye."

He went down the steps quickly, whistling as he walked away through the

darkness. He was angry at himself, and bitterly ashamed of his visit to

Austen. They were all like that--he ought to have known. And yet it was

a pity, too!

_The Sub-Warden_

The two old gentlemen walked out of the Common Room, across the

quadrangle to the porter's lodge: the Vicar of North Mims, who had been

spending a few hours in Oxford and dining in College, wanted to catch

the evening train back to North Mims, the College living he had held for

the last ten years, and the Sub-Warden wanted to see the last of him.

"The point I make is this," the old Vicar said again, frowning with his

bushy eyebrows in the moonlight; "the point I make is this: There would

be no trouble at all, if it wasn't for the drinking. If they want

meetings, let them have Temperance meetings; and I say that those

Socialist fellows from London have absolutely no business meddling in

the affairs of my parish. And as for the undergraduates who come out

from Oxford to speak"--the Vicar's voice grew more solemnly irate--"as

for those undergraduates, they should be punished. It is, I consider, a

case in which both college and university authorities should intervene

with prompt severity."

They walked on for a little in silence, and then the Sub-Warden said, as

he looked at his companion, "Really, Philpotts, you know, you ought to

tricycle."

The truth is, that, as they had sat in the Common Room over their port,

the Rev. Mr. Philpotts had repeated himself a great many times; and, the

Sub-Warden's mind at last beginning to wander, he had said to himself,

as he looked at his glass and then at his old friend, "Really, Philpotts

is getting very heavy! I used to be heavier, and probably should be now,

if it wasn't for tricycling!" And, his mind being full of the thought,

he had suddenly said, "Really, Philpotts, you know, you ought to

tricycle!"

"What!" said the Vicar, in a voice of slow amazement. "What on earth has

tricycling got to do with it?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" the Sub-Warden cried, who was the soul of

good-nature, "I am so absent-minded. You were speaking of the Radicals;

it is certainly shocking."

"Radicals! Pestilent Socialists I call them," and the Vicar's mind,

after its jolt, got back into the old groove. "Why, you would hardly

believe it, but they had the impertinence to advertise some young ninny

as a member of this College, and they actually posted it on the

vicarage gate. My wife had to soak it off with a sponge. Now, what I say

is--"

But they had arrived in the porch, and the Sub-Warden, telling the Vicar

it was late, hurried him out of College, and then turned and walked back

to his rooms.

"He certainly is getting heavy," he said to himself. "He has changed

very much. These country livings! And if I had only started to ride a

little earlier this afternoon, he wouldn't have caught me. Another time

when I miss my exercise I mustn't drink port! At my age one begins to

feel it."

The Sub-Warden reached his staircase, and, resting one hand on the wall

of the building, he turned and looked at the moon. Then he went

upstairs, but, instead of sitting down at his table, he went to the

window and opened the sash. There was a curious look about the trees

and buildings, as if they had been turning round, and had just stopped.

It was odd. Poor old Philpotts! What an undergraduate he had been--up to

anything! What times they had had! And now he was on his way back to his

wife at North Mims! The Sub-Warden sighed; then smiled, and,

straightening himself, after a moment's hesitation, he went and put on

an old coat, and stole with soft steps out of the College. Perhaps it

was the moonlight; perhaps an old memory or two that had come back to

him, or the thought of the exercise he had missed; or, again (but this

is mere conjecture), the glass or two of College port may have done

something to put his mind in a mood for adventure. Anyhow, he got on his

tricycle, and started for a ride into the country. He only hoped the

Bursar had not seen him; not that there was any reason why he shouldn't

ride at night, but the Bursar made up such funny stories about the

Sub-Warden and his tricycle rides.

And so he rode lightly along, over the vague roads, barred here and

there by the blue shadows of the trees--rode lightly along through the

ancient Oxfordshire country; and he laughed in his genial Tory heart as

he thought of the Vicar's absurd political panic. No, a ripple of

Radical excitement in the towns perhaps, but it would hardly touch the

country. The labourers must know who were their real friends and

leaders. And yet it was outrageous, he thought, as he began pushing his

machine up a hill, it was outrageous that anyone should have such views.

But that members of the University should go and speak at their dreadful

meetings! The Sub-Warden shook his head and sighed, as he thought of

the University--its sad change, its evil state. Could it, indeed, be

still called a University? Ah, in the old days, before the Royal

Commissions! But when he mounted his machine again at the top of the

hill, he forgot these black thoughts, and rode quickly down--indeed, he

almost felt himself on wings--into the village he saw below him, an old

village, spread out asleep in the moonlight. He went on slow wheels

through the blue-shadowed streets; he breathed in the night air,

sweet-scented from the village gardens; he felt young in his soul, and

would hardly recognize as his own the respectable, fat shadow that

wheeled after him across each moon-lit space.

All at once, in the midst of the sleeping village, there appeared in

front of him a square red building, with brightly lighted windows.

Curious to know what was going on, he rode his machine up to one of the

windows, and, looking through the glass, misty from the heat and

perspiration within, he saw vague rows of dark figures, and an upright

shape moving its arms at the end of the hall. What could it be? Around

at the door, whither he wheeled himself, there was a big poster, partly

torn, with the word "Temperance" on it, and something else pinned across

it. "That's right, that's right!" the Sub-Warden exclaimed, "that's the

way to cut the ground from under the Radicals! Philpotts was right; it's

a question of drink, not of politics."

And so he got down from his tricycle and went in for a moment. Dazed by

the heat and light, he stood still and stared about. The orator also

stopped and stared at him. There were bright texts of Scripture and

temperance mottoes on the walls; but the Sub-Warden kept gazing at these

words, "The Lord is at Hand," hung in large letters over the orator's

head. But this orator was Thomas Woolley, his own pupil! Soon it all

seemed clear to him. Woolley was known as a Temperance speaker, and here

he had come to hold a meeting in a little village. The Sub-Warden

applauded, and Woolley began to speak again. But as he gasped a good

deal, and stuttered, the Sub-Warden could only catch phrases here and

there--cold remnants, they seemed to be, of what must have been written

as a fiery peroration. "The down-trodden--I mean the inactive ... the

great heart of humanity--and--and--things--.... Now is the time for

hand to join in hand, and rush to the banner--I mean, it would be better

if you would sign your names."

("That's the pledge-book," the Sub-Warden thought. "Yes, I dare say it's

right; you could not preach moderate drinking to labourers.")

"Deliver yourself from the classes--that--that profit by your

weakness...."

("That's the public-house keepers," the Sub-Warden reflected. "But why

does he call them classes?")

Woolley stared hard at the notes which he gripped in his hand, and then

he turned and pointed at a place at the back of the platform, which he

called "the Future," and began to speak about a model dwelling, a cow,

and a vine and fig-tree; then his voice sank, and he wavered and sat

down.

"He expects a good deal from Temperance," the Sub-Warden thought; "what

a thing it is to be young!" And he applauded with vigour, such vigour

that several rustics in the audience turned and fixed him with their

ruminating eyes. Then the Sub-Warden rose (he never spoke in public, but

as he had interrupted this meeting!), rose with dignity and internal

tremors, and made a few smiling remarks; nothing very definite, for,

after all, he was not a total abstainer; just his sympathy with the

speech of his young friend, his entire approval of the objects of the

meeting, his regret that academic duties held him back from a more

active participation in the work.... But if there was anything that

he or the College authorities could do to forward the cause--he believed

that their College owned land in the neighbourhood--they must not

hesitate to call upon him. Then a mild joke, and he sat down and wiped

his face.

Certainly his speech was a great success. Woolley stared wildly at him,

but the audience applauded with vigour, and, as they were giving three

cheers for "the old College gentleman," the Sub-Warden slipped modestly

out. It was hot in there, and they might be handing pledge-books about.

The mood in which he rode home was a pleasant one. Really he had never

heard applause that was quite so warm, so evidently sincere, so

spontaneous. There had been nothing like it when the Warden of St.

Mary's had spoken at the Corn Exchange. And Temperance was such a dull

subject! It was a bore, of course, for a man who loved his quiet to find

he had the power of moving an audience; but still, if the Radicals were

working so hard, the other side must come forward.

The Sub-Warden went back into College, and, as he was walking across the

quadrangle, he heard a tumult of cheers and cries burst out on the

moon-lit stillness of the night. He started--the sounds fitted in so

well with his dreams! But, of course, it was a Debating Society; and the

window being open, the Sub-Warden went up and listened in his new

quality of an amateur. A small young man, with a round face and deep

voice, was thumping on a table. "What is the meaning, the outcome of

this agitation? It is putting blood into the mouth of a

tiger"--(applause)--"and when once the tiger has tasted blood, has

tasted property that is not his own, it demands more, and it will have

it! Yes, sir," he said, turning with a fierce look at the good-natured

president of the society, "mark my words, when the poor have divided,

like the tiger, everything there is to be divided; when there is nothing

left to feed their rage, then, sir, they will turn and rend

themselves--like the tiger!"

Great shouts of applause roared through the window, and the bald-headed

old gentleman listening outside smiled an indulgent smile. But as the

speaker went on, denouncing more definitely the Radical agitators, and

even Woolley, by name, the smile faded from the Sub-Warden's face. It

must have been a Temperance meeting; and yet--and yet--"Temperance" had

been printed on the poster--but hadn't there been something pinned over

that, something which he hadn't read? The Sub-Warden looked about. He

could see one or two towers against the faint sky, and near each College

tower was a Common Room, and in each Common Room the Fellows sat after

dinner, telling stories. But suppose he had really spoken at a meeting

which--which wasn't a Temperance meeting, and the Bursar should hear of

it!

The Sub-Warden lurked about in the quadrangle, holding his hat in his

hand, and spying out for Woolley. He came at last.

"Good evening, Woolley," he said, "you have come from the Temperance

meeting?"

"Oh, sir, it wasn't a Temperance meeting, that was the night before!"

"Oh!" said the Sub-Warden, coldly.

"No, sir, it was a different meeting; in fact, the Radical League. I was

so afraid--"

"What! Then it was very wrong of you, Woolley, to give me to understand

it was a Temperance meeting."

"Oh, please, sir--"

"Don't try to explain it, it admits of no explanation," the Sub-Warden

said severely. "I should be sorry to get you into trouble, Woolley, but

if this should get to be known, I couldn't answer for the consequences.

I shall take no steps personally to make it known, and I should advise

you to mention it to no one--to no one at all, do you understand?

It's--it's nothing to be proud of."

He walked indignantly away; and, indeed, for the moment his words had

made him feel really indignant. But when, on turning a corner, he

glanced back and saw the honest Woolley still standing there, he

hesitated. Should he return and explain? He took a step back, then he

thought of the Bursar, and, with a sudden, sinking fear he went quickly

to his room.

_Idyll_