III.

Craik took off his hat; wiped his forehead; tried to get rid of some of

the dust on his boots, and then he rang the bell.

"Is Miss Lamb at home?"

"Yes, sir; Miss Lamb is in the garden."

Entering, Craik saw a number of hats and sticks in the hall. Miss Lamb,

he thought, must have several brothers. He put down his stick, and the

book with it, after a moment's hesitation; that was better, he would

leave it there and would come and fetch it when the conversation turned

that way. Then, buttoning up his black coat over the lecture notes that

filled his pocket, he followed the servant through the house out into

the little garden. It was full of strong sunlight, and there were

several undergraduates there. One was up in a tree; Cobbe lay in a

hammock smoking, and another of Craik's pupils lay on the grass at Miss

Lamb's feet, rolling lemons. He stopped for a moment.

"Oh Mr. Corn--Mr. Craik, I mean," Miss Lamb called out in a friendly

voice, "I am so glad to see you."

Craik advanced with an awkward smile, and Miss Lamb reached out her

right hand most cordially. In her left hand she held a lemon-squeezer.

"How good of you to come! And isn't it hot? Exactly like America, I've

been saying. We've just come out into the garden without our hats. Won't

you sit down on that rug, if you don't mind? Oh, I nearly forgot; let me

introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Stacey. I guess you know everybody else."

Craik shook hands with a lady who was sitting and knitting in an arbour,

nodded to the undergraduates, and then settled down on a rug in the

sunshine. How he wished that he had not decided at the last moment to

wear a tall hat and a long coat! The undergraduates were all in

flannels.

Miss Lamb spoke of the garden party.

"Your lovely college! It is _too_ ideal; it is like a dream. And the

cloisters too! You don't know how solemn it made me feel. Now, you

needn't laugh, Mr. Cobbe, I really did feel solemn--more solemn, I

guess, than you have ever been. Gracious, it _is_ hot!" she added, with

a sudden change of subject. "Mr. Craik, let me give you some of this

lemon squash; I made it myself."

"Thanks! I shall be most pleased to have some." Craik's voice seemed to

himself to be formal, and his phrase pedantic.

"Oh, but what was I saying?" Miss Lamb went on, looking at the company

generally.

"You were telling us how solemn you were," Cobbe suggested. "Wasn't it

rather a new experience?"

"Now, Mr. Cobbe, what a horrid thing to say," she replied, with great

good-nature. "You're his tutor, Mr. Craik, aren't you? Well, next time

you have a chance, I hope you'll set him some real horrid work to do.

I'm sure he needs it."

Miss Lamb said this casually, with a pleasant laugh, as she fanned

herself. No one answered; Craik, and even Cobbe coloured, and the

undergraduate in the tree suppressed a titter.

But Mrs. Stacey at this moment asked by happy chance some question of

Craik, addressing him as "Professor Craik," in her high American voice,

and he hastened to answer her with effusion.

"Oh, I say," one of the undergraduates exclaimed, "that was a splendid

score of yours, Miss Lamb, off the Warden. Perhaps you've not heard it,

Mr. Craik, the joke about the Garden of Eden?" he said, turning to

Craik, who had come to an end of his conversation with Mrs. Stacey. "The

Warden was showing Miss Lamb the garden, when she said to him, 'Why it

is like the Garden of Eden here, Mr. Warden; only I suppose you are

wiser than Adam, and don't disturb the Tree of Knowledge.'"

"My dear," Mrs. Stacey cried, "you didn't really speak so to the sweet

old Warden?"

"But, I say," Cobbe exclaimed, "how's this, Miss Lamb? Long and Maple

Fetters tell that story as having been got off them, and they seemed to

think that they rather scored off you."

"They didn't a bit; they were only silly!"

"Then you did get it off on them?"

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, now, that explains," another undergraduate interposed, "that

explains the story Mrs. Cotton was trying to tell. It seemed, as she

told it, to have no point at all. 'Mr. Warden,' she made you say, 'Mr.

Warden, you have a lovely garden here, but I am told you never pick the

fruit.' 'The Warden, you know, is so particular about his figs,' Mrs.

Cotton added, 'it is quite a joke with all the Fellows.'"

Miss Lamb was silent. After a little while, however, when a few other

anecdotes of Mrs. Cotton had been told, and they came to the well-known

story of that lady and the cow in St. Giles's, she began to smile, and

before long was quite consumed with merriment, for a siphon of

soda-water, fizzing off by mistake in the hands of one of the

undergraduates, had sprinkled itself over Cobbe.

"You did that on purpose, Galpin, I know you did," he cried, jumping out

of the hammock and shaking himself.

"Oh, no, he didn't!" Miss Lamb said, shaking with laughter. "Indeed, I'm

sure he wouldn't for worlds!"

Her attention was then taken by the youth up in the tree, who had been

throwing down leaves and bits of sticks on the heads of the party below.

A piece of bark falling into the jug of lemon squash, Miss Lamb feigned

great wrath and indignation.

"I wanted to give Mr. Craik some more; but oh, you haven't drunk what

you have! Isn't it sweet enough for you?"

"It is just right, thank you," he said, and he took up the glass, tepid

now from standing in the sun, and was just going to drink it, when the

young lady cried: "Oh, wait a moment, please; there's a poor little

insect tumbled into it. Dear little thing! Do take it out--oh, be

careful! I can't bear to see anything suffer."

Craik fished the insect out of the lemonade with a blade of grass, and

Miss Lamb, putting it down on the ground, poked it tenderly in aid of

its moist attempts to crawl away. Ultimately Craik rose from his

uncomfortable posture on the ground. It was a long while, it seemed to

him, that he had been sitting there, smiling and solemn in the sunshine,

and casting about in his mind for an excuse to go; while the others he

envied so--the youth perched up in the tree, Miss Lamb fanning herself

and squeezing lemons, Cobbe smoking and slowly swinging in the hammock,

laughed and lazily talked, as if their life was one afternoon of endless

Arcadian leisure. But Craik had a morbid sense that his shadow, which he

glanced at now and then, had been growing, almost as if he were

swelling, he and his top hat, and casting a larger shade on the little

garden.

"Well, I must be going! We college tutors, you know," he said, feeling

pretty stiff in body and mind, but attempting nevertheless a little

jauntiness of air.

"Oh, but, Mr. Craik, you mustn't go now!" Miss Lamb cried, "really you

mustn't. Why, we're all going up the river to have late tea at Godstow,

and come home by moonlight; and I'm going to take my banjo. I hoped you

would come with us!"

"I'm sorry, but I must be back."

"Well, I'm really sorry, too; I am, indeed. You must come again." She

held his hand in hers for a second, and there was something appealing in

her manner. "Now you will come again, won't you? It's--it's rather hot

just to-day for philosophy, isn't it?" she added, her face brightening

with a friendly and apologetic smile.

Craik found his hat and stick, but not his book, in the hall.

"I've left a book here," he said to the maid.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I thought it was for Miss Lamb, so I put it

on the shelf where she puts the other university gentlemen's books that

they sends. I'll go and bring it, sir."

"Is this it?" she called from a neighbouring room--"'Elements of

Pishcology?'"

"No," said Craik, hurriedly; "it's about Asia Minor. 'Life and Thought

in--'"

"'In Hearly Asia Minor,' sir?"

"Yes, that's mine," Craik answered, in a voice that was not without a

touch of melancholy.

_Buller Intervening_

As Vaughan was walking towards the underground station one of those

bleak mornings last winter, he saw, coming the same way, a man who had

been at College in his time--one Buller by name; and Buller, when he

caught sight of Vaughan, began to smile, but when they met, he

exclaimed, in a mock mournful voice, "I say, have you heard about poor

Crabbe?"

"You mean his political speech, when his spectacles were smashed, and he

had to take to the woods?" asked Vaughan, beating his hands and

stamping, for the cold was bitter.

"Oh no, that's ancient. I mean"--and Buller's voice broke with

laughter--"I mean his engagement!"

"Crabbe! oh, nonsense!"

"Gospel fact, I'll take my oath on it. Fancy Crabbe!" and again his

laughter froze into white puffs of breath about his head. They went into

the station together, and bought their tickets. Crabbe engaged! Vaughan

tried to picture him as an accepted lover. Poor Crabbe! They had all

hoped that his Fellowship and his work on the metres of Catullus would

keep him out of mischief. But they might have known--those prize

fellows, with so much time on their hands; and Crabbe above all, with

his fixed idea that he was cut out for a man of action!

"But tell me about Crabbe," Vaughan said, as they waited on the

platform; "have you seen him?"

"Oh yes. The other day I ran up to have a look at the 'Torpid.' It's all

right now."

"The Torpid?"

"No; I mean about Crabbe."

"You think it's a good match, then?"

"Good match! No, I mean that I went and talked to him myself."

"And he was engaged?"

"He _was_," said Buller, laughing; "poor old beast!" The train drew in,

and when they had taken their seats, Buller leaned over, and, with a low

voice, went on telling his story in Vaughan's ear. "You see, I went up

to Oxford, and down at the barge Blunt tells me about old Crabbe; and

when I go into College the first person I meet is the Dean, looking as

chirpy as ever. How those old parsons do keep it up!

"'Well, sir,' says I, 'and what do you think of Crabbe's engagement?'

"'Perfect rot,' says the Dean. 'The girl had no money; how were they

going to live? Crabbe would have to chuck his Catullus--everything.'

"'How did it happen?' I asked. 'Crabbe never used to be sweet on the

ladies.' 'No; but in reading Catullus, Crabbe had got some ideas,' the

Dean said, with a kind of wink."

Here Vaughan could not help interrupting the story. "Come, Buller," he

whispered, "it must have been Blunt who said that. The old Dean couldn't

talk in that way."

But Buller felt sure it was the Dean. "You see, you don't know the old

boy; he's quite another person with me. Anyhow, that's the way Crabbe

got into it. And he went on, the Dean said, to read all sorts of other

poetry, especially that man--what you may call him? They had a

society--"

"Browning?"

"Yes, that's the man. Well, Crabbe thought it all very fine and

exciting, the Dean said; he used to read them Browning in the Common

Room, and there was one thing he seemed specially taken with--Browning's

theory of love."

"What was that?" Vaughan asked, for it was a joy to hear Buller talking

of literature.

"Well," Buller whispered, "you see this man Browning hates all your

shilly-shallying about; he thinks that when you fall in love, you ought

to go your whole pile, even if you come a cropper after. It's all rot,

of course, the Dean said; but poor Crabbe thought it was real, and went

and proposed to a young woman he had met once or twice. So there he

was, engaged! And he seemed to think himself the hell of a duke, the

Dean said; but everyone else in Oxford thought he was making a bl--"

"Oh, Buller," Vaughan interposed, "really, you mustn't put such words

into the Dean's mouth!"

"Well, I don't quite remember the old boy's lingo, but, at any rate, the

Dean thought Crabbe was making a fool of himself. 'I think I can settle

it,' says I to the Dean. 'I wish you would,' said the Dean; so off I go

to Crabbe's rooms. He came in just as I got there; I wish you could have

seen him--a frock-coat, top-hat, flower in his button-hole, his hair

plastered down. And only last year, it was, that he got up as a

Socialist, with a red silk handkerchief in his hat! But now he shook

hands with me up in the air; was most affable and condescending; assured

me he was glad to see his old pals--especially friends from London.

Oxford people were very well in their way, but narrow, and rather

donnish. Didn't I notice it in coming from London?

"Well, this was almost too much from Crabbe, but I thought it would be

more sport to draw him out a bit. So we got to talking; I didn't let on

I knew he was engaged, but after a bit I began to talk about marriage

and love and all that in a general sort of way. Old Crabbe swallows it

all, talks a lot of literary stuff. 'Fall in love, Buller,' says he,

'fall in love, and live! Let me read you what thing-a-majig says,' and

he gets down a book--who did you say he was? Browning, yes, that's the

man--he gets down a book of Browning's and begins to read--you ought to

have seen him, his face got pink; and at the end he says, with a proud

smile, as if the poem was all about him, 'Isn't that ripping, Buller,

isn't that brave, isn't that the way to take life!'

"'Do you mind if I smoke?' said I.

"'Smoke? Oh, do certainly,' and Crabbe sits down looking rather foolish.

But after a moment, he says in an easy sort of way, 'Ah, I meant to ask

you about all the chaps in London--getting on all right? any of them

married?'

"'Married!' says I, 'O Lord, no; _they_ don't want to dish themselves.'

"'Dish themselves,' says Crabbe, 'why, what do you mean?'

"'I mean what I say; if you get married without any money, you're

dished, that's all--I mean practical people, who want to get on.'

"Then Crabbe began to talk big; one shouldn't care only for success--it

might be practical, perhaps, but he did not mean to sacrifice the

greatest thing in life for money.

"'The greatest thing in life--what's that?'"

Buller laughed so loudly at this part of his story, that the other

people in the carriage began to stare at him and Vaughan. So he went on

in a lower whisper. "'What's that?' says I.

"'I mean,' says Crabbe, 'why, what I have been talking about.'

"'Well, what is it?'

"'What I was saying a little while ago.'

"'But you talked too fast--I couldn't catch it; give us the tip, out

with it.'

"'I mean love, passion,' says he.

"'What? say it again.'

"'Well, I mean--and it's always said that love--the poets--'

"'The who?'

"'The poets.'" Again Buller laughed out loud.

"'Oh, poets!' says I, 'I thought you said porters. Poets! so you've

been reading poets, have you? but you oughtn't to believe all that--why,

they don't mean it themselves; they write it because they're expected

to, but it's all faked up--I know how it's done.'

"Old Crabbe begins to talk in his big way. I let him go on for a while,

but then I said, 'See here, Crabbe, it's all very well to read that

literary stuff, and I suppose it's what you're paid for doing. But don't

go and think it's all true, because it isn't, and the sooner you know it

the better.' 'There was a man I knew once,' says I, 'who got fearfully

let in by just this sort of thing; Oxford don too, Fellow of Queen's

named Peake; took to reading poetry; he went to Brighton in the Long,

with his head full of it all. Wild sea waves, the moon and all the rest

of it; and back comes Peake married; had to turn out of his College

rooms, went to live at the other end of nowhere, stuffy little house,

full of babies, had to work like a nigger, beastly work too; coached me

for Smalls, that's how I know him; no time for moon and sea waves now;

and it all came from reading poetry.'

"Old Crabbe begins to sit up at this. 'But I don't see,' he says, 'I

don't see why--didn't he have his Fellowship money?'

"'But you don't suppose that's going to support a wife and a lot of

children.'

"'Oh, if he had children,' says Crabbe, and the old boy begins to blush

and says, 'I don't see the need.'

"'Much you know about it, Crabbe,' says I, and I couldn't help laughing,

he looked such an idiot.

"'Well, anyhow,' he says, 'your friend may have been unfortunate, but I

respect him all the same; he was bold, he lived.'

"'What does all that mean?--he didn't die, of course!'

"'I mean he loved--he had that.'

"'Oh yes, he had, but I rather think he wished he hadn't. He said it

didn't come to much--and even when he was engaged she used to bore him

sometimes.'

"'Really!' says old Crabbe, 'that's odd now,' and then he goes on, as if

he was talking to himself, 'I wonder if everyone feels like that?'

"'Of course they do! But after you're married, just think of it--never

quiet, never alone; Peake said it nearly drove him wild. And to think he

was tied up like that for the rest of his life!'

"'Yes, it is a long time.' Crabbe began to look rather green. 'Your

friend--his name was Peake, I think you said--I suppose he couldn't have

broken off the engagement?' and he smiled in a sort of sea-sick way.

"'Of course he could,' says I, as I got up to go. 'Perfect ass not

to--but good-bye, Crabbe, you've got jolly rooms here.'

"'Yes, they are nice,' says Crabbe in a kind of sinking voice.

"So, a day or two after, I meet the Dean; the old boy seems very much

pleased. 'Well Buller, I think you've done the biz,' says he; 'I don't

believe old Crabbe will do it after all.'"

When he had finished his story, Buller leaned comfortably back. "I felt

sure he would get out of it somehow," he said aloud, "I think that story

finished him." "You know what I mean," he added, nodding significantly,

"that story of Peake."

"I don't believe Peake ever existed!" Vaughan answered, as low as he

could.

Buller leaned forward again, he was almost bursting with laughter. "Of

course he didn't!" he hissed in Vaughan's ear. "But wasn't Crabbe in a

blue funk though!"

"Oh, I don't believe Crabbe minded you a bit. I'm sure he won't break it

off," Vaughan whispered indignantly. "And what right had you to talk

that way? I never heard of such impertinent meddling!"

"Bet you three to one he does," Buller whispered back. "Come, man, make

it a bet!" The train drew into the Temple station and Vaughan got up.

"I won't bet on anything of the kind," he said, as he stood at the door.

"And what do you know about love anyhow, Buller? Then think of the poor

girl, she probably believes that Crabbe is a hero, a god--"

"Well, she won't for long," Buller chuckled.

_The Optimist_

What was he doing there? why didn't he ride on? Mrs. Ross wondered, as

she watched with some astonishment the tall young man who was staring in

at the gate. But in a moment her husband left the hedge he was trimming,

and waved his shears at the stranger, who thereupon came in, pushing his

bicycle with him along the drive. When the two young men met, they

seemed to greet each other like old acquaintances. Probably he was one

of George's Oxford friends, she thought, beginning to feel a little shy,

as they walked towards her across the grass. The bicyclist was thin and

very tall; his shadow, in the late sunshine, seemed to stretch endlessly

over the grass. His face was bathed in perspiration; he was grey with

dust, and altogether he looked very shabby by the side of her

good-looking husband.

"Mary, I want to introduce my friend, Mr. Allen, to you." Mrs. Ross was

always a little afraid of her husband's friends; then Allen was a don at

Oxford, and she knew he was considered extremely clever. However she

greeted him in her friendly, charming way. He would have tea, of course?

Allen gripped her hand, smiling awkwardly. No, he wouldn't have tea, and

he was afraid it was very late for calling; he must apologize; indeed,

when he got to the gate, he had hesitated about coming in.

Oh, no! it wasn't late, she assured him; and her husband declared he

must stay to dinner. He had never seen the Grange before and, of course,

they must show him everything.

"Oh, I don't think I can stay to dinner," Allen murmured, looking

through his spectacles at his dusty clothes. But at last he consented

though doubtfully; he was staying at Sunbridge, he explained, and it was

rather a long ride over.

Ross took him to the house; soon he reappeared, well brushed, his pale

and thoughtful face pink with scrubbing. They walked with him about the

gardens, then they went to their little farm, showing him the cows and

horses, and the new-built hayrick.

George Ross was a young land agent who, not long after leaving Oxford,

had had the luck to get a good appointment; and for more than a year he

and his young wife had been living here in the most absurdly happy way.

Now and then his Oxford friends would come to visit him, and it filled

Ross with delight and pride to show them over his new domain.

As they came back from the farm through the garden, Ross stopped a

moment. "Doesn't the house look well from here!" he said to Allen. The

roofs, gables, and trees stood out dark against the golden west; the

garden, with its old red walls, sweet peas, and roses, was filled with

mellow light.

Allen gazed at the view through his spectacles, and expressed a proper

admiration. But of himself he seemed to notice nothing, and Mrs. Ross

was rather hurt by the way he went past her borders of flowers without

ever looking at them.

"You see it's just the kind of life that suits me--suits both of us,"

Ross explained; "I don't see how I could have found anything better. Of

course," he added modestly, "of course some men might not think much of

work like this. But I consider myself tremendously fortunate--I didn't

really deserve such luck."

"Quite so," Allen assented in a way that Mrs. Ross thought rather odd,

till she decided that it was merely absent-mindedness. Every now and

then she would look at Allen--the tall, thin, threadbare young man

puzzled her a little; he seemed so extremely dull and embarrassed; and

yet there was a thoughtful, kind look in his eyes that she liked. And

anyhow he was George's friend; so, as they walked rather silently and

awkwardly about, waiting for dinner, she tried to talk to him, making

remarks in her eager way, and glancing sometimes at her husband for fear

he might be laughing at her. Such subjects as bicycling, the roads, the

weather, and life in Oxford, were started, and they both talked to their

guest with the exaggerated politeness of newly married people, who would

much rather be talking to each other. Yes, the road over was very

pretty, Allen agreed. But was there a river? He remembered noticing how

pretty the road was, but he had not noticed that it ran by any river.

And all their questions he answered with a certain eagerness, but in a

way that somehow made the subject drop.

"Well, I finished the hedge," Ross said at last, turning to his wife.

"You said I wouldn't."

"Oh, but wait till I see it for myself!"

The young man looked at her gloomily. "You see how it is, Allen, she

doesn't believe her husband's word!"

"Oh, hush, George," she said, and they both began to laugh like

children. Then they turned to Allen again. Was he comfortable where he

was staying? she asked.

Well no, honestly, it wasn't very comfortable, Allen replied. To tell

the truth, he was rather disappointed in the place. He had gone there

after hearing some undergraduates describe it, and tell how amusing they

had found the people. But, somehow, he had not found the people

different from people anywhere else. But then he had only made the

acquaintance of one man--

"Well, didn't he turn out to be an old poacher, or a gipsy, or something

romantic?" asked Mrs. Ross.

"No, not at all--he was a Methodist Calvinist deacon, who gave me a lift

one wet afternoon, and lectured me all the way about Temperance. And, of

course," Allen added, with rather a comic smile, "and, of course, I was

already a total abstainer." They all laughed at this.

What was he working at over there? Ross asked him a few minutes

afterwards. He was writing a paper, Allen replied; but what it was about

Mrs. Ross did not understand. She hoped her husband would ask something

more, but he merely said, "I see," without much interest, adding that he

had not read any philosophy for years.

When they sat down to dinner, the lady's evening dress, the silver and

flowers on the table, seemed to make Allen all the more awkward and

conscious of his appearance. However, he plainly meant to do his best to

talk, and, after a moment's silence, he remarked that he supposed the

theory of farming was very interesting.

"Yes, it is," said Mrs. Ross, "and it's such fun ploughing in the

autumn, and in the spring seeing the young green things come up."

"I suppose the climate is a great factor in the problem."

"Oh, of course, everything depends on that; suppose it comes on to rain

just when you've cut your hay!"