Lucian received the news which Mr. Chilverstone communicated to him in
skilful and diplomatic fashion with an equanimity which seemed natural
to him when hearing of anything that appeared to be his just due. He had
so far had everything that he desired--always excepting the fidelity of
Haidee, which now seemed a matter of no moment and was no longer a sore
point--and he took it as a natural consequence of his own existence that
he should go to Oxford, the fame of which ancient seat of learning had
been familiar to him from boyhood. He made no inquiries as to the cost
of this step--anything relating to money had no interest for him, save
as regards laying it out on the things he desired. He had been
accustomed as a child to see his father receive considerable sums and
spend them with royal lavishness, and as he had never known what it was
to have to earn money before it could be enjoyed, he troubled himself in
nowise as to the source of the supplies which were to keep him at Oxford
for three years. He listened attentively to Mr. Pepperdine’s solemn
admonitions on the subjects of economy and extravagance, and replied at
the end thereof that he would always let his uncle have a few days’
notice when he wanted a cheque--a remark which made Lord Simonstower’s
fellow-conspirator think a good deal.
It was impossible at this stage to do anything or say anything to shake
Lucian’s confidence in his destiny. He meant to work hard and to do
great things, and without being conceited he was sure of success--it
seemed to him to be his rightful due. Thanks to the influence of his
father in childhood and to that of Mr. Chilverstone at a later stage, he
had formed a fine taste and was already an accomplished scholar. He had
never read any trash in his life, and it was now extremely unlikely
that he ever would, for he had developed an almost womanish dislike of
the unlovely, the mean, and the sordid, and a delicate contempt for
anything in literature that was not based on good models. Mr.
Chilverstone had every confidence in him, and every hope of his future;
it filled him with pride to know that he was sending so promising a man
to his own university; but he was cast down when he found that Lord
Simonstower insisted on Lucian’s entrance at St. Benedict’s, instead of
at St. Perpetua’s, his own old college.
The only person who was full of fears was Sprats. She had been Lucian’s
other self for six years, and she, more than any one else, knew his need
of constant help and friendship. He was full of simplicity; he credited
everybody with the possession of qualities and sympathies which few
people possess; he lived in a world of dreams rather than of stern
facts. He was obstinate, wayward, impulsive; much too affectionate, and
much too lovable; he lived for the moment, and only regarded the future
as one continual procession of rosy hours. Sprats, with feminine
intuition, feared the moment when he would come into collision with
stern experience of the world and the worldly--she longed to be with him
when that moment came, as she had been with him when the frailty and
coquetry of the Dolly kid nearly broke his child’s heart. And so during
the last few days of his stay at Simonstower she hovered about him as a
faithful mother does about a sailor son, and she gave him much excellent
advice and many counsels of perfection.
‘You know you are a baby,’ she said, when Lucian laughed at her. ‘You
have been so coddled all your life that you will cry if a pin pricks
you. And there will be no Sprats to tie a rag round the wound.’
‘It would certainly be better if Sprats were going too,’ he said
thoughtfully, and his face clouded. ‘But then,’ he continued, flashing
into a smile, ‘after all, Oxford is only two hundred miles from
Simonstower, and there are trains which carry one over two hundred miles
in a very short time. If I should chance to fall and bump my nose I
shall take a ticket by the next train and come to Sprats to be patched
up.’
‘I shall keep a stock of ointments and lotions and bandages in perpetual
readiness,’ she said. ‘But it must be distinctly understood, Lucian,
that I have the monopoly of curing you--I have a sort of notion, you
know, that it is my chief mission in life to be your nurse.’
‘The concession is yours,’ he answered, with mock gravity.
It was with this understanding that they parted. There came a day when
all the good-byes had been said, the blessings and admonitions received,
and Lucian departed from the village with a pocket full of money
(largely placed there through the foolish feminine indulgence of Miss
Pepperdine and Miss Judith, who had womanly fears as to the horrible
situations in which he might be placed if he were bereft of ready cash)
and a light and a sanguine heart. Mr. Chilverstone went with him to
Oxford to see his _protégé_ settled and have a brief holiday of his own;
on their departure Sprats drove them to the station at Wellsby. She
waved her handkerchief until the train had disappeared; she was
conscious when she turned away that her heart had gone with Lucian.