"A little bench of heedless bishops there,
And here a chancellor in embryo."
_Shenstone_.
It was Speech-day at Harton. From an early hour handsome equipages had
been dashing down the street, and depositing their occupants at the
masters' houses. The perpetual rolling of wheels distracted the
attention every moment, and curiosity was keenly on the alert to catch a
glimpse of the various magnates whose arrival was expected. At the
Queen's Head stood a large array of carriages, and the streets were
thronged with gay groups of pedestrians, and full of bustle and
liveliness.
The visitors--chiefly parents and relatives of the Harton boys--occupied
the morning in seeing the school and village, and it was a pretty sight
to observe mothers and sisters as they wandered with delighted interest
through the scenes so proudly pointed out to them by their young escort.
Some of them were strolling over the cricket-field, or through the
pleasant path down to the bathing-place. Many lingered in the beautiful
chapel, on whose painted windows the sunlight streamed, making them
flame like jewellery, and flinging their fair shadows of blue, and
scarlet, and crimson, on the delicate carving of the pillars on either
side. But, on the whole, the boys were most proud of showing their
friends the old school-room, on whose rude panels many a name may be
deciphered, carved there by the boyish hand of poets, orators, and
statesmen, who in the zenith of their fame still looked back with fond
remembrance on the home of their earlier days, and some of whom were
then testifying by their presence the undying interest which they took
in their old school.
The pleasant morning wore away, and the time for the Speeches drew on.
The room was thronged with a distinguished company, and presented a
brilliant and animated appearance. In the centre was a table loaded
with prize-books, and all round it sat the secular and episcopal
dignitaries for whom seats had been reserved, while the chair was
occupied by a young Prince of the royal house. On the other side was a
slightly elevated platform, on which were seated the monitors who were
to take part in the day's proceedings, and behind it, under the gallery
set apart for old Hartonians, crowded a number of gentlemen and boys who
could find no room elsewhere.
"Now, papa," said a young lady sitting opposite the monitors, "I've been
asking Walter here which is the cleverest of those boys."
"Ahem! _young men_ you mean," interrupted her elder sister.
"No, no," said Walter positively, "call them boys; to call them young
men is all bosh; we shall have `young gentlemen' next, which is awful
twaddle."
"Well, which of those boys on the platform is the cleverest--the
greatest swell _he_ calls it? Now you profess to be a physiognomist,
papa, so just see if you can guess."
"I'm to look out for some future Byron or Peel among them; eh, Walter?"
"Yes."
The old gentleman put on his spectacles, and deliberately looked round
the row of monitors, who were awaiting the Headmaster's signal to begin
the speeches.
"Well, haven't you done yet, papa? What an age you are. Walter says
you ought to tell at a glance."
"Patience, my dear, patience. I'll tell you in a minute."
"There," he said, after a moment's pause, "that boy seated last but one
on the bench nearest us has more genius than any of them, I should say."
He pointed to one of the youngest-looking of the monitors, who would
also have been the most striking in personal appearance had not the
almost hectic rose-colour of his cheeks, and the quiet shining of his
blue eyes, under the soft hair that hung over his forehead, given a look
of greater delicacy than was desirable in a boyish face.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," chuckled Walter and his sister. "Try again."
"I'm very rarely wrong, you little rogue, in spite of you; but I'll look
again. No, there can be no doubt about it. Several of those faces show
talent, but one only has a look of genius, and that is the face of the
boy I pointed out before. What is his name?"
"Oh, that's Home. He's clever enough in his way, but the fellow you
ought to have picked out is the monitor I fag for--Bruce, the head of
the school."
"Well, show me your hero."
"There he sits, right in the middle of them, opposite us. There, that's
he just going to speak now."
He pointed to a tall, handsome fellow, with a look of infinite
self-confidence, who at that moment made a low bow to the assembly, and
then began to recite with much force a splendid burst of oratory from
one of Burke's great speeches; which he did with the air of one who had
no doubt that Burke himself might have studied with benefit the scorn
which he flung into his invective and the Olympian grace with which he
waved his arm. A burst of applause followed the conclusion of his
recitation, during which Bruce took his seat with a look of unconcealed
delight and triumph.
"There, papa--what do you think of that? Wasn't I right now?" said the
young Hartonian, whose name was Walter Thornley.
But the old gentleman's only answer was a quiet smile, and he had not
joined in the general clapping. "Is Home to take any part in the
speeches?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes! He's got some part or other in one of the Shakespeare scenes;
but he won't do it half as well as Bruce."
"I observe he's got several of the prizes."
"Yes, that's true. He's a fellow that grinds, you know, and so he can't
help getting some. But Bruce, now, never opens a book, and yet he's
swept off no end of a lot, as you'll see."
"Humph! Walter, I don't much believe in your boys that `never open a
book,' and, as far as I can observe, the phrase must be taken with very
considerable latitude; I still believe that the boy who `grinds,' as you
call it, is the abler boy of the two."
"Yes, Walter," said his brother, an old Hartonian, "whenever a fellow,
who has got a prize, tells you he won it without opening a book, set him
down as a shallow puppy, and don't believe him."
By this time four of the monitors were standing up to recite a scene
from the Merchant of Venice, and Home among them; his part was a very
slight one, and although there was nothing remarkable in his way of
acting, yet he had evidently studied with intelligence his author's
meaning, and his modest self-possession attracted favourable regards.
But, a few minutes after, he had to recite alone a passage of Tennyson's
Morte d'Arthur, and then he appeared to greater advantage. Standing in
a perfectly natural attitude, he began in low clear tones, enunciating
every line with a distinctness that instantly won attention, and at last
warming with his theme he modulated his voice with the requirements of
the verse, and used gestures so graceful, yet so unaffected, that when
with musical emphasis he spoke the last lines,--
"Long stood Sir Bedivere
Resolving many memories, till the hull
Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away,--"
he seemed entirely absorbed in the subject, and for half a minute stood
as if unconscious, until the deep murmur of applause startled his
meditations, and he sat down as naturally as he had risen.
"Well done, old Home," said Walter; while Mr Thornley nodded rapidly
two or three times, and murmured after him,--
"And on the mere the wailing died away."
"Really, I think Julian did that admirably, did he not?" said a young
and lovely girl to her mother, as Home sat down.
"By jingo," whispered Walter, "I believe these people just by us are
Home's people."
"People!" said his sister; "what do you mean by his people?"
"Oh, _you_ know, Mary; you girls are always shamming you don't
understand plain English. I mean his _people_."
Mary smiled, and looked at the strangers. "Yes, no doubt of it," she
said, "that young lady has just the same features as Mr Home, only
softened a little; more refined they could not be. And they've been
hearing all your rude remarks, Walter, no doubt."
The boy was right, for when the speeches were over, they saw Home offer
his arm to the two ladies and lead them out into the courtyard, where
everybody was waiting, under the large awning, to hear the lions of the
day cheered as they came down the school steps. Bruce was leading the
cheers; he seemed to know everybody and everybody to know him, and as
group after group passed him, he was bowing and smiling repeatedly while
he listened to the congratulations which were lavished upon him from all
sides. Among the last his own family came out, and when he gave his arm
to his mother and descended the school steps, one of the other monitors
suddenly cried--
"Three cheers for the Head of the school."
The boys cordially echoed the cheers, and taking off his hat, Bruce
stood still with a flush of exultation on his handsome face, in an
attitude peculiar to him whenever he was undergoing an ovation.
"Pose plastique; King Bruce snuffing up the incense of flattery!"
muttered a school Thersites, standing by.
"Green-minded scoundrel," was the reply; "that's because he beat you to
fits in the Latin verse."
"How very popular he seems to be, Julian," said Miss Home to her
brother, as they stood rather apart from the fashionable crowd.
"Very popular, and, on the whole, he deserves his popularity; how
capitally he recited to-day," and Julian looked at him and sighed.
"And now, mother, will you come to lunch?" he said; "you're invited to
my tutor's, you know."
They went and took a hasty lunch, heartily enjoying the simple and
general good-humour which was the order of the day; and finding that
there was still an hour before the train started which was to convey
them home, Julian took them up to the old churchyard, and while they
enjoyed the only breath of air which made the tall elms murmur in the
burning day, he showed them the beautiful scene spread out at their
feet, and the distant towers of Elton and Saint George. Field after
field, filled with yellowing harvests or grazing herds, stretched away
to the horizon, and nothing on earth could be fairer than that soft
sleep of the golden sunshine on the green and flowery meadowland, while
overhead only a few silvery cloudlets variegated with their fleecy
lustre the expanse of blue, rippling down to the horizon like curves of
white foam at the edges of a summer sea.
"No wonder a poet loved this view," said Mrs Home. "By the bye,
Julian, which is the tomb he used to lie upon?"
"There, just behind us; that one with the fragments broken off by stupid
picturesque tourists, with the name of Peachey on it."
"And so Byron really used, as a boy, to rest under these elms, and look
at this lovely view!" said his sister.
"Yes, Violet. I wonder how much he'd have given, in after-life, to be a
boy again," said Julian thoughtfully; "and have a fresh start--a
rejuvenescence, beginning after a summer hour spent on Peachey's tomb;"
and Julian sighed again.
"My dear Julian," said Violet, gaily rallying him, "what a boy you are!
What business have you to sigh here of all places, and now of all times?
That's the second time in the course of an hour that I've heard you.
Imagine a Harton monitor sighing twice on Speech-day! You must be tired
of us."
"Did I sigh? Abominably rude of me. I really didn't mean it," said
Julian; and shaking off the influences which had slightly depressed him
for the moment, he began to laugh and joke with the utmost mirth until
it became time to meet the train. He accompanied his mother and sister
to the station, bade them an affectionate farewell, and then walked
slowly back, for the beauty of the summer evening made him loiter on the
way.
"Poor Julian!" said Violet to her mother when the train started; "he
lets the sense of responsibility weigh on him too much, I'm afraid."
But Julian was thinking that the next time he came to the station would
probably be at the end of term, when his schoolboy days would be over.
He leaned against a gate, and looked long at the green quiet hill, with
its tall spire and embosoming trees, till he fell into a reverie.
A slap on the back awoke him, and turning round, he saw the genial,
good-humoured face of one of his fellow-monitors, Hugh Lillyston.
"Well, Julian, dreaming as usual--castle-building, and all that sort of
thing, eh?"
"No; I was thinking how soon one will have to bid good-bye to dear old
Harton. How well the chapel looks from here, doesn't it?--and the
church towering above it."
"The chapel being like a fair daughter seated at her mother's feet, as
your poetical tutor remarked the other day. Well, Julian, I'm glad we
shall leave together, anyhow. Come and have some tea."
Julian went to his friend's room. The fag brought the tea and toast,
and they spent a merry evening, chatting over the speeches, and the way
in which the day had gone off. At lock-up, Julian went to write some
letters, and then feeling the melancholy thought of future days stealing
over him, he plunged into a book of poems till it was bed-time, being
disturbed a good deal, however, by the noisy mirth which resounded long
after forbidden hours from Bruce's study overhead. Bruce was also to
leave Harton in a month, and they were going up together to Saint
Werner's College, Camford. But the difference was, that Bruce went up
wealthy and popular; Julian, whose retiring disposition and refined
tastes won him far fewer though truer friends, was going up as a sizar,
with no prospect of remaining at the University unless he won himself
the means of doing so by his own success. It was this thought that had
made him sigh.