"Give me the man that is not Passion's slave,
And I will wear him in my own heart's core,
Yea, in my heart of hearts."
_Shakespeare_.
Julian's father was Rector of Ildown, a beautiful village on the
Devonshire coast. As younger son, his private means were very small,
and the more so as his family had lost in various unfortunate
speculations a large portion of the wealth which had once been the
inheritance of his ancient and honourable house. Mr Home regretted
this but little; contentment of mind and simplicity of tastes were to
him a far deeper source of happiness than the advantages of fortune.
Immediately after his university career he had taken holy orders, and
devoted to the genial duties of his profession all the energies of a
vigorous intellect and a generous heart.
During his first curacy he was happy enough to be placed in the diocese
of a bishop, whose least merit was the rare conscientiousness with which
he distributed the patronage at his disposal. Whenever a living was
vacant, the Bishop of Elford used deliberately to pass in mental review
all the clergy under his jurisdiction, and single out from amongst them
the ablest and the best. He was never influenced by the spirit of
nepotism; he was never deceived by shallow declaimers, or ignorant
bigots, who had thrust themselves into the notoriety of a noisy and
orthodox reputation. The ordinary Honourable and Reverend, whose only
distinction was his title or his wealth, had to look for preferment
elsewhere; but often would some curate, haply sighing at the thought
that obscurity and poverty were his lot for this life, and meekly
bearing both for the honour of his Master's work, be made deservedly
happy by at last attaining the rewards he had never sought. Few,
indeed, were the dioceses in which the clergy worked in a more hopeful
spirit, in the certainty that the good bishop never suffered merit to
pass unrecognised; and for talent and industry, no body of rectors could
be compared to those whom Bishop Morris had chosen from the most
deserving of the curates who were under his pastoral care.
Mr Home, after five years' hard work, had been promoted by the bishop
to a small living, where he soon succeeded in winning the warmest
affection of all his parishioners, and among others, of his squire and
church-warden, the Earl of Raynes, who, from a feeling of sincere
gratitude, procured for him, on the first opportunity, the rectory of
Ildown.
Here, at the age of thirty, he settled down, with every intention of
making it his home for life; and here he shortly after wooed and won the
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, whose only dower was the beauty of
a countenance which but dimly reflected the inner beauty of her heart.
Very tranquil was their wedded life; very perfect was the peacefulness
of their home. Under her hands the rectory garden became a
many-coloured Eden, and the eye could rest delightedly on its lawns and
flower-beds, even amid that glorious environment of woods and cliffs,
free moors and open sea, which gave to the vicinity of Ildown such a
nameless charm. But the beauty without was surpassed by the rarer
sunshine of the life within and when children were born to them--when
little steps began to patter along the hall, and young faces to shine
beside the fire, and little strains of silvery laughter to ring through
every room--there was a happiness in that bright family, for the sake of
which an emperor might have been content to abdicate his throne. Oh
that the river of human life could flow on for ever with such sparkling
waters, and its margin be embroidered for ever with flowers like these.
Julian was their eldest son, and it added to the intensity of each
parent's love for him to find that he seemed to have inherited the best
qualities of them both. Their next child was Violet, and then, after
two years' interval, came Cyril and Frank. The four children were
educated at home, without even the assistance of tutor or governess,
until Julian was thirteen years old; and during all that time scarcely
one domestic sorrow occurred to chequer the unclouded serenity of their
peace. Even without the esteem and respect of all their neighbours,
rich and poor, the love of parents and children, brothers and sister,
was enough for each heart there.
But the day of separation must come at last, however long we may delay
it, and after Julian's thirteenth birthday it was decided that he must
go to school. In making this determination, his father knew what he was
about. He knew that in sending his son among a multitude of boys he was
exposing him to a world of temptation, and placing him amid many
dangers. Yet he never hesitated about it, and when his wife spoke with
trembling anxiety of the things which she had heard and read about
school-life, he calmly replied that without danger there can be no
courage, and without temptation no real virtue or tried strength.
"Poor Julian," said Mrs Home, "but won't he be bullied dreadfully?"
"No, dear; the days of those atrocities about which you read in books
are gone by for ever. At no respectable school, except under very rare
and peculiar circumstances, are boys exposed to any worse difficulties
in the way of cruelty than they can very easily prevent or overcome."
"But then those dreadful moral temptations," pleaded the mother.
"They are very serious, love. But is it not better that our boy should
learn, by their means, (as thousands do), to substitute the manliness of
self-restraint for the innocence of ignorance--even on the very false
supposition that such an innocence can be preserved? And remember that
he does not escape these temptations by avoiding them; from the little I
have seen, it is my sincere conviction that for after-life, (even in
this aspect alone, without alluding to the innumerable other arguments
which _must_ be considered), the education of a public school is a far
sounder preparation than the shelter of home. I cannot persuade our
neighbour Mrs Hazlet of this, but I should tremble to bring up Julian
with no wider experience than she allows to her boy."
So Julian went to Harton, and, after a time, thoroughly enjoyed his life
there, and was unharmed by the trials which must come to every
schoolboy; so that when he came back for his first holidays, the mother
saw with joy and pride that her jewel was not flawed, and remained
undimmed in lustre. Who knows how much had been contributed to that
glad result by the daily and nightly prayer which ever ascended for him
from his parents' lips, "Lead him not into temptation, but deliver him
from evil."
For when he first went to school, Julian was all the more dangerously
circumstanced, from the fact that he was an attractive and engaging boy.
With his bright eyes, beaming with innocence and trustfulness, the
healthy glow of his clear and ingenuous countenance, and the noble look
and manners which were the fruit of a noble mind, he could never be one
of those who pass unknown and unnoticed in the common throng. And since
to these advantages of personal appearance he superadded a quick
intelligence, and no little activity and liveliness, he was sure to meet
with flattery and observation. But there was something in Julian's
nature which, by God's grace, seemed to secure him from evil, as though
he were surrounded by an atmosphere impermeable to base and wicked
hearts. He passed through school-life not only unscathed by, but almost
ignorant of, the sins into which others fell; and the account which his
contemporaries might have given of their schoolboy days was widely
different from his own. He was one of those of whom the grace of God
took early hold, and in whom "reason and religion ran together like warp
and woof," to form the web of a wise and holy life. Such happy
natures--such excellent hearts there are; though they are few and far
between.
To Hugh Lillyston Julian owed no little of his happiness. They had been
in the same forms together since Julian came, and the friendship between
them was never broken. When Lillyston first saw the new boy, he longed
to speak to him at once, but respected him too much to thrust himself
rudely into his acquaintance. During the first day or two they
exchanged only a few shy words; for Julian, too, was pleased and taken
with Lillyston's manly, honest look. But both had wisely determined to
let their knowledge of each other grow up naturally and gradually,
without any first-sight vows of eternal friendship, generally destined
to be broken in the following week.
Lillyston had observed, not without disgust, that two thoroughly bad
fellows were beginning to notice the newcomer, and determined at all
hazards to tell Julian his opinion of them. So one day as they left the
school-room together, he said--
"Do you know Brant and Jeffrey?"
"Yes; a little," answered Julian.
"Did you know them before you came, or anything?"
"No; but they _will_ wait for me every now and then at the door of the
fourth-form room when I'm coming out and I'm sure I don't want them, but
one doesn't wish to seem uncivil, and I don't know how to get rid of
them."
"H'm! well, I wouldn't see too much of them if I were you."
"No? but why?"
"Well, never mind--only I thought I'd tell you;" and Lillyston,
half-ashamed at having taken this step, and half-afraid that Julian
might misconstrue it, ran away. Julian, who was little pleased with the
coarse adulation of Brant and Jeffrey, took his friend's advice, and
from that time he and Lillyston became more and more closely united.
They were constantly together, and never tired of each other's society;
and at last, when their tutor, observing and thoroughly approving of the
friendship, put them both in the same room, the school began in fun to
call them Achilles and Patroclus, Damon and Pythias, Orestes and
Pylades, David and Jonathan, Theseus and Pirithous, and as many other
names of _paria amicorum_ as they could remember.
Yet there was many a Harton boy who would have said, "Utinam in tali
amicitia tertius ascriberer!" for each friend communicated to the other
something at least of his own excellences. Lillyston instructed Julian
in the mysteries of fives, racquets, football, and cricket, until he
became an adept at them all; and Julian, in return, gave Lillyston very
efficient help in work, and inspired him with intellectual tastes for
which he felt no little gratitude in after days. The desire of getting
his remove with Julian worked so much with him that he began to rise
many places in the examinations; and while Julian was generally among
the first few, Lillyston managed to be placed, at any rate, far above
the ranks of the undistinguished herd.
So, form by form, Lillyston and Julian Home mounted up the school side
by side, and illustrated the noblest and holiest uses of friendship by
adding to each other's happiness and advantage in every way. I am glad
to dwell on such a picture, knowing, O holy Friendship, how awfully a
schoolboy can sometimes _desecrate_ thy name!
Three years had passed, and they were now no longer little boys, but in
the upper fifth form together, and Julian was in his sixteenth year. It
was one March morning, when, shortly after they entered the school-room,
the school "Custos" came in and handed to the master a letter--
"It's for Mister Home, sir, by telegraph."
The master called Julian, (whose heart beat quick when he heard his
name), and said to him--
"Perhaps you had better take it out of the room, Home, before you read
it, as it may contain something important."
With a grateful look for this considerate kindness, Julian took the
hint, and leaving the room, tore open the message, which was from his
mother--
"Dear Julian--Come home _instantly_; your father is most dangerously
ill. I cannot add more."
The boys heard a cry, and the master made a sign to Lillyston, who had
already started to his feet. Springing out of the unclosed door, he
found Julian half-fainting; for his home affections were the very
mainsprings of his life. He read the message, helped Julian
down-stairs, flung a little cold water over his face, and then led him
to their own study, where he immediately began, without a word, to pack
up for him such things as he thought he would require.
Lillyston made all the necessary arrangements, and did not leave his
friend until he had seen him into the railway carriage, and pressed his
hand with a silent farewell. He watched the train till it was out of
sight.
Then first did Julian's anguish find vent in tears. Passionately he
longed at least to _know_ the worst, and would have given anything to
speed the progress of the train, far too slow for his impatient misery.
He was tormented by remembering the unusually solemn look and tone with
which his father had parted from him a month before, and by the
presentiment which at that moment had flashed across him with
uncontrollable vividness, that they should never meet again. At last,
at last they reached Ildown late in the evening, just as the flushed
glare of crimson told the death-struggle of an angry sunset with the
dull and heavy clouds. The station was a mile from the town, and it was
a raw, gusty, foggy evening. There was no conveyance at the station,
but leaving with the porter a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian
flew along the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and at
length stood before the rectory door. He was wet, hungry, and
exhausted, for since morning he had tasted nothing, and his run had
spattered him with mud from head to heel. It was too dark to judge what
had happened from the appearance of the house, and half-frantic as he
was with fear and eagerness, he had yet not dared to give a loud summons
at the door, lest he should disturb his father's slumber or excite his
nerves.
Ah! Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous dread from that cause
now--
The door opened very quietly, and in reply to Julian's incoherent
question, the good old servant only shook her head, and turned away to
brush off with her apron the tears which she vainly struggled to
repress. But the boy burst into the study where he knew that the rest
would be, and in another moment his arm was round his mother's neck,
while Cyril and Violet and little Frank drew close and wept silently
beside them both. But still Julian knew not or would not know the full
truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask the question which had been
so long trembling on his lips--
"Is there no hope, mother, no hope?"
"Don't you know then, my boy? Your father is--"
"Not _dead_," said Julian, in a hollow voice. "Oh, mother, mother,
mother."
His head drooped on her shoulder the news fell on him like a horrible
blow, and, stunned as he was with weariness and anxiety, all sense and
life flowed from him for a time.
The necessity for action and the consolation of others are God's blessed
remedies to lull, during the first intolerable moments, the poignancy of
bereavement. Mrs Home had to soothe her children, and to see that they
took needful food and rest; and she watched by the bedside of her
younger boys till the silken swathe of a soft boyish sleep fell on their
eyes, red and swollen with many tears. Then she saw Violet to bed, and
at last sat down alone with her eldest son, who by a great prayerful
effort aroused himself at last to a sense of his position.
He took her hand in his, and said in a low whisper, "Mother, let me see
him?"
"Not now, dearest Julian; wait till to-morrow, for our sakes."
"What was the cause of death, mother?"
"Disease of the heart;" and once more the widow's strength seemed likely
to give way. But this time it was Julian's turn to whisper, "God's will
be done."
Next morning Mrs Home, with Julian and Violet, entered the room of
death. Flowers were scattered on the bed, and on that face, calm as
marble yet soft as life, the happy wondering smile had not yet even died
away. And there Julian received from his mother a slip of paper, on
which his father's dying hand had traced the last messages of undying
love and when they had left him there alone, he opened and read these
words, written with weak and wavering pen--
"My own dearest boy, in this world we shall never meet again. But I
die happy, Julian, for my trust is in God, who cares for the widow and
the fatherless. And you, Julian, will take my place with Violet,
Cyril, and dear Frankie--I need say nothing of a mother to such a son.
God bless you, my own boy. Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God
will be with you. Your dying father,
"Henry Home."
The last part was almost illegible, but Julian bent reverently over his
father's corpse, and it seemed that the smile brightened on those dead
lips as he bowed his young head in prayer.
Reader, for many reasons we must not linger there. But I had to tell
you of that death and of those dying words which Julian knew by heart
through life, and which he kept always with him as the amulet against
temptation. He never forgot them; and oh! how often in the hours of
trial did it seem as if that dying message was whispered in his ear, "Be
brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you."
The concluding arrangements were soon made. The family left the
rectory, but continued to reside at Ildown, a spot which they loved, and
where they were known and loved. Mr Home had insured his life for a
sum, not large indeed, but sufficient to save them from absolute penury,
and had besides laid by sufficient to continue Julian's education. It
was determined that he should return to Harton, and there try for the
Newry scholarship in time. If he should be successful in getting this,
there would be no further difficulty in his going to college, for it was
expected that a wealthy aunt of his would assist him. His guardians,
however, were kind enough to determine that, even in case of his failing
to obtain the Newry, they would provide for his university expenses,
although they did not conceal from him the great importance of his
earnestly studying with a view to gain this pecuniary aid. Cyril was
sent to Marlby, and Frank, who was but ten years old, remained for the
present at Ildown grammar school.
After the funeral Julian returned to Harton with a sadder and wiser
heart. Though never an idle boy, he had not as yet realised the
necessity of throwing himself fully into the studies of the place, but
had rather given the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated in the gorgeous
day-dreams of poetry and romance. Henceforward, he became a most
earnest and diligent student, and day by day felt that his intellectual
powers grew stronger and more developed by this healthier nourishment.
At the end of that quarter he gained his first head-remove, and Mr
Carden rejoiced heartily in the success of his favourite pupil.
"Why, Julian, you will beat us all if you go on at this rate," said he,
after reading over the trial verses which Julian asked him to criticise
after the examination. "You always showed taste, but here we have
vigour too; and for a wonder, you haven't made any mistakes."
"I'm afraid I shall be `stumped' in the Greek `Iambi,' sir, as Mr
Clarke calls them."
"Ah! well, you must take pains. You've improved, though, since you had
to translate Milton's--
"Smoothing the raven down
Of darkness, till it smiled;
"when, you remember, I gave you a literal version of your `Iambi,' which
meant `pounding a pea-green fog.' Eh?"
"Oh, yes," said Julian, "I remember too that I rendered `the moon-beams'
by `the moon's rafters.'"
"Never mind," said Mr Carden, laughing, "improve in them as much as you
have in Latin verse, and we shall see you Newry scholar yet."
A thrill of joy went through the boy's heart as he heard these words.